When I was a kid, my mom used to drag me to these arts and crafts fairs at the high school auditorium. It was horrible. Row upon row of potpourri and stupid frilly crap. There was, however, one beacon of hope.
This old guy, whose name I can’t remember, was always tucked into the back corner of the auditorium. He had the regular stuff for moms, but he also had an arsenal of rubberband guns mounted on board behind his table like some illicit arms dealer.
He had all the innocuous guns. The single launcher. The double barrel. There was even a shotgun type that launched like five at a time. Then there was one of these, a 12 barrel, 144 rubberband monster capable of annihilating the entire crafts show in a few furious spins of the crank.
I wanted it. I had to have it. But it wasn’t for sale. “For my own collection,” he would say. Every little boy, dragged there against his will, would stand gawking at that thing of beauty, imagining themselves opening fire on all the other little boys standing there staring.
Well, now the magic is gone to some degree, but I still remember it fondly. I don’t have the use I once did for a rubberband machine gun, but there is still some deep part of my being that lusts to pick one of these up for $400. Fortunately, there is another, more adult, part of me that realizes I’d shoot my eye out.