First day at new job seems promising. Lately I've been nervous about going from one relatively secure job and out into the unknown, even if there were known things I disliked about the previous job. It's all so unsettling. Anyway, first day, first taste, this new company is in the throes of its busiest season and short of staff in my department. That means tadpoles like myself are to be throwed into the deep end pretty soon. Instead of a week of orientation, we got the one day Cliff's Notes version, and they took the 4 of us to lunch at a local eatery. At some point after we'd finished eating, conversation turned to where each had been shot with bb guns intentionally by siblings, in some cases requiring professional medical extractions. I had no tales on that score.
I then launched into how no shooting could parallel the sheer joys of pellet gun action from my youth. I said many folk in my family dipped snuff or chewed tobacco-- even some of the men folk, too. Said Grandpa had a rather impressive pyramid of gallon milk jugs full of fermenting tobacco spit in the back by the outhouse, and when that stuff got a good bloat rolling in the humid Arkansas summer blazes, there was no sound on earth to match the satisfying "thunk!" of pellets entering those bloated jugs, their sicky-sweet contents bursting forth like a Peckinpah movie.
[I wrote about this before several years ago]
Anyway. Just when they thought I was all slick and oober-Dallas, I think I threw them for a loop-de-loop.
Keep 'em guessing, I suppose.