Written by John Peurach
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Friday, 28 May 2010

image for The Tortoise & The Hair-Trigger (And The Ostriches Who Love Them)
ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN: Stupid is, as stupid always was. Not sure why, maybe just because.

NEWARK, NJ - Two major U.S. based gun advocacy groups came out firing today with both barrels, in a somewhat coordinated response to Mexican President Felipe Calderon's call last week during his address before a Joint Session of Congress for stateside lawmakers to institute a ban on assault weapons.

Hoping to provide more than just the usual shrill and/or obnoxiously loud voice in defense of both firearm manufacturers and individual gun toting enthusiasts alike, the NRA and Cold Dead Hands, Inc. (a newly formed gun lobby/watchdog/think tank conglomeration, specifically designed to protect and serve the interests of the worldwide weaponry industry and its necessary network of big and small distributors) each went out of their way, in separate areas of the Garden State, to counterbalance any outlandish claims or reckless urgings offered up by Calderon during his long-winded congressional diatribe.

Convinced that Calderon's remarks were not only uncalled for, but entirely misdirected, NRA spokesperson Noble Fauntleroy told a packed (and already over-served) mid-morning crowd at Layne's, a popular tavern/pistol range in nearby Harrison, New Jersey, that, "despite any potential linkage to the contrary, which might now seem to suggest there currently exists either a direct, and/or, if somehow established, a possibly tragic or foreshadowing indirect connection between American made firearms and the rash of continual carnage and collateral bloodshed such hand held items might somehow appear to re-fuel, on a fairly consistent basis - once, of course, they've been allowed to properly, and, in most cases, improperly, assume their would-be eventual-like state of primary relocation, below, as it were, and still is, the rather loose and somewhat unmanageable border which, at present, is still in the business of otherwise dividing our two great nations during such a crucial point in current tea party time - the real blame for this ongoing crisis, in fact, lies decidedly elsewhere."

Meanwhile, just up the road at the Cold Dead Hands, Inc. national headquarters - currently situated in the former Ragen Precision Industries complex, nestled among a sprawling stretch of abandoned warehouses and assorted waste management concerns along a non-discript (except for an overabundance of pesky seagulls feasting on the shifting peaks of a nearby landfill) litter strewn hillside situated next door to pastorally deficient North Arlington - Sheba Montooth, V.P. in charge of Moment To Moment Protocol & In-House Knee-Jerk Accusatory Policy, had some bitter words of cautionary advice to fill up the various chat rooms and voicemail boxes she was somehow able to access during an impromptu, last minute, podcast/conference call, after finally being located by company authorities early this morning, wandering semi-coherently (yet, decidedly "fapitzed") around the dimly-lit halls of the Abe Lincoln Motel near downtown Newark with over-the-top comedian Mario Cantone and regional show biz semi-legend Uncle Floyd, following last evening's sold-out Grace Jones show at Philip Roth's Brick City/It House Cabaret in the North Ward.

"For pity sake, it's time to stop holding the makers of guns, particularly American made guns, responsible for all the ancillary violent problems that, for better or worse, somehow seem to be, predisposed to occur on a fairly regular basis, regardless, of whether one is near, or anywhere else around the world taking up space in other more less friendly locales," warned Montooth, while she valiantly attempted to re-adhere the last remaining jumbo false eyelash she apparently had in her still somewhat fashionable, yet predominately disheveled, high class possession. "The simple truth is, they just make them, the gun manufacturers do, and that's all they do. It's everyone else out there, not them, who's doing all the aiming and shooting, and firing things off every which way. So, take a breath, and ease off. As any reckless re-tooling of our national commitment to increased and perpetual gun-based profitability can only be harmful to those least likely to benefit from such a game-changing, tipping-point, do-over position. Especially at this point in, well, semi-reasonably perplexed, and/or, best of worst times."

Despite their separate but equal collective concern for the fiscal impact such a would-be clampdown might bring to the current bottom-line climate of the well connected firearm industry (especially if such a misguided policy might somehow be foisted upon them by an otherwise weak-livered, yet still, handsomely well paid off - via, of course, the usual inside the beltway location at a Ronald Reagan Washington Nation Airport storage unit, or, if need be, the traditional outer-area drop at an undisclosed crab cake establishment in Baltimore's Fells Point district - U.S. congress) neither the NRA nor Cold Dead Hands, Inc. seemed eager to forget the little guy, so to speak, in this ongoing front burner equation, of sorts. Especially since it involves basic individual rights and the seemingly never ending debate over the choice of which heat to pack when push comes to shove, once, of course, the essence of our unique and historical heritage is not only threatened, but unnecessarily questioned by those with obviously conflicting agendas, and, as a rule, substantially different dietary requirements than our own.

Meaning, of course, that the scope and tone of Fauntleroy's fully fanned fury remained well flung, and, as always, right on target.

In other words, when it was believed that the toothy NRA mouthpiece was almost on the verge of either getting to the point, or about to name names (which, many of those in attendance at Layne's seemed fairly certain that, if provided the first letter of the last name, along with any recognizable vowels that would, in the end, be otherwise necessary for the successful completion of such a time honored quizzical task, they might, in fact, very well be able to spell correctly, if not pretend to sort of knowingly recognize), the mob-like scene surrounding the fiery and heavily perspiring orator quickly began to swell up significantly around him, as he teetered precariously atop his carefully positioned bar stool.

Although, to be fair, much of this sudden wall-to-wall influx of anticipatory confusion was brought on just then by the customary daily arrival of a plus-size contingent of well-heeled, crush-proof, North Jersey housewives, stopping by to unwind a bit after their semi-strenuous start-the-day workout at a nearby Curves, located in a mini-mall across the street where a record store once existed for almost sixty years.

Meanwhile, utilizing a quick succession of pie charts and hand puppets, Fauntleroy did what he could to best explain the balance of his, more or less, semi-must-hear position.

"Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway," he droned on accordingly, "as far we at the NRA are concerned, it's clearly not the honest to gosh, tax-paying, nation-first, ultra-patriotic American firearm owners, and assorted life style hobbyists, all of whom are in direct line contact with the numerous weaponry manufacturers who are so determined to supply them, at an already, reduced, and sometimes ridiculously low cost to begin with, it's not they, who should be under attack here and now."

Despite the noticeable intrusion of a, just then, sudden flurry (or two) of miss-directed rounds fired into his immediate vicinity from a somewhat rambunctious distaff foursome from Kearney, NJ (who obviously were having more than just a slight degree of difficulty setting things up accordingly in nearby Range-A, just several clicks beyond the Foosball Table), Fauntleroy continued his instructive demonstration with little if any concern for his own personal safety, or momentarily poorly positioned upright welfare.

"And, as such, it's certainly not THEY again, who should be so carelessly pinned to the wall during any sort of ongoing 'Who's To Blame?' contest that others seem so, pardon my French AND Spanish, hell bent on starting up," continued Fauntleroy, with one eye (the lazy, semi-twitching one) on the crowd, and the other (the good one) on the gals in the corner playing keep away with a couple of fully-loaded live ammo clips. "Seriously, it's high time for everyone out there beyond our borders to start aiming the supposedly high-powered scope and dead-on sight of any and all of their future accusations in the direction of the most obvious special interest group that stands to gain the most from their continued association with guns and the outstanding array of other fine inter-locking firearm products currently available to the public during these sad and troubling times. Namely, the producers, manufacturers, and down-the-line distributors of ammunition, and all other tag-along participants within the bullet and/or outwardly launched projectile family."

Such news brought an immediate and lengthy, supportive "whoop-whoop" cheer from the crowd looking on. But, because someone unwisely also felt the need to yell, "Pull!", during this rising vocal crescendo, several more rounds suddenly whizzed past Fauntleroy, along with a random selection of debris that, although certainly less lethal in the long run, still had a way of putting someone's not-so-bold, anything-but-daring, never-in-a-million years adventurous, point across.

In other words, as luck, and a certain amount of heave-ho fate would have it, Fauntleroy soon found himself (melon head-wise) personally in the way of two crisscrossing, partially empty Sam Adams beer bottles. Thus, beginning what quickly became a somewhat lively, and altogether freewheeling, prelude to an otherwise, more or less, momentarily manageable melee. All of which, of course, immediately kicked into a higher gear once a direct shot from someone's snubnose .38 found its stealth-like way upside the forehead portion of the Ale & Quail Club cap Fauntleroy was then wearing to hold down his admirable, yet not exactly subtle, salt & pepper hairpiece.

Luckily, if not for the metal plate in Fauntleroy's head (a carefully installed souvenir by-product brought on by an unfortunate Little League accident which occurred while he was still just a could-never-hit-a-curve-ball youngster back in Tarrytown, NY) things could have probably been a whole lot worse.

As it was, due to his strong showing in the all important ricochet department, Fauntleroy had just enough steam left in his tank to give the assembled something more than just his unusually poor grooming habits to remember him by while he was abruptly wheeled upright, via a hand dolly through the concerned crowd, still dabbing the blood as it trickled from his wounded forehead, with both a bar towel and (Applause! Applause!) the hastily removed, formally tight-fitting New York Jets t-shirt, somewhat lovingly donated to his all of a sudden trauma drama cause by a quick-responding (and unmistakably braless) woman from Kearny, who - even though it wasn't clearly established yet if she was or wasn't the person most likely responsible for grazing Fauntleroy's somewhat sturdy cranium with a singular piece of ammunition of her own choosing, thereby forcing no one, for the moment anyway, to be in much of a hurry to accuse her of anything, except for maybe being ever-so decidedly, if not altogether stunningly, un-bashful - immediately took front and center position (much to the delight of the crowd) during the awkward transportation portion of Fauntleroy's stop and go journey to a soon-to-be-arriving Emergency Services Vehicle, as he, yes, blabbered on continuously, almost by rote, like all good soldiers would, or should, under similar accidental friendly fire circumstances.

"Believe me," Fauntleroy pleaded, suddenly a little more breathless than usual, "gun owners, particularly the ones we pride ourselves in steadfastly representing, and remain forever advocates of on a daily basis - for a small, yet generous fee, that, although not at this time tax deductible, still looks mighty good in your "Financial Friends Of" column, and, as such, generally insures that, if you're in the Tri-State area during the holidays, you're entitled to one complementary well-drink at the annual Christmas party at the Secaucus Doubletree, and/or validated parking for up to three hours during the traditional pre-Thanksgiving turkey shoot/down-vest & mesh hat swap meet in Buttzville, New Jersey - yes, those gun owners, and hopefully many more as the days, months and years try their best to add up, certainly know, when all is said and done, what they're doing. And, more importantly, what their role is in any future efforts to apply clear, fair, and, altogether unrestrained balance-like logic - so as to better maintain their rightful needs as reasonably responsible minded weapon practitioners - to what has been their uniquely accepted, fully endorsed, natural right all along. And because they do, and have repeatedly done so in the past, it's not up to them, and clearly not their burden to bear the brunt of any lasting negative effects brought on by any misguided, mean spirited, co-conspiratorial legislation that, by its own nature, is designed to continuously deny them that right, while, of course, ignoring the ongoing culpability of ammunition, as otherwise consistently supplied to them for further consumption, via a wide network of makers and distributors that remain forever linked as influential allies, whose collective agenda, when combined with similar minded attempts brought on by outside the boundary sources whose legitimacy remains forever in question, continually ignores any and all pre-existing precedents, while doing it's best to, as always, run even further roughshod, in an increasingly deceptive and totally reckless manner, over the commonly accepted rights and needs of legal citizens everywhere. Most of whom, by and large, and the larger the better, never asked for, nor even thought to request, such a restrictive level of interference-based protection in the first place. All of which, when taken as a hole, and/or, crawled into accordingly, ultimately reminds each and every one of them that their collective needs as gun owners, until further notice, are forever on the brink of not only being needlessly ignored, but, for the most part, forever on the verge of routinely being discounted beyond all human and rational belief. And thus, in the end, it is these citizens of our great nation who have developed a true and recognizable fear that their rights, and wishes thereof, might someday soon be - if others are allowed to continue in the manner they are pursuing - systematically and categorically denied, in the most obvious and blatantly irresponsible way imaginable! So help me, God!!"

Although everyone milling about at this point seemed relieved and eager to finally raise their glass to toast Fauntleroy as he was loaded into the paramedic unit, which would soon enough eventually speed him to St. Michaels Medical Center in Newark, few, if any, of the slow to disperse crowd thought much (or even heard, for that matter) any portion of his final, unrehearsed, "I believe I had a hat!" announcement to the waving troops. Primarily because by this point it was obvious that all eyes were now on Mrs. Howard "Hy" Cushman (or, Wendy, as she was known to many of her family and friends, of a less pronounced ooggling nature), in all her ample, uncovered, hang loose, proper postured, middle-age glory, as she re-joined her gal pals and got around to participating in what was left of their pre-lunch shootin' match. Needless to say, from this point on, all drinks and snacks for her and her pistol packin' compatriots, were fully comped, and/or otherwise taken care of, until further notice.

Of course, much of what indeed had been the inherent spirit of Fauntleroy's message was simultaneously then being echoed by what Sheba Montooth at Cold Dead Hands, Inc. was attempting to say in North Arlington, during the disjointed conclusion of her somewhat lurching wireless address to anyone not attempting to either be the sixth caller for some Bon Jovi tickets, still waiting on hold to place a bet on anything running today at Monmouth, or, already well into the poorly presented grammatical process of slowly tapping out their unnecessarily scathing, perpetually misspelled, message board review of "Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time."

But, because Ms. Montooth had, during the previous ten to twelve hours, somehow discovered a totally un-recommended way to consume nothing more structurally substantial than a truly amazing amount of martini soaked olives (rough estimate, twenty-six), plus, two Slim-Jims, a bag of candy corn, and one raw egg, much of what she had to say was made all the more unintelligible due to her constant coughing and seemingly unrelenting gagging. All of which was no doubt heavily influenced by the nagging-like, horrible sounding, repetitive re-arrival of her somewhat severely twisted recurring case of the dry heaves.

However, this much we do know about what was to be found (and heard) in the cut-to-the-chase wind-up of Montooth's slightly labored, vocal ordeal. At least according to what eventually went out on Twitter, from someone claiming to be Kevin "Rude Boy" Ruddy, an accomplished graphic artist who, through a rare, but legal, quirk in the Essex County political order of things, was recently named Mayor of Belleville, New Jersey, for no other reason than that he'd apparently paid off all his local parking tickets, and, it seems, laughed out loud (twice) during a special pre-release screening of "MacGruber."

"We, and by that I mean, us, here at Cold Dead Hands, INC., take pride in knowing that - by following a true and steady course, which carefully balances the otherwise implied, level playing field, of our carefully contrasted means of commerce, with the visionary wishes of the entire weaponry community, in the end, or at least, on the road to, if not, including, the actual end, unto itself - we're able to continue this forever renewable journey together, within a business as usual spirit that will forever bind us together for a bold and glorious future, that all good dreams are made of, especially when allowed to freely be funneled through so many already well established, commonly traded, America first companies, as is, and who - by the way, still employ tens of thousands of God-fearing, appropriate gender-loving, U.S. citizens from sea to shining sea (the Great Lakes, and St. Clair River included), despite the sometimes daily downward dip in out nation's current unreliable economy that, as far as we're concerned, will only survive this crisis if left unrestrained and outwardly encouraged to.......please, someone get me a towel!.......(It trails off here, but, it's certainly obvious where Ms. Montooth was going with such smooth and slippery sentiments. Although, just off the top of my head, the nearest women's restroom might not be a bad idea as a first-stop destination).

In related news, the makers of WammaBlammoAmmo followed much of this back and forth broadside (courtesy of the NRA and Cold Dead Hands, Inc.) with a clear and concise statement of their own, during an albeit brief news conference in the parking lot near the moat that surrounds their main headquarters office just north of Mingo Junction, Ohio.

According to company spokesman, Donald Alan Diem, Jr., the company line went like this, "Why single us out when it's so obviously the trigger's fault for causing the continuation of this never ending chain of sad but true events. Really, take our word for it. Or, look it up yourself. You make the call. We're just saying, what it is we're always just saying. Only more so."

Even though Diem's accusations failed to specify which "trigger," or, in any way, shape, or form, lay obvious pin-the-tail-on blame on any one particular gun, and/or excessively over-powering weapon, for that matter, his defensive pro-ammunition stance and throw-triggers-under-the-bus posturing did ruffle the equally fragile consciousness of (Surprise! Surprise!) Triggers"R"Us, the primary supplier of weaponry triggers throughout North, Central, and South America, plus several borderline regions dividing Serbia and Croatia.

Consequently, Triggers"R"Us President and CEO Dorsey Patterson had this to say while standing on a bushel of apples in front of his East China, Michigan trailer home, "Come on now, what the f*** is all this s*** now? Triggers are harmless and we all know it. Unless, of course, you got yourself an itchy enough finger right there, just waiting to pull things back, while you pray like hell that you're in the best possible position to set the record straight."

"Hey, and well speaking of needing to pray, or maybe just thinking about trying to, after you already said you did," Patterson suddenly added in a thought provoking manner that quickly proved he was suddenly well on his way to mapping things out in a direction nobody seemed to want to head to without either a high amount of religious-based caution, and/or some high grade sun screen for who knows what kind of glaring overheated conditions might eventually present themselves. "I mean, ff we keep taking this thing any further, you know, it's only going to wind up coming back to being the fault of the manufacturer. That is, the ultimate one. The up there, you know who one. And, shoot, once we start riding off in that there direction, playing the blame game, and, well, taking that there THE name in the final throw-the-book-at-it vain, well, don't look at me. Just thank me for warning ya, and make sure no one hits my new truck I got parked out there by the road, on their way back to town. Hopefully before all them frogs and all that other crazy a** s*** starts falling down from here to, hell, kingdom come, I guess. As in like, thy will be done. Especially his, or, s***, I hope not hers."

Meanwhile, in an even more remotely related story, unwinding accordingly across town at Newark International Airport, one of two unidentified guys - who apparently were all though visiting these parts to take care of an undisclosed assignment that was improperly passed on to them by two now equally unidentified (due, in no small part, to the about the Tri-State area scattering of their diced-up remains) local fellas, who, as it turned out, were under the mistaken impression that VIP tickets to one of the recent Yankees-Mets Inter-League games were more important than what was previously requested of their otherwise counted on, and usually, dependable, available on-call evening/early morning time services, so to speak - when asked to comment on recent events pertaining to the role of guns, ammunition, and the shooters who use them, had this to say, as he and his sleepy-eyed associate were preparing to pre-board a US Airways flight back to Detroit, "I can't speak for Tone, here, but since we both likes to use either piano wire, or a nice, good, big a**, easy to motherf*****' plunge knife, or, if we're in a hurry, hell, any worthwhile shiv around the shop will do, all that horse**** gun play stuff ain't been much of a problem for neither of us, you understand what I'm sayin'?"

Ah, yeah........I think we's do.

In other words, have a nice flight. And, as always, thanks for flying and trying to make even any kind of sense out of so much fun on the run in this land of never setting son of a guns, and, of course, all the other people here to there and all the way back with enough still right to be just barely aware left arms to keep thinking they need to hold on to them. Or, something like that.

Huh?

Exactly.

Make John Peurach's day - give this story five thumbs-up (there's no need to register, the thumbs are just down there!)

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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