The hero who took out the bad guys
Buy a gun. Better yet, buy two. Something powerful. Something you'd never shoot a deer or a wild hog with. Something made for one reason and one reason only: to kill. To kill people, in particular. Now, buy a couple hundred rounds of the most lethal bullets available. They're called RIP bullets, and they don't just kill. They butcher. They maim. Think of a regular bullet as a sharp knife and a RIP bullet as a blunt axe.
Next, play with the gun. Toy with it. Load it and unload it and gaze at it and fantasize shooting it, of blowing people away. Just for kicks, lug your new gun into the local Applebee's and scare the hell out of some children and old people and libtards.
Eventually, you'll want to take it out and shoot something. That's what it's for. Shoot up an old TV set or computer monitor. Take out some clay pigeons. Just don't forget to take along your ear plugs or noise-reducing headphones. By the way, 3M makes a nice pair of tactical ear muffs. A lot of SWAT teams use them. I'm sure they'd look great on you.
And now, wait for the bad guys to show up, to threaten you, to step into your cross-hairs. It might be a genuine criminal. It might just be that punk kid who owns the monster truck down the street, who's always gunning it at 2 or 3 in the morning. And when you confront him and he smarts off and then decides to bull-rush you because he's young and drunk and stupid, then you shoot him. In the chest. In the head. If you're lucky, he'll be wearing a gray hoodie, which means he's a gang-banger for sure, and you stood your ground.
Well, good for you. The Founding Fathers salute you, and your fellow Constitutional scholars at Cabela's and Walmart and the gun shows applaud you defending freedom and liberty and the American Way of Life, not to mention the Second Amendment.
And so what if a few of these guns fall into the hands of the wrong people. Of course, I'm referring to children. Not hardened criminals.
Kids do crazy things, especially when there are guns stashed around the house. Like the 4-year-old Kentucky boy who shot and killed his 6-year-old sister. Or the 3-year-old Michigan boy who died after accidentally shooting himself in the head with the gun he found on the closet floor of his home.
As Joe the Plumber so eloquently stated, your dead child doesn't trump his Constitutional rights to hoard guns. Besides, criminals will have their guns, regardless. It's part of being a criminal. They're loaded, and they can always get more — legally, in most cases. Most importantly, they get the first shot.
And you can't stop them because no one sees them coming. They're odd-duck types who have never once broken the law but who are quietly and politely seething, roiling, ready to explode. They plot their revenge and, one morning, strap on the gear and show up, locked and loaded, at a post office or a J.C. Penney's or in the halls of your 12-year-old daughter's school, where they blurt out the lyrics of a rock song or a line from Catcher in the Rye and then start blasting away.
It's at that point that I wish you would show up, but you never do, so over the course of the 45 minutes, they slaughter 10 or 12 and then kill themselves or are killed by police officers who are specifically trained and equipped to do just that. It's their job whereas you work the counter at Pep Boys.
Eventually, the blood is mopped up and the funerals are held and the victims are buried and nothing changes. You still troll Walmart or Cabela's and the gun shows and buy another gun and another bucket of bullets, and you return home and diddle with them and gaze at them and sink deeper and deeper into your cammo-covered BarcaLounger and your warrior fantasies of being the big hero who takes on the bad guys and defends America. The Beautiful.
Next, play with the gun. Toy with it. Load it and unload it and gaze at it and fantasize shooting it, of blowing people away. Just for kicks, lug your new gun into the local Applebee's and scare the hell out of some children and old people and libtards.
Eventually, you'll want to take it out and shoot something. That's what it's for. Shoot up an old TV set or computer monitor. Take out some clay pigeons. Just don't forget to take along your ear plugs or noise-reducing headphones. By the way, 3M makes a nice pair of tactical ear muffs. A lot of SWAT teams use them. I'm sure they'd look great on you.
And now, wait for the bad guys to show up, to threaten you, to step into your cross-hairs. It might be a genuine criminal. It might just be that punk kid who owns the monster truck down the street, who's always gunning it at 2 or 3 in the morning. And when you confront him and he smarts off and then decides to bull-rush you because he's young and drunk and stupid, then you shoot him. In the chest. In the head. If you're lucky, he'll be wearing a gray hoodie, which means he's a gang-banger for sure, and you stood your ground.
Well, good for you. The Founding Fathers salute you, and your fellow Constitutional scholars at Cabela's and Walmart and the gun shows applaud you defending freedom and liberty and the American Way of Life, not to mention the Second Amendment.
And so what if a few of these guns fall into the hands of the wrong people. Of course, I'm referring to children. Not hardened criminals.
Kids do crazy things, especially when there are guns stashed around the house. Like the 4-year-old Kentucky boy who shot and killed his 6-year-old sister. Or the 3-year-old Michigan boy who died after accidentally shooting himself in the head with the gun he found on the closet floor of his home.
As Joe the Plumber so eloquently stated, your dead child doesn't trump his Constitutional rights to hoard guns. Besides, criminals will have their guns, regardless. It's part of being a criminal. They're loaded, and they can always get more — legally, in most cases. Most importantly, they get the first shot.
And you can't stop them because no one sees them coming. They're odd-duck types who have never once broken the law but who are quietly and politely seething, roiling, ready to explode. They plot their revenge and, one morning, strap on the gear and show up, locked and loaded, at a post office or a J.C. Penney's or in the halls of your 12-year-old daughter's school, where they blurt out the lyrics of a rock song or a line from Catcher in the Rye and then start blasting away.
It's at that point that I wish you would show up, but you never do, so over the course of the 45 minutes, they slaughter 10 or 12 and then kill themselves or are killed by police officers who are specifically trained and equipped to do just that. It's their job whereas you work the counter at Pep Boys.
Eventually, the blood is mopped up and the funerals are held and the victims are buried and nothing changes. You still troll Walmart or Cabela's and the gun shows and buy another gun and another bucket of bullets, and you return home and diddle with them and gaze at them and sink deeper and deeper into your cammo-covered BarcaLounger and your warrior fantasies of being the big hero who takes on the bad guys and defends America. The Beautiful.
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