francois-robert-3 I hate guns.  I’d just as soon we all actually did beat our swords into plowshares and trade in our guns for gardening gloves.  Our nation’s obsession with brutally “fixing” other countries anguishes me, and I find American ambivalence about inner city violence disgusting.

I’ve shot guns.  I’m from a community and a family that considers gun ownership and use as indispensable to maleness as inappropriate scratching, and since I have many male friends and family members, I’ve participated in plenty of outings to the woods to shoot at beer cans, photocopies of Saddam Hussein’s likeness, and even aerosol cans.  But I really hate guns.  They’re so noisy, and obnoxious, and frankly, they’re scary.  Don’t tell anyone I know that I said this, but I feel less fear when I contemplate being raped than when I contemplate trying (possibly failing, or worse, succeeding) to shoot dead an assailant.  I don’t own a gun, and up until the recent gun violence debate, I had no desire to go buy one, but I’m starting to change my mind.

So many of the Saturday nights of my childhood and early adulthood were spent listening to the men in my life share their real life stories and beer-fuelled fantasies of blasting, exploding, or otherwise de-commisioning a rabid dog, a tasty buck, a drug-crazed homicidal maniac, an evil tyrant, or an egg-thieving skunk.  A few of them actually did shoot skunks, and their families got to participate in the penance poor Peppe le Pew exacted.  A few more brought home the odd game bird or deer carcass, and their families got to roll their eyes while Dad extolled the virtues of the tough, gamey roast Mom none-to-gently set on the family board.PEPE LE PEW

These men are not violent; they are good, loving, generous, law abiding, tax paying, peaceful family men, and when I hear and read the comments of some people who I also love, but who believe that guns in themselves are evil, and their owners are by extension proprietors of evil, with at best, base, and possibly nefarious intent, I have to wonder.  When I hear some of my liberal friends call NRA members “subhuman,” when I read comments that use the foulest language imaginable to describe those who have been buying any guns and ammunition that aren’t tied down, when I see the calls to repeal the Second Amendment, or as Deepak Chopra put it in his Huff Po editorial, “to exert the will of the country,” because, “the rights of the minority have been tolerated too far,” I am puzzled how Progressives can claim to be the peaceful ones.

When I read those sentiments, I think of my brother and his family, who live in the town I grew up.  What would it mean for them if federal agents were to roll in and stage a compulsory buy back as Chopra suggested?  I guaran-damn-tee you, there would be very few volunteers.  How would federal agents compel my brother and his neighbors to give up their assault weapons?  There’s my brother, with his wife and sons, sitting down to dinner.  A man with a badge knocks on their door, because my brother, being a law abiding, tax paying, peaceful man, has registered his guns.  Is the man with a badge likely to wait for my brother, a known gun owner, to open the door?  Is there likely to be only one man with a badge?  Are those men likely to come less armed than they suspect my brother to be?  I see my brother, who has spent his life safely using legal firearms and believing, and teaching his children that God gave him the right to own those guns if he chose to, the same brother who has spent countless Saturday nights talking with his buddies about using his guns to protect home and family from wild beasts, the criminally insane and mythical American Nazis.  It’s not  hard for me to guess what his response will be when dozens of agents bristling with instruments of theSwat destruction of his whole world come knocking at his door.  And I wonder, who is violent?  My brother, who sits down to dinner with his wife and sons in his own home, or those who come to his door with threats of instant, bloody, annihilation?  He is the registered owner of his guns, but his wife and sons share a home with him.  Will those agents’ bullets magically find my brother’s body, and avoid his wife and children?  What crime have they committed to be present at the savagely violent storming of their home and, if everything goes miraculously well, arrest of their father and husband?  And what about when those agents storm a house and things don’t go miraculously well?  How many good citizens and their spouses and children must die before Progressives feel safe enough to call off their witch hunt?  Will hundreds suffice, or thousands?  Will it take millions of deaths for them to be satisfied?  Will the slaughter of more children give meaning to those who were murdered at Sandy Hook?

I don’t know what an assault weapon looks like, or what my brother would call it, or how much it costs, but I’m starting to think I might need a 384 Blow Down the Door Sick Sour with one of those funny handles that look so inappropriate on a long barrel.  When it comes right down to it, I might be too frightened or repulsed to use a gun on someone who meant to harm me, but I wouldn’t hesitate to blast into Kingdom Come any man or beast who threatened my nephews.


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Pepe le Pew


Scary guns