One of the great things about living in Portland is the wide array of outdoor activities one can engage in. This is a place where it's possible to go skiing on Mt. Hood in the morning, hike through a rainforest in the mid-afternoon and walk along a picturesque coastline at dusk. The possibilities are endless.

As such, if you live here you may one day find yourself pointing a bolt action rifle at a chocolate bunny in a forest outside of Manning.

Let me explain.

I have friends who own guns. Having grown up within the uber-liberal enclaves of Portland I still find this incredibly weird. Once upon a time, I was a proponent of strict gun control. Then one day I went skeet shooting. What can I say, a strong, albeit naive, political argument buckled and collapsed immediately after I managed to hit my first clay pigeon. I'll never own a gun, my friends aren't hunters and none of us are members of the NRA. Amazing as it might sound, even a liberal wuss like me enjoys the opportunity to work on my shotgun skills. After all, there's no telling when a zombie and/or a zombie pirate uprising could break out. We've all seen those Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Zombie pirates are mean bastards.

A few weeks ago, I found myself heading out to the country for target practice and, afterwards, a St Patrick's Day celebration/film festival. I was debating the merits of canned Guinness versus bottled when I realized I wouldn't have time to pick up clay pigeons. The chances that anyone else would have thought to buy them was unlikely. The clock was ticking so I tried to think fast. What could I find in the aisles of Fred Meyers that could work as targets but also become a tasty snack if the whole thing was rained out?

The choice was obvious. Discount Easter candy.

And so off I headed to the checkout with a shopping cart full of beer, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow Peeps. Behind the counter, a gruff clerk who looked like a certain character from Deadwood, looked over my purchases with a scowl on his unshaven mug.

"You got some little ones at home," he asked as I fumbled with the debit card machine.

These are the last words a young man wants to hear in the year 2008 in a crowded grocery store when he's buying large quantities of chocolate bunnies and alcohol. How could I possibly answer a question like that? I stuttered and stammered. I was so rushed I hadn't stop to consider that buying all of this might be considered a little unusual or even alarming to someone not full aware of what was going on. Then I said the following:

"They're for a party. Of sorts."

Oh. Dear. God. I'd tried to come up with a safe answer but had completely blown it. A party? Of sorts. At best, the clerk and everyone within earshot was now convinced I was a pervert with a twisted bunny/beer sexual fetish or, at worst, a child-predator with hang-ups that would make Michael Jackson blush.

Without another word, the clerk bagged my groceries and handed me my receipt. A Lewis and Clark undergrad behind me shot me a glare that could pierce steel. I rushed out of the store filled with a level of shame that samurais must have once felt before committing sepuku.

Most people would try to forget a story like this but I'm not most people. I told everyone later on that day what had happened at the checkout stand. "They're for a party. Of sorts" is now an in-joke I'll be hearing for who knows how long. And now here it is on the internet for your enjoyment.

Let this be a lesson to you all: if your shopping basket is full of stuff that can paint you as a probable felon, head to the automated check-out. I should have learned this valuable life lesson years ago. A while back, a colleague told me a story about the time he found himself in a Rite Aid buying doggy biscuits, wine and a box of condoms.

All things considered, if I was a chocolate bunny I guess I'd rather head to the giant Easter basket in the sky after getting hit with buckshot instead of being slowly consumed by a small child. The trip to Fred Meyers had been humiliating but I guess it was worth it to see what a "Honey Bunny" looks like when viewed through a rifle scope. FYI: when a bullet from a bolt action rifle hits the ear of a chocolate bunny, it can apparently blast out the back-end of its box. Also, Peeps vaporize when hit by a shotgun shell. And now you know. More also: apparently I'm not the first person on the internet to dream up unique ways to dispose of Easter candy.

Urban Growth Boundary, I thank for helping make this all possible. I think I'll go put one of those "I [heart] Oregon" stickers in my car's back window now.

Labels: holidays, probable sociopathy