If there’s one positive thing that has come out of the horrific mass shooting in Connecticut, it is a renewed sense of togetherness in a more united American people. Yes, you can almost taste the togetherish unitedarity, as we stand tall to weather the malignant sociopaths of the world who dare cause us harm. Of course, I’m referring to the malignant sociopaths in Washington D.C., who seem to react to these violent crimes the same way Pavlov’s dogs reacted to the sound of ringing bells, only wetter.
As a result of Barack Obama’s completely-opposite-of-surprising conduct following Sandy Hook, there’s also a specific positive thing being felt on my end: my kids and I are really enjoying the extended quality time together as we wait to be served at gun shops. It’s old news that the 2008 election led to a whole new flood of customers washing through the doors of firearms dealers, but I can tell you now, that was nothing. Compared to now, that was the residue in a syringe custom-made for a dwarf veterinarian who specializes in baby hamsters. I’ll put it another way: picture a British rock & roll fan in his early sixties approaching a massive crowd in downtown Los Angeles, asking the first person he sees, ”say, is this the line to buy tickets to the Beatles concert at the Rose Bowl where George Harrison and John Lennon will come back from the dead just for this one event?” “No, that’s farther down the block; we’re all waiting to buy the new Glock nine-millimeter that just arrived at Lee Thall’s Weapons.”
Like many other people I had already planned on owning a gun, only sometime down the road—certainly not this soon. And I’m betting that up until now the events that made people decide to up and buy them were more along the lines of moving to a rough neighborhood, or getting robbed, or receiving threats, or perhaps being an aspiring rapper with low street-cred. It’s more than a little unfortunate that my “event” is having a junior despot in the White House thinking to himself “I’m being kind letting these bastards keep some of their money, but I just can’t have them protecting themselves, too!” At least I can proudly say that my street-cred is solid, as far as pasty middle-aged non-rappers go.
I hope I never have to use my weapon for the purpose for which I’m buying it: a very, very bad person entering my home and deciding my family has gone unharmed long enough. I’m cautiously optimistic I won’t have to use it for the purpose intended by the Second Amendment: a very, very bad government entering my home and deciding my family has gone free long enough.
If that were to happen, God forbid, then I’d better be ready with more than just my trusty sidearm (which I’m actually thinking of naming “Trustee”). I’m going to need to prepare some last words. If you think about it, far, far too many people pick very poor statements as their final ones. Like “Hell if I know, try the green wire.” “Damn discount bear trap!” “I’ll be right there, guys, I’m just getting the blender unstuck.” Or “You mix drinks almost as bad as you cook and clean, Sweetcheeks; this martini tastes funny.”
So, it’d be foolish to not have some eloquent last words prepared. I’m not suggesting I could be the next Nathan “I regret that I have but one life…” Hale, but I might manage to land a spot in the footnotes or endnotes of a history textbook at a continuation school.
For your consideration, this American patriot’s historic last words: “Let me treat you to a lead lunch, you ‘don’t ask/don’t tell’ rejects.”
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