Posted on 07/15/2012 6:20:51 AM PDT by marktwain
I am not allowed to have a gun.
And that’s the truth. Literally, not allowed. My wife won’t let me have a gun. Not sure I want a gun, but it doesn’t matter. Not allowed. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d sooner be granted my lifelong wish to frolic in a chocolate pudding bath with Jennifer Love Hewitt before my lovely wife would let me wrap my hands around a Glock Magnum 747.
I don’t know much about guns. But I do know there’s a part of me that wants one. Not because I want to shoot it, or because I’m clinging to the second amendment (which was written when it took 15 seconds or so to reload a musket), or because I’m some gun collector who wants to own every gun ever produced.
Nope, I kinda-sorta want a gun so that if someone ever puts me or my family at risk, I can shoot them dead.
That said, even if my wife said I was allowed to own one, I still don’t know if I’d get one. Without sounding too much like a pansy, the fact remains: Guns are scary.
But I have been thinking about it lately, especially after I found out a childhood friend of mine recently become a gun owner. He has it for the same reason I would want one: To protect his family.
And while for a majority of readers out there, a friend owning a gun isn’t cause to write a column about it, trust me: Where I come from, with my background, it’s the equivalent of a lifelong NRA member deciding to purchase a nuclear weapon for protection.
At the risk of stereotyping myself and a few thousand years of one of the world’s major religions, American Jews from middle to upper middle class backgrounds don’t normally grow up with guns.
An example of the anti-gun life I grew up in: The same high school friend of mine, along with a dozen or so other buddies, decided to engage in plastic pellet gun war during our junior year in high school. This went on for weeks, at malls, at school, sneak attacks at home, wherever. It was fun. But know this: when shot with these — even at point blank range right into an unblinking eye — the risk of injury was about the same as having a wayward molecule of oxygen go up your nose.
Yet despite the non-threatening nature of these devices, we managed to upset all of our mothers with our gunplay, including one mom who was convinced we were (very literally) sniffing glue when sitting at her kitchen table decorating our faux-weapons. Yes that’s right. Decorating them. Personalizing them, really. (This little anecdote really tells you all you need to know about me, guns, my youth and Jewish mothers of a certain generation.)
Hey, that's my fantasy.
Get out of my brain!
Wifey & I do the archery range - taps into her inner “Geena Davis” - kick butt & bake cookies.
Shoot, that’s nothing. I just bought me one of those double barrel pump shotguns like Moe on the Simpsons has. I really wasn’t expecting that much recoil though. (^;
My wife won’t let me have one of those either. But she does let me shoot her .45. :-)
At the age of 7 had my own little 20 lb bow. Loved it. Had archery in HS. Loved it then too. Cant even imagine schools having archery today, do they? Boy this is bringing back memories. :-)
I thought the same thing. It sounds like someone unfamiliar with firearm lingo stringing together a bunch of terms.
Jeff’s approach is like telling her “I want a set of gold clubs” without having played the game.
First, he needs to tell her “I want to try some target shooting” instead. He could then painlessly build range time using borrowed or rented weapons. After a while, asking for purchase of a gun would be seen as a natural outcome of the range time.
My wife is (thankfully) the opposite of the author’s. Once, I was contemplating the purchase of a dedicated gun safe and for whatever reason, she was trying to talk me out of it. At one point I laughed, saying, shouldn’t we be having this conversation in reverse?
Awesome response.
Sorry, folks: that was supposed to be “golf clubs.”
Jeff needs to grow a pair and be a man instead of a sissified metrosexual. No way in hell I would permit my wife to dictate anything to me.
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