My son goes to Turkey Shoots. I wish he wouldn’t. I always worry when he does. I worry that he might get shot instead of a turkey.
On his way out the door to go to this year’s Turkey Shoot, I said, “I hope you get a turkey, but don’t get shot.”
Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned to look at me with his eyebrows raised so high, I swear they went off his head—like a cartoon character’s eyebrows do when they’re mystified. With his eyebrows in the air, he asked, “What did you just say?”
Me: “I said I hope you get a turkey but don’t get shot.”
Brad: “Why would I get shot?” He scratched his head.
Me: “Well it’s got to be dangerous with all you hunters standing around in a circle aiming at the pen full of turkeys. With all of you guys blasting away at them at the same time, someone could get shot. I can’t believe no one’s been killed yet.”
Long, awkward pause.
Brad: “Wait a minute. What? What do you think we do at a Turkey Shoot?”
Me: “Shoot turkeys, of course.”
Brad dropped his head. I don’t know why. He just did.
Me: “What’s wrong with you?”
Brad: “It won’t do me any good to try to explain what a turkey shoot is, so I’m not even going to try.”
Me: “So, are you still going to go shoot a turkey?”
Brad: “No. I’ll just go buy a frozen turkey instead.”
Me: “That’s good. I didn’t want you to bring home a dead turkey anyway.”
Brad exited the door with his shotgun over his shoulder. I sure hope he keeps his word and buys a frozen turkey instead of trying to shoot one.