Guns Don’t Kill People, Relatives Kill People

The very people who don’t see the need for long distance telephone service, do not own a computer, and who only recently got only a pre-paid cell phone, are now proud owners of a .38 mm handgun that they evidently tote all over God’s creation in their glove compartment.

Great.

And my mother, again, cannot help herself. She is too proud of her new status as a gun owner to be remotely concerned about the impression she’s left on my children whose mouths are agape in amazement.

I’d followed the ill-fated string of stories and read between the lines and knew what was in the glove compartment was NOT a special pair of Armani leather gloves.

Couldn’t she have exercised a little judgment and said it was “important papers?”

As in:

“We weren’t comfortable leaving home for so long and driving 9 hours without our important papers. We just feel better having our important papers with us. In case we need them. We know it’s risky carrying around our important papers, but we feel the benefits outweigh the risk and we’d rather have our important papers on hand if there is a problem.”

No. They are so proud of themselves. They are so smart and Fox News has informed them so well that when the s-h-i-t hits the fan, they’ll be prepared. They won’t be victims. No, they are far too smart for that. Pity the fool who tries to victimize them in their home when the looting and mayhem begins.

That little sense of superiority in her mind far outweighs the damage I’ll have to try to undo when my kids go home to their father with horrifying stories about drunken follies and loaded guns courtesy of their grandparents.

I smell a restraining order.

Bill, sensing this topic has a de facto seal of approval since my mother has yammered on and on about it, goes on to tell my overly interested son that the gun is loaded with bird shot, and proceeds to tell him in extensive detail exactly what various effects bird shot would have on which targets – animal, vegetable or mineral – at what distances. Norman Rockwell on acid.

And while he does that and my daughter grimaces in anticipation of her father’s reaction when her brother repeats all the tall tales, I unobtrusively excuse myself from the table, take their car keys from the hook by the door, lock their car remotely, and hide the keys. In a coffee canister which holds the Hazelnut Roast they will not go looking for.

Drunk driving and gun demonstrations, for now, avoided.