Me and the NRA
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we shoot (off our mouths) and ask questions later. Bang bang! What the f***?
Sometimes I wonder what kind of profiling is being done on me out there in the great beyond. When your name's Anne Johnson, just about anything can come for you in the mail.
Last week it was an invitation to join the National Rifle Association.
They sent me a membership card with a bald eagle on it, and a questionnaire to fill out, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to mail back my membership payment in.
I kept the card for the moment. After I scrape the cat box with it, I'll send it back to them.
As for those membership dues, well, gosh. I think I'll join the ACLU instead. Sorry, NRA. But you can have your questionnaire back, in your handy prepaid envelope.
I've written about gun ownership before, and I know some of my readers own guns. And I say, you go. The Constitution, as currently interpreted, gives you the right.
As for me and my house, nope. No guns. Our only protection here is Decibel the Parrot. He's pretty formidable, I must say. His motto is "Fingers: The Other White Meat."
You know why I don't own a gun? Because I believe in production for use. If I had a gun, I would shoot something with it.
Isn't it nice that I'm self-aware enough to keep clear of such temptation?
Here's a "for instance":
Bringing daughter The Spare home from a visit to Granny in Baltimore. Heavy traffic on I-95, slowed to a rolling backup. Some shit-eatin' creep in a black Honda cuts us off so blatantly that I gasp and throw my hands over my eyes. Then, the minute our lane is slower than the one next to ours, he jumps back into the other lane again. He's a well-groomed white guy about 60 years old, talking on a cell phone while driving so recklessly you just gotta wonder how he lived to have gray hair.
Then our lane speeds up a little, and we pass him. For a moment I am staring straight at his profile, which has "K Street Lobbyist" written all over it.
If I am packing heat at that moment, a dude is wasted. Toast.
So I don't pack heat.
As for self-protection, well, if I can't brandish my parrot, I guess I'm shit outta luck. I'll take that chance. Because this is one Anne Johnson who could never be trusted with an active firearm. I should know. I live with her.
Labels: gun control