Monday, April 18, 2005

BAG Day Part II

As chronicled in the previous post, both me and the old man had our BAG day guns scored before the day. Nonetheless, as this is the first one I participated in, I had a wish to actually BUY A GUN on BAG day. I went to the local shop, looking for a backup rifle for Boomershoot.

As previously stated, I'm a southpaw. They had a really old, crappy looking .243 and a big-ass Weatherby .300 Mag. Now I will admit, I'm a recoil pussy to some extent. Mag rounds tend to fucking hurt. The rifle felt good although I was anxious about the round it was chambered for. Then I noticed the price tag on this Used rifle: $1,100. Told the nice gentleman, "No thank you" and took my leave.

Fast forward to the evening. Everybody knows I want to buy a gun and they start calling around for Lefty bolts. Finally we connect with the big sportsman's warehouse store (who's company name I will not disclose). Well they had a Winchester 70 in .270 in stock, which is a rifle I've had an interest in for awhile. BUT, in procuring this knowledge, the dick at the other end of the phone insists on being as rude as possible. Whatever. My weekend plans change.

I show up at this Warehouse for Sportsmen at 9:30 the next morning, a half-hour after they opened. I walk back throught the Warehouse, being the Sportsman that I am, to the gun counter. I tell the gent behind the counter that I had called and that I would like to buy the .270 they had buried in the vault. He replies, "Oh, you're that guy on the phone from last night?" I reply in a positive way and apologizes for being a cocksucker to me and my coworker.

He brings out the gun. I dry-fire it once and acknowledge that it has a shitty trigger that I will need to get worked on but affirm my intent to purchase the rifle.

Then the dreaded Brady. I don't understand; I've bought maybe 8 new guns in my life, and seem to have a better understanding of the form than most of these assholes do. I find myself correcting them, when they can't figure out what caliber to list on the back. This process is inevitable, time-consuming, and enraging. I stand around and look at this Warehouse for Sportsmen, wondering whether they find these guys underneath freeway underpasses and offer them jobs that don't involve MD 20/20, and sexual acts that...well, I think you get what I mean.

Asshead finally gets the Brady done and re-emerges. In the meantime, I've piled up some ammo. I politely inquire if he might have the mounts for this particular rifle in stock. He says yes, but adds that if I would be willing to buy one of the shitty Tascos in his case, they'll even mount it for me; that's how big the love is for Sportsmen in this warehouse. I assure him that I have a scope at home that I will be putting on MY rifle MYSELF. That said, he scurries off to find the mounts.

The cashier is stupid bitch and that takes another 20 minutes, but those details are unimportant.

Finally I'm ready to mount the scope (and not it's not a Tasco, it's a Leupold VX-III). I take out the spacer screws in the receiver and proceed to waste about an hour of my life trying to install mounts THAT DON'T EVEN FIT THE FUCKING GUN.

Rude? Fine. Condescending prickishness? Fine. Trying to sell me crap? Fine. Trying to sell me the labor to mount that crap? Fine.

But when you sell me mounts that can easily be verified to ensure they fit that rifle, and I waste a fucking evening on, well, the Sportsman can go get fucked in the Warehouse.

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