a journalist tries to kick my ass

You’re never really prepared for a big time cable newsman to show up in your driveway drunk, armed, and blind with rage. You especially don’t expect it from a pretty boy like Dan Abrams, but it happened. Something in the third paragraph of this apparently set him off.

At any rate, the wife and I were on the back porch enjoying the cocktail hour here at the Casa Camino on Saturday afternoon when we heard the rifle shots coming from the front of the house. We ran inside and peeked through the front blinds to find this:

“Git yer ass out here, Mr. Rex-L.-Ca-mi-no!” he yelled. “You think you all that? Huh? Huh, shithead? I might not be no big time blogger, but I’ll sure as hell whoop yer ass!”

He was now out of his pick-up truck and strutting around it like a bantam rooster as neighbors gathered up children and retreated back into their houses. “Come on out, chickenshit, and take yer asswhoopin’ like a man!” He yelled.

It went on like this for the better part of an hour. Abrams would chug a beer, fire his rifle, and then drone on with, “I’m waitin’ on you, Mr. Rex-L.-Ca-mi-no”, followed inevitably with another shot and a resounding, “Wooooooooooooo!”

I eventually had enough. I cracked the front door just enough to yell and called out, “Sir, you have the wrong man. My name is Blake and I must inform you that I am heavily armed. A single, inebriated member of the liberal media is no match for me. Stand down!”

As if on cue, a shirtless and equally drunk Tucker Carlson rolled from the bed of the pick-up yelling, “Wait, I got it. I got it. This ain’t about politics, sir. My friend here just got his heart broke is all. We don’t want no trouble.”

By this point Abrams had reached a depressed point in his drunkenness and was curled in the fetal position beside the truck. He was sobbing audibly. Carlson lumbered over and gathered him up, reaching into the back of the truck for the cooler of beer and taking both to a neighbor’s porch. The two remained there overnight where I suppose many Oprah moments occurred, broken occasionally by the thundering of Carlson shooting at jackrabbits across the field.

The next morning they were tame enough for me to emerge with my Polaroid and snap this.

I think a certain blogger out there owes Danny Boy another chance.