Working where I do, it's unsurprising that I sometimes find myself feeling like a schoolmarm at Miss Tam's School For Boys. Take last Thursday, for instance. The range was booming, but there was a lull on the sales floor. Dr. Strangegun had his nose in a book on old rifles that I'd brought in, boning up on Mosins and Enfields. Thing 2 was stocking out ammunition, and Thing 1 answered the phone.
"Uh-huh. Yes. Hang on, I'll ask..." He put the customer on hold, turned and said "The guy on the phone has a muzzle loader. He needs to know if we have balls."
Pause, two, three... Instant, red-faced, helpless laughter...
*gasp, wheeze* "What size balls does he..." *snicker* "...need?"
"He needs .72 caliber..." *snort* "...balls."
"We only have .454 caliber. Small balls..." *chortle* "Tell him to call Fred's. I'm sure Fred has..." *howl, gasp* "...big balls."
I dread the coming of muzzle loader season, when these guys will be confronted with requests for breech plugs, Red Hot Nipples, nipple picks, and Wonder Wads.
"Excuse me, do you have Red Hot Nipples?"
"Well, I've been told I do..."