Written by evan keliher

Thursday, 18 February 2010

image for Grandpa Ganja On Guys and Guns

I decided the other day to buy a gun. I mean, from what I hear just about everyone else has a gun so I should have one, too.

While I don't know anything about guns--I'm a registered pacifist--I knew I'd find something about 'em in the phone book and I was right. I learned we have enough gun shops in the area to outfit both sides in another Middle East war and I repaired to the one nearest my home.

"I'd like to see something in a nice gun," I told the man lounging behind the counter,
"something stylish and not too unwieldy."

"Sure thing," he said, hooking his thumbs in his cartridge belt. "We have guns for every purpose and to fit any pocketbook. What did you want the gun for?"

"Well," I said, somewhat taken aback, "to shoot people, I guess. What else are guns for?"

"Oh, you want a gun for protection then?"

"Yes, that's right, a gun for protection."

"Okay, now we're gettin' somewhere," he said. "Here's a nice little number that's very popular, a .38 special revolver with a silver racing stripe and good stopping power."

"Stopping power?"

"Sure," he beamed at me. "When this baby hits a guy it'll stop him cold. You do want to stop him cold, don't you?"

"Of course," I said, not sure what that meant. What I'd really hoped for was a gun that would stop a guy dead, but maybe cold would do as well.

"Then this is the gun for you," he said. "And it's on sale, too. Only four-fifty."

"Okay, I'll take it," I said, reaching for my wallet.

"Now, how about your back-up?"

"My what?"

"Back-up. You need a back-up gun in case somebody gets away with your main piece. Here, this one is a dandy. See, it's small and can easily be hidden in your sock like this. Now, suppose somebody gets the drop on you and takes your .38 away. Okay, as soon as they look away you bend down and come up with your back-up gun and bam! you stop 'em cold."

He beamed at me again, obviously pleased with his scheme, and I must admit I was impressed.

"Say," I said, "that is clever. I'll take the little one, too."

"Good. That's two-fifty more. And you'll want a shotgun for your home, too."

"I will?"

"Of course. Everybody knows the best weapon for the home is a shotgun. Why, hell, you can't miss with one of these babies. I sold a 16 gauge shotgun to a seventy-eight year old lady and she cleaned a whole nest of burglars out of her attic the first week she had it. Here, take a look at this double-barrel with a modified choke, it's just the thing for winging burglars."

I took the gun and swept it around the room while drilling imaginary crooks on the fly and had to admit it had a nice heft to it. What the hell, I thought, if you're doing something, do it right.

"Okay, I'll take it," I said.

After picking up several hundred rounds of bullets and a case of shotgun shells, a gun cleaning kit, a couple of holsters, and a .30 caliber deer rifle with a 'scope for picking off burglars at long range, the owner genially invited me down into the basement to see his gun range.

Opening the door, we were greeted by a steady staccato of gunfire which filled the air and reverberated around the room while acrid clouds of burned gunpowder gathered in the atmosphere. It was a scene to warm the heart of the most dedicated National Rifle Ass'n. member and fledgling psychotic, but I judged I'd do as well without all the noise that was assailing my ears.

I joined a bunch of guys on the firing line and observed that they all wore small American flag patches and tattoos on their forearms saying things like Death Before Dishonor and Mother. I spent the next several hours test-firing my guns, practicing hand grenade throwing, and learning the intricacies of bayonet fighting. By the time I left the place I knew I was ready to repel a full-scale invasion by Attila the Hun.

I loaded all my armament into my car and took everything home and that very night some footpads broke in and made off with my entire arsenal.

So much for putting your faith in guns. I'm currently investigating a plan to saturate my lawn with land mines and booby trap every door and window in my house with dynamite. Let's see the bastards cope with that!

©Evan Keliher

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

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