“Pull down your pants and bend over,” my big brother Joe instructed me one cold winter morning.
Joe was my hero; I worshiped him as a nun worships Jesus, so when he commanded; I complied.
Five neighbor kids gathered to witness Joe’s proof that a shot in the butt with a BB didn’t hurt.
My brother and I got BB guns for Christmas, and we showed off our rifles, which led to the butt shot.
I was about 4 years old, my brother 2 1/2 years older.
I pulled my pants down to a respectable level, (upper cheek) bent over and waited to prove my sibling correct.
And then … bap! went the BB gun. Splat! went my left cheek, and the projectile stung like an angry wasp.
My screams were those of a crazed dying baboon, and the commotion brought our mother out of the house.
She assessed my wound, a little uplifted red splotch.
She assured me I would be OK.
I’m sure my brother got punished for his low-down dirty deed, but I don’t remember.
He insists I deserved to be plinked for being stupid enough to listen to him.
I still trusted Joe, though the Jesus glow rubbed off him, and a bit of a devil glow showed, which taught me to beware.
Now I am happy my brother shot my buttocks, because it left us with a story to tell as I have just done.
The neighborhood kids saw Joe’s claim as bogus, and no one else volunteered to be shot.
A week later, a BB I shot at a water meter — at my brother’s direction, I must add — ricocheted and plinked Joe in the eye.
He wasn’t blinded, but he was angry, and he accused me of revenge for the butt BB, which was silly, because I had no control over the ricochet.
That bouncing BB did teach us something: actions can have consequences beyond getting in trouble by your mother.
Moral: Karma: Sometimes a BB to the eye equals a BB to the butt.
Contact: David Madrid
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