I’ve never owned an actual firearm. This doesn’t make me anti-gun, just disinterested. Sure, I’ve got a pellet gun, and the few times I’ve fired someone else’s rifle I’ve proven to be a pretty good shot. I kinda enjoy target shooting, but never enough become a responsible gun owner. All that’s about to change. Cheaper Than Dirt has other plans for me.
I first learned of Cheaper Than Dirt just after my birthday. A thoughtful friend had bought me a ceramic folding knife and had it drop-shipped to my house. Inside the box was a catalog… or what I now know to be a portent of things to come. If I had been naming this company, I might have gone for ‘Cheap, But Definitely Worth It’, or perhaps ‘Not Too Expensive Stuff That Ain’t Crap’, but Cheaper Than Dirt it is. So what’s inside this catalog? Dozens of pages of weapons. Not just folding knives. Not even just rifles and handguns. Giant double bladed swords that look like prop rejects from a b-movie, neo-medieval battleaxes with alien runes etched into the blade, bikini clad biker babes modeling urban combat slings for duel shotgun assaults… In short, a lot of weird shit that should, in fact, be cheaper than dirt.
I tossed the catalog without a second though. But the good folks at Cheaper Than must have thought, “What the fuck is up with Waverly, he hasn’t purchased so much as a blast suppressor for his laser sighted assault rifle and grenade launcher? Doesn’t he realize this stuff is cheaper than dirt? Send that fucker another catalog or four.” Which they did.
These too I discarded, though I did first ogle the bikini clad she-warrior with a compound Martian crossbow. I guess Cheaper Than got the message. They just aren’t quitters. “This tosser doesn’t want Conan’s switchblade or monogrammed ammunition? I guess he’s just too good for stuff that is Cheaper Than Dirt. Give his address to Commando Bitches, Patriotic Weapons Made by Chinese and other Foreign Fuckers, and Munitions Digest. Oh, and throw another Cheaper Than Dirt in the mail in case he comes to his senses.”
And each of these fine establishments in turn sold my name to at least 19 additional sister companies. Now I’m going to need a bigger mailbox. The mailman would probably complain, if he wasn’t convinced that I was eyeing him through crosshairs every time he turned down my street. The good news is that no one will park in front of my house anymore. You know… landmines.
Back at Cheaper Than headquarters, the sales team must have been getting their heads handed to them. “You spent $860 dollars in postage alone. Stamps, as you know, are not cheaper than dirt! Get Waverly to buy something, subscribe to something, or at least take over the Nakatomi building with a group of disenchanted special forces buddies, or you are all fired. And by fired, I mean gut-shot!”
And it must have been right about this time that the phone started ringing. I don’t know who calls. I never answer anymore. I know first blood was scored by the NRA, who advised me that my donation last year was appreciated [?] but that evil liberals in my jurisdiction, or perhaps living under my bed, were conspiring to force me to live weaponless, as a veritable eunuch, if I didn’t cough up some more cash. What? You mean no more 250,000 volt taser batons? Who will protect the children?
Thanks, Cheaper Than Dirt. When I finally buy that Czech flamethrower and bronze battle trident, you guys better be much, much faster than me.
