I truly thought we were over it; that we had matured and gotten past the childish bovine residue. But, alas, like so many other things I’ve learned in life, I was wrong. There are still some idiots who like to get a snoot full of beer and run around shooting road signs.
Those of us with enough grey in our beards recall how it was in the ’60s and ’70s. Just about as soon as you got outside the city limits and into the county, there would be quite a few perforated road signs. Some were shot with pistols; others with rifles and still others with shotguns. It is disgusting, childish, purposeless and does nothing to endear shooters to those who are not shooters.
Sign shooters are notoriously poor marksmen. Anyone who knows anything about shooting can see that nearly all the shot-up signs were engaged at point-blank range. That’s usually because the shooter is full of beer and could not hit the broad side of a barn from the inside and with directions. Most of the shooting is done in the deep of night because these—I’m sorry, but they must be called what they are—shit birds are cowardly little twerps. What these SBs do is unforgivingly dangerous because no one knows where the bullets may end up, but, again, these useless SBs couldn’t care less.
I’m pretty sure that no one who reads this, especially the regulars, participates in this childish ritual. But I’ll also bet that some of us may know someone whose kid is shooting up signs. Just as I would like to find one of the jerkwads who proliferate computer viruses, I’d love to get my hands on a sign shooter tie him to a wagon wheel and whip them both. The law would probably frown on this though—even here in Wyoming.
But we can have an impact. Write letters to the editor shaming these idiots. Whenever possible talk about such stupid dolts in ways that make it clear that what they do is not cool, hip or whatever other diversionary adjective that may have been distorted from the language for these SBs to jack off their egos.
The picture you see here is near my home just past a one-lane bridge I must cross to get to Cody. I saw it first last week on my way to church and quickly burst forth some rather non-Christian epithets regarding the DNA makeup of the shooter. He had better hope that I don’t find out who he is. As a half-crippled old coot recovering from back surgery, I’ll allow myself some larger leeway as to how I might handle such miscreants.