Do You Feel Lucky, Punk? Huh, Do You?

’m anti gun. Not for you—-for me. I don’t care who else owns a gun. I assume all the retards, rejects, and reprobates already have one. I assume I’m walking among the armed.

But I put myself on the DO NOT EMPISTOLATE list years ago. I’m too likely be looking for a hammer and settle for a .357 magnum. I still get a kick out of guns, no doubt. With adult supervision, I can shoot.

This summer I helped my father-in-law site a scope. We chugged up the mountain to his private hunting reserve, laid a gorgeous 30-06 across the sighting table and started peeling off high velocity brass jacketed hell-yeahs one after the other.

Meanwhile, a gunfight was brewing in my sister’s basement. She was throwing a party for my nephew and though I knew my son was attending, I didn’t know it was a gun-centric occasion.

The guns in question were a kind of sub-paintball-weapon maximized for safety by firing a soft, resilient pellet that is best described as ‘nerfish’. Shoot somebody from more than a couple feet away and they barely feel a pinch. Closer up and it’s just a wicked sting. Point blank? We’ll get to that.

So we’re all at part a) of the soirée. We’re playing laser tag (did I mention I’m from Alabama? We’d stir our grits with a gun if it didn't rust) and on the way home, my sister—with a van filled to the eaves with 11 year old boys bristling to shoot something and chattering non-stop about barrels and ammo and calibers and my son, my cute little geek son, is practically drooling—she stops at a regional sports store (ammunition dump) so some of the kids can get more nerf-pellets and her son gets a new gun and my son, wiping the drool off his face, knowing full well my position about firearms, he gives me the sad kitten appeal and just pleeeeeads with me. He is relentless. Ardent. Driven. Finally he hits me with the heavy artillery. He says “You were out shooting guns today!” Crap.

I pride myself on parenting with logic and clarity (and threats of maiming and punitive deletion of cherished electronics) so when he points out the obvious I know he’s got me. I buy him the gun.

On one condition.

I get to shoot him.

“But dad! That will HURT!”

“You’re right. It’s dangerous.” I start to put it back on the shelf. The rest of the assassins are watching carefully because if Roon gets a gun that means he gets to play and THAT means he’s a target and they know he's a little slow on his feet. Roon considers his options and agrees.

So we get back to Dodge City Basement and I line the boys up gauntlet style. Roon runs upstairs and puts on three thick t-shirts. I get my older nephew to play a military dirge-march on the drums, pin Connor to the wall and ceremoniously walk back to my place, point, aim, ask him if he has any last words, then shoot the little bastard in the solar plexus.

He didn’t even feel it.

So later. Two of the gunfighters come upstairs and ask that Connor be ejected from the OK corral. Seems he can’t really tell the difference between STOP SHOOTING, PLEASE STOP SHOOTING, OW OW OW DAMMIT STOP! and OK, START SHOOTING AGAIN and the rest of the boys are about to take away his gun by pulling it through his ass. So I go downstairs and, as I’m standing there, Connor puts his finger over the open barrel and pulls the trigger. There is a distinct, surprisingly loud SNAP and Connor looks at me with a big shit-eating grin on his face. For like one second.

Did you ever see the Grinch That Stole Christmas? Remember when his sourpuss morphs slowly into a beatific smile? Imagine that in reverse. Connor’s grin slides backwards into a howl of pain and he THROWS HIS GUN down and runs upstairs.

He was ok later, even laughed about it. But the gun? Well, let’s just say he’s on the same list I am and the gun is safely out of reach.