How I Foiled a Covert Operation to Send Skeets to a Watery Grave
by Thomas L. Magliozzi
Every now and then, ordinary men and women are thrust into extraordinary circumstances where, by sheer happenstance and through their spontaneous valiant actions, they become heroes in the truest sense of the word.
That's not what happened to me, and I hope it never does. (I'd probably turn and run for cappuccino.) Still, I do have a somewhat interesting story to tell.
I was recently witness to a dramatic case of abuse of the highest magnitude. Fortunately, I was able to intervene, and, in my own little way, I was able to fight for one of our planet's most endangered species. Here's what happened:
Last month, I found myself on a cruise, headed to Bermuda. Now, normally this would not be something I would exactly jump at. My inner ear has yet to meet a wave that hasn't sent it reeling to the nearest men's room. Nonetheless, I was told that Ray would not be coming (officially, my wife's lie # 4,637--but who's counting?), so I jumped at the opportunity to avoid my rotten little brother for a few days.
So, there I was, hanging out with Gopher, Julie, the Captain and the rest of the crew on the Love Boat, when...what should I spy, but SKEETS! "Sheesh," I thought to myself, "Now this here is one enlightened operation--they even make room so a few skeets can get some R&R."
Skeets, of course, are a personal interest of mine. As many of you know, my brother and I are profoundly concerned about the plight of these sturdy little discs. The Save the Skeets Foundation, which we founded many years ago, has raised millions of dollars for this worthy cause. (The fact that much of that money was spent on H. Upmann Petits Coronas, a gold-plated Benito Imperio cappuccino machine and 55-gallon drums of brake fluid for a '63 Dodge Dart does not in any way diminish our support for this cause.)
Anyway, as cofounder of the Save the Skeets Foundation, I was naturally thrilled to see such a progressive-minded treatment of the skeet. I thought I had arrived at Skeet Nirvana: a place where humble clay pigeons could indulge themselves alongside other vacationers. Then, my world turned upside down.
"Whirrr...blam!"
A split second later, I heard a sound I had once hoped never to hear again. Ripped from its cozy tanning spot atop the ship's railing, a skeet was suddenly catapulted skyward. I can only imagine what desperate thoughts were going through its little mind. Then, a split second later, the report. Just 20 feet away from me, some cold, uncaring vacationer had just sent 100 pellets of 20-gauge on a collision course with a beautiful fluorescent orange creature that had never harmed so much as a mosquito.
Far on the horizon, with the placid blue of the Atlantic as a backdrop, the skeet exploded into a million tiny fragments, then fell to its anonymous, watery death somewhere in international waters off the coast of Bermuda.
I knew I had to stop this insanity. But how? I was just one person--what can one person possibly do, after all? I asked myself, "What would Gandhi do? What would Thoreau do? What about Curly? And how would Moe react?"
Realizing I was woefully outnumbered, I had no choice but to employ some subterfuge.
I casually sauntered up to the Skeet Death Range. Believe me, my heart was racing. But, I knew I had to act. What sort of a man could enjoy a vacation, while just feet away from him atrocities of the highest magnitude were underway?
So, when the murderers weren't looking...I snagged the skeets.
I sprinted to my room, charting a circuitous route that took me through the casino, dry cleaning service and bilge-pump room--all the while casting furtive glances over my shoulder.
Arriving at my room, I bolted the door shut, collapsed on the bed and wondered if I would be found out.
Free at Last, Thank God Almighty!
For once, this is a skeets story with a happy ending. I saved the skeets. Sure, it was only a half-dozen or so, but they were free. During the ensuing days, I left my room only to get food, water and fresh orange paint for the skeets. When we arrived at our next port of call (for fear of reprisals, I think you’ll appreciate why I cannot divulge the exact locale), I spirited the skeets off the boat in my knapsack.
As of this moment, I am happy to report that the skeets in question are resting comfortably on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, soaking up the rays and downing strawberry margaritas.
As for the perpetrators of this dastardly deed...well, let's just say they haven't seen the last of me. I'm now in the process of filing international war crime charges and look forward to my day in court, in The Hague, where justice will finally be served to these barbarians.
