"Ma Deuce" is an infantryman's term of endearment for the Browning M2 .50 caliber belt-fed machine gun. She is one of my favorites among the proven and still useful weapons of war. She is both a brutal and a brutally honest piece. Her intentions and her disposition are clear from the outset. There is no doubt about her purpose, nor does a practiced user have much to doubt about her reliability. The confidence she engenders in one's ability to destroy most of what might come one's way with hostile intent is worth a thousand inspirational speeches.
I do not own a copy of the lovely and vivacious "Ma Deuce", but God willing, the checkbook left unwatched, and Hillary be damned, someday I shall! What I do have at least occasional access to presently, is a thing that comes in at a close second. For some 27 years, I have been the chattel of a woman with a trim figure and ample breasts. I was reminded of my good fortune recently when the bill for a couple of custom made bras arrived in my in-box. The price of these custom acoutrements would have gone a good way to purchase of an M2, or at least offset the tax one must pay to own one legally nowadays. The reigning Mrs. Iffy, who has retained her throne through the aggressive use of force since the late 1970s, is apparently handsomely outfitted with cannon in a calibre requiring specialized apron of no less than DD cup size. Indeed, when she locks and loads those prodigious guns into a tight sweater and trains them on an unsuspecting intruder he has no recourse but to cower and wet himself like a spanked puppy.
These ferocious "Double Dee Deuces" are more to be feared than any death ray. I can bear awful witness to the fact that when a woman becomes aware of the awesome power she posses in her fitments and weaponry, what follows puts Darth Vader's excursion to the "dark side of the force" on a par with the silly annoyances of a disobedient toddler. She will subjugate and rule over any who fall within the field of fire she controls. How I have survived in such oppressive and dictatorial circumstances can be calculated as the sum of the tribute paid and the sacrifices made. For example, I still don't own a real "Ma Deuce", nor do I own a big, noisy, stinky, diesel-powered pickup truck upon which to mount said Ma Deuce. Woe is me!
But enough of my sniveling. I am being summoned by her Majesty to make a trip to the grocery store to fetch some fresh melons. It is a task for which I am well trained. I am expert in determining their ripeness, because I know the right spots to press, and exactly how they must be squeezed and hefted to assess their readiness for consumption. I know too, how quickly they can turn on you if not stored and maintained properly.
I only wish I had a big diesel truck, fitted with a well maintained pair of Browning M2s to carry me on this worthy mission. Please wish me well.
posted by IFYA, editor at picking Majestyk Melons