I wrote this after Newtown... so fucking yesterday I know, but I live in Connecticut and it's a small place
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after Aurora, after Portland... (isn't that just 'so yesterday') I hear a lot of talk about how if only some of those people were armed they could have shot back and prevented all those deaths. As if somehow 16 or 40 cowboys draggin' out their shooting irons and blastin' away in a darkened theater or packed pre-holiday mall is just what we're missing here. Yup. That's how you solve the problem of violence... more extreme violence. Don't ever try to head it off... just up the ante. On the other hand, once your 40 cowboys manage to shuck out their favorite combination graven image/penis extension, who exactly will they shoot at? The guy with the gun? There are now 40 other guys with guns. Great fuckin' plan. Where's my Bushmaster?
I happened to stop into the local sandwich shop as the news was filtering out. I suggested that perhaps those kids should have been packing heat. No... but many of the locals felt that the teachers should have been armed. Yup. That's where I live.
Random thought: The mom who owned all those weapons bought them for self-defense. Good plan ya silly bitch. . I'm sure your friends and neighbors understand. Not your fault. Someone else would have probably shot those kids if it weren't your little well-armed psychopath. Can't blame the guns or the supplier. (Guns don't kill. People do. Unless we can tie the guns to Eric Holder. Let's hang that bastard. Right?)
And you know what? F*ck those kids... those shoppers... those students... those guys loading beer trucks... those people eating at McDonalds. Shit happens. What's really important is the profit margin on Sig Sauer nines and Bushmasters. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm sure that the NRA and their cowering supplicants on Capitol Hill can tell you.
If there's one inescapable truth in all this, then it's this one. We are living like this because we insist on it.
Merry Christmas.
Quote:
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...
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
Carl Sandburg
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