Hardly before yesterday’s blog was blogged I
received an anti-blog avalanche of irate emails (12) asking why I was so down
on guns. Even Mon Michelle got one (not sure how that happened). These were in response to . . .
. . . my post on the Cape Coral cowboy who smoked a door-to-door salesman in the drive way. Down on guns? Ho, ho, ho! Hardly. In fact, had any of these knee-jerk (emphasis on the "jerk") critics bothered to read any of my past blogs they would know that I am the antithesis of anti-gun, that I am the anti-matter of anti-gun, that I am the ultimate anti anti-gun blogger. I consider one who is not armed to the teeth in this nut zoo cuckoo-clock world we call the United States to be a total tool and a flippin’ fool. One never knows what day, what hour one will be called upon to stand, chamber a round and correct one or more of nature’s mistakes with neatness and dispatch; one must be ready when one of these whacked-out warpos suddenly rears his ugly head and goes mental, be it at an Arizona political rally, on a Long Island commuter train, in a Colorado movie theater, or even during a nursing home bingo bash.
I am indeed down on guns—and down on knives, hammers,
machetes, baseball bats, cue balls, and chain saws—in the hands of homicidal maniacs. Quick fix? I don’t have a clue. Disarming us like chickens in a coop as
bed-wetting social sissy-men and tough-talking hatchet-faced feminists advocate damn sure isn’t the
answer. Other than all of us just
committing suicide, how do we wipe out random acts of violence and serendipitous displays of savagery and slaughter? It's been three sentences now and I still don’t
know. Perhaps we should tax the
ultra violent video games right out of existence; perhaps we should quick-stop
our non-stop wars of aggression around the globe and quit droning to death everyone who
disagrees with Israel; perhaps we should close the hundreds of CIA
torture mills around the globe; perhaps we should simply ban hunting; perhaps we
should quit killing animals merely to eat them; perhaps we should preempt the whole
mess by sterilizing all the immature and irresponsible among us before they
have a chance to breed more menacing monsters into our midst; perhaps . . . well,
there are a lot of ways we might nip this mania for whole-sale slaughter in the
bud but I don’t see any of the above happening anytime soon. Answer? It’s been a whole two paragraphs and
I still don’t have a clue. But disarming us damn sure ain't the solution.
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“Local Nun Lauded for Homeless Work”—I saw this headline in today’s fish wrap about an 85-year-old sister and, I am ashamed to say, my very first thought was, “I wonder how many children she has molested in her lifetime?” Such is the climate, and so graphic and lasting are the hideous images, that many of us view ALL Catholic clergy as predatory pedophiles. Lately, it seems that boy scout leaders, Penn State football coaches, St. Pete puppeteers, and others we have entrusted with the public trust are just ghouls in disguise who use their positions to practice their perversions. Sigh. Alas.
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Bikes in the News—Local biking legend, Pete Cornell of Gulf Cove, was run over and flattened by a big rig the other day up in Georgia. Cornell, 64, was on the last leg of a marathon trek that stretched from Edmonton, Alberta, to Key West here in Florida. Whereas twenty miles a day is about all I'm good for, Pete thought nothing of doing a hundred miles each and every day of his life. Cornell always wore the proper safety gear, including helmet, but tho this may have extended his longevity for years and years and thousands upon thousand of miles, it did nothing to save him in that final yard of his life. Pete did everything he could to increase his odds, but clearly . . . if a truck, car or a falling piece of space junk has your name on it, your time is certainly up.
Meanwhile, up at Gainseville, a kind-hearted woman saw a man fall flat off
his bike the other day and she stopped her car to help. Far from being appreciative, the biking thug attacked
the lady and tried to tear off her jewelry.
With cuts and bruises, the good woman mercifully escaped, no doubt
a much wiser, if far less altruistic, person.
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Under the Microscope--A Maggot
