“Gee, Grandpa. What happened next?”

“We were somewhere behind enemy lines, with Gustavo Cerati and ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic bringing up the wing, when it happened. A freak shot, a single Steve Earle date fired from an incoming enemy promoter squadron, pierced our plane’s windshield, putting both the pilot and copilot out of commission. I knew then that it was all up to me. But I was just the ticketeer. I didn’t know nuttin’ about flying no plane.”

“What did you do?”

“Soon, the sky glowed with anti-concert date fire. Montgomery Gentry and Sawyer Brown successfully hit the target zone and delivered their payloads, softening the enemy’s resistance and prepping the ground for my plane to come in and lay down a pattern of intense Red Hot Chili Peppers fire.”

“Wow! What happened next?”

“I pulled the pilot out of his seat and sat down behind the flight instruments. The artificial headliner showed the plane was on course. All I needed to do was guide her in. Piece of cake, I thought.”

“Then what, Grandpa?”

“I grabbed the stick and flew her straight and true into the jaws of hell itself! The tour bay doors opened, but the payload was stuck. I put the plane on autopilot and crawled back into the tour bay. Just as I thought. The big one, Pearl Jam, was hung up on service charge expenses. I climbed up on the tour itinerary and started pounding on it.”

“Did it work?”

“Sure enough, the routing finally came loose and fell to the ground below. I can still remember riding that sucker down to the target, waving my cowboy hat in the air, shouting, ‘Yippee!'”

“Wow, Grandpa. You were a war hero?”

“War? What war? That was just last week. Oh, look, here comes the nurse with my medication. Run along, now.”