I killed a yellow-jacket with my boomerang today.
Me and my wife were starting to move our stuff to the new house this morning and I noticed my boomerang hanging over the kitchen sink (Well, where do you keep yours then?). I make my move and she’s all like, “Oh, you’re taking the boomerang.” Ever the quick wit I shoot back a scathing, “Well, duh!” and lovingly take it off it’s hook. “There, you should take that hook out the wall and spackle it. I would but, you know, I have to carry my boomerang.” and out the door I go with my prize boomerang.
It’s Aboriginal Made, you know. In Tasmania. Where they have neither rhinoceroses nor weasels, but still, one could muse for some time over Tasmania. And Aboriginal for that matter. This is a very special boomerang because I can throw it so that it doesn’t curve, nay, but sets itself upon a stable vector until the atmosphere leeches it of momentum and delivers it gently to the earth…sometimes as much as 100 yards away! My friend John tells me that such a boomerang is commonly called a “stick.” Dope. What’s he know about it? Aboriginies don’t make sticks, they make boomerangs! He can be such a hick. I once attempted to demonstrate my non-returning boomerang only to have it curve for the first and last time in its existence as a boomerang and strike the windshield of a large SUV wielded by an even larger knuckle-dragging hominid with an apparently irrational hatred of things Aboriginal…are the Abbos in Tasmania significantly different from those on the mainisland? Such that they evolved the necessary technology of bee-line boomerangs?
Bee-line! Oh, the yellow-jacket! Sure. Well, there I was, there I was, there I was: In The Congo! No…I was in Miami far, far away from The Congo. Carrying my bangless boomerang to my car. Then there’s this hornet, a yellow-jacket in the vernacular. And it decided to buzz me. So I swatted at it with my boomerang and knocked it out of the air. Knocked its head off. Killed it dead with my boomerang.