By Doug Giles
I don’t know about you, but I carry a gun everywhere I go. I know it sounds a wee bit paranoid, but when going to watch a movie during the dog days of summer potentially puts me at risk of getting shot by some Motel 6 drifter with a Paul Bunyan-sized ax to grind, then call me crazy but … I’m packing heat so numb-nuts can’t send me to an early meet-n-greet with Jesus. Either that or I’m just going to keep it parked at my house and watch Netflix. With a gun.
Yep, thanks to whiny and violent dipsticks no place is safe in the United States Of Acrimony. Seemingly, there’s no lack of Housers, Holmes or Michael Browns in our land who’ll go from zero to Mad Max on your noggin for looking at them weird or because “the voices” told them to do so. Ergo … I’m packing.
Indeed, places that were pretty much a given a few years ago, that you could go to without fear of having a 125 grain hollow point coursing through your lung tissue, are now potential killing fields.
For instance, church: you can’t even go to church any more without keeping one eye open during the worship service because Jedediah’s now leering at you after you crapped on his interpretation of Daniel’s 70th week during prophecy class. It’s a madhouse folks. A frickin’ madhouse. So … I’m packing.
Check this out. A couple of years ago, when I lived in South Florida, I went out to run some errands one sunny morning and had to fill up my FJ Cruiser; and per my ritual, I brought my little friend, Mr. Smith & Wesson, along for the ride.
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