It's only a matter of time.
I was once a meat inspector in a sausage factory.
Figuratively speaking, that is.
Literally speaking, I was a commissioner who, along with six others, oversaw the production of laws in the State of Michigan.
When the "sausage makers" wanted to include an "inferior ingredient", they'd first try to simply put it in with the list of ingredients, and we'd of course say no, you can't do that. After a few tries -- and failures -- they'd wait a while, and then quietly slip it in without telling anyone.
That's not "literally" factual, because they did "disclose" it, after a fashion. They'd bury it in a stack of nonsense regs a half-inch thick, that they knew would receive "block approval" (i.e., the length of the gooseneck faucet in the janitor's closet. That's an actual reg, by the way).
Then, a few months later, when they'd casually mention how they'd implemented it, we'd perk up and say huh? We vetoed that request several times! They'd say yeah, you did, but then you approved it. See? Here it is, buried in this block of gobbledegook.
That's how the game is played, sadly.
They'll "only" approve a "study" now, and then perhaps they'll "only" prohibit "bad" ammunition. Then, a year or so later, buried in a six-inch thick bill that no one will read before voting for, they'll slip in a single line.
Gotcha!
It's really amazing the kind of mileage you can get out of a mere 900 FBI Files.
I'll pawn you my watch
And I'll pawn you my chain;
Pawn you my gold diamond ring.
If this train runs me right
I'll be home tomorrow night.
I'm nine hundred files from my home.
And I hate to hear that lonesome whistle blow.
Apologies to Woodie Guthrie.
And for bonus points, apologies to Peter, Paul, and Mary:
Lord Im one, lord Im two, lord Im three, lord Im four, Lord Im 900 files from my home. 900 files, 900 files, 900 files, 900 files Lord Im nine hundred files from my home.