You'll shoot your eye out, Nord End kids

I've taken in many a kick-ass New Years Eve party over the years, but nothing rings in the new year quite as well as snuggling up to the police scanner on amateur might. Well, it's not quite as much fun as managing a 24-hour restaurant on said night, demonstrating time and again that beer muscles don't amount to much when the 'muscled' act out against sober people with nasty dispositions.

My thoroughly enjoyable tours of duty on that overnight shift led me to believe that we are surrounded by assholes. And a few years later, the police scanner only confirmed what I already knew--that we are completely surrounded by assholes.

Last night's debacle was much like every other one that came before it. The folks at 911 were busy relaying calls for the unresponsive, the vomiting, the physical, the outright violent and variations thereof. All of which made me yearn for those heady restaurant days when whatever happened happened. And whatever happened before the police arrived on scene was good with me so long as the right people got hurt.

Happy Effing New Year! Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, freaking blah.

Whatever, man.

Even though we men are supposed to be acting like chicks these days, and even though the City of Wilkes-Barre has an ordinance on the books outlawing the discharging of BB guns within the city's confines, earlier today Zach, Jeremy and I headed over to the broken remnants of the old Nord End breaker so as to kill untold numbers of innocent bottles and cans.

Yep, believe it or not, I got them a couple of Red Rider BB rifles for Christmas. You know, those rifles of the "You'll shoot your eye out, kid" variety. So off we went with those two 350-feet per second toys. Oh, and with my 760-feet per second Crossman rifle. And my 25-shot semi-automatic pistol, too.

I'm not looking to help raise any limp-wristed metrosexuals (Democrats) or any misguided pansexuals (Religious Right) gone to the halls of Congress. I like to have my grandsons out and about and doing the little boy things of old. So when I told them we were going to head out and shoot cans, bottles, birds and maybe even some of those homeless drunks that live in what remains of the old breaker, they were sold. Raring to go, they were.

I think they thought I was kidding about the homeless drunk people. That is, until they saw the pillows, the sleeping bags, the shopping carts, the camp fire made upon 10,000 pounds or so of glass shards and enough empty whiskey, beer, and wine bottles to fill the world's largest super tankers.

Tough life, ain't it? No boss, no bills, no alarm clock and no schedule other than that of the soup kitchens. Oh, and all the alcohol you can handle courtesy of the hordes of well-meaning, but mostly clueless philanthropists.

Wifey was concerned that someone might call the police. You know, with the cache of guns and all. Seriously, now. What Wilkes-Barre police officer would be willing to climb on down there only to confiscate a couple of little kid's Christmas presents. Most of Wilkes-Barre's finest have a military background and would probably be tempted to squeeze off a couple of, uh, rounds. Hell, they'd probably adjust the scope.

Yeah, as it turned out, the homeless drunks were nowhere to be found. They were no doubt out working the charitable circuit before settling in for the night with a 40-ounce Utica Club. No, we did not kill even a single bird, so the easily-offended left-leaning need not get all apoplectic while still nursing their hangovers.

But we did unmercifully slaughter those untold numbers of innocent bottles and cans. For the boys, this was a giddy new experience. For me, it was a flashback circa 1967. The thing is, I'm really not sure who enjoyed it more, the boys...or me.

Later

*My prediction for 2011: Males of the Democrat persuasion--closet female haters--will remain obsessed with Sarah Palin. Move over Condeleeza and Hillary, there's a new bitch to be taken down.