Sometimes you've just got to hit something
My wife couldn't figure out what to get me for my birthday last week. I suggested nothing since I've got enough stuff in my life and prefer experiences over things. But, no, that wouldn't fly, so she dragged me to one of those sporting goods box stores.
I must admit that one of the reasons I have enough stuff in my life already is that I've bought an awful lot of stuff from these places over the years — kayaks, golf clubs, golf balls, all kinds of things emblazoned with Georgia Bulldogs and Atlanta Falcons logos, shoes, grilling paraphernalia, fishing gear and ammunition. Quite frankly, I like something on just about every aisle of these stores.
My mission was to find something, anything, for my birthday. I wound up choosing from two very different items.
The first was a large rope hammock. I've always said that all I've ever really needed was a hammock, a couple of palm trees and some margaritas to be happy. But the last thing I need to be doing in my life at this age and with my health is to lie around more often. Besides, I don't have palm trees in my Georgia backyard, and it's just not the same to have a hammock tied between a white oak and a pine tree with mosquitoes, gnats, yellow flies and copperheads dropping by to help you relax.
The other option was a punching bag. Growing up in a small town, we didn't have boxing gyms, so our pugilism took place in the backyard. Every now and then I'd get an opportunity to don the gloves and go toe-to-toe with friends, though my main sparring partner had a rule that I was not allowed to hit him in the head. He, however, could hit me anywhere. Unlike Mr. Trump, I guess I've never been known for brilliant deal-making.
But more often than not, instead of a human, my boxing foe was a large, heavy bag hanging from a thick branch of a massive magnolia tree. In every decade of my life since, I've had a punching bag — under a tree, in a garage or in an outdoor shed. It's a great workout and a fantastic way to relive stress. Now, I again have one in the garage.
I've found it particularly useful for the bag to represent someone with whom I'd like to take out some frustration. In my younger days, my bag usually represented some classmate I didn't like or some yahoo dating one of my exes, but in my older days the bag usually became someone representing evil industries like Big Pharma or a pandering politician. For now, this bag is simply named “DJT” — which stands for Designated Jabbing Target, of course. What did you think it stood for?
No matter who the bag might be on a given day, it's downright necessary for an introvert like myself to have a target for a beating. We introverts have to eventually let loose, and, apparently, beating actual human beings is frowned upon.
While I was at the store, I also grabbed a few shotgun shells to further expel frustration. I'm not what I consider a gun nut — the kind of person who hugs their gun a little tighter every time there's a school shooting and lives in a constant state of paranoia that the gubmint is coming for their arsenal — but I grew up enjoying shooting guns and still believe it's good to have a gun at home for protection.
Problem is, unless someone breaks into your home or the copperheads come calling, you don't get much use out of a shotgun when you live in the city limits. So, after a week of beating up DJT in the garage, I decided to expend a few shotgun shells out in the country. I'm not much for hunting anymore, but I did kill a few plastic jugs in self-defense. I may not be a gun nut, but I do understand the thrill of blowing a hole in something every now and then.
Unfortunately, my shoulder is hurting from too many bouts with DJT, so I may have to do more shooting than punching right now. If my shoulder doesn't get better soon, I may have to shoot DJT. I just can't let that guy think he's beaten me.
Connect with Chris Johnson at KudzuKid.com.
This story was originally published June 25, 2018 at 10:54 AM with the headline "Sometimes you've just got to hit something."