I have grandchildren. This, in and of itself is not unusual, but if you are a grandparent you understand that grandparenting is an art and a science. I raised four boys. One, Bobby, who passed away before he was thirty from a heart attack, Michael, who couldn’t remain in the Marines due to an ear injury, but became a fine police officer, Wilbur, who ran away to the Navy and they are trying to come up with a new rank so they can promote him yet again, and, of course, we have Timmy the CrackHead, who crashed and burned at an early age, but every family has one, and he is ours. That doesn’t mean we don’t have him over for Thanksgiving, but it does mean we watch the silver while he’s here. Now, where am I going with this? Oh yeah, kids!
I can’t remember ever worrying about what my boys were playing with while they were growing up. Even in high school they would regularly do such inventive things such as steal my Cable Van, go to parties, get drunk, bring home girls, have them gone, and the van gassed up before I got up in the morning. Hey, it’s Texas and CPS can kiss my redneck ass! When they were pre-teen they played in the yard. They threw footballs, hit each other with sticks and rocks, and yes, played with toy guns. I had black powder pistols, and on the fourth of July Wilbur even used the raw black powder for fireworks in the back hard. Not ONE of my boys were ever shot by Deputy Dawg, our local police, for waving a plastic gun around not matter HOW real it looked! Neither Michael or Wilbur has ever killed a child and between the two of them they have killed enough Arabs to fill a Mosque!
All these boys, except Bobby, cloned themselves, and five of these creatures still grace my life directly. I have others but they live far away and they grew up. It is a reality check when the little girl you remember playing with dolls is the WOMAN who picks you up at LAX! If you have five grandchildren, all seven and under, and they are playing in the yard you have to WATCH! And I do mean WATCH! We’re not talking about, “Now children, play nice,” we’re talking about, “Put the stick DOWN! Step AWAY from the stick!” We don’t have toy guns here, not because I’m a bleeding heart liberal with ED, who doesn’t know what gender I am, but because I simply never bought any. However, that having been said, we have REAL guns!
In my younger days I preferred revolvers. Just by chance I purchased an Interarms .45. My friend, Ted had a Colt 1911, and he was always upgrading. Every time he switched out a part to his Colt he gave me the original part, and if you know anything about guns then you know these parts were interchangeable with my Interarms pistol, so in a reasonable time I basically had a Colt! One piece at a time, and it didn’t cost me a dime. Very stiff slide, I NEVER lock and load, and guess what? Not ONE of my children or many grandchildren has ever killed any of their siblings. Not one. Not even one incident of a child picking up a gun and playing with it. My grandchildren believe my guns are for shooting monsters in the closet.
I had an incident recently where some idiot called and announced to me that he was coming over to collect a debt connected with CrackHead Tim, and he was bringing not one, but TWO pistols. When he arrived I met him in the driveway, and brothers and sisters, I DID have two pistols, but guess what? I didn’t kill him. Wow! Why? Because when this drunk fool got out of his car, even in the dark, I quickly saw that he was not armed! You don’t kill an unarmed man, and you CERTAINLY don’t kill a little boy with a plastic gun!
This is called being a man. Since a large portion of our police are NOT men, but paranoid little girls we get incidents like the one in Cleveland this weekend. Now I’m going to get rude! If you are so skiddish that you can’t identify a cap gun, in a child’s hand, in broad daylight then you need to get another job! Maybe Librarian, or something like that. There is something called the “militarization” of the police, but that is a misnomer. Soldiers don’t act like that! Police who THINK they are soldiers act like that. Even in Iraq, where militants WILL arm a child with a bomb, soldiers act with RESTRAINT when confronted by a child. Do you know why when a cop wears body armor the face visor is not bullet proof? Because if you shoot through it you won’t hit anything vital, that’s why!
Now let’s turn our attention to the libtard who made the 911 call. Even if I could understand Barney Fife’s actions, being fresh on the scene, I cannot understand the liberal mind. The anti-gun element has so flooded the mainstream media with paranoia over guns that anytime even the THOUGHT of a gun comes on the scene people go into spasm. Ok, you look through your kitchen window at yon playground, and you see children frolicking among the glen, playing. There is one little boy (and MOST twelve year olds are quite small) who appears to have something in his hand. He is waving it around, pointing it, but it does not appear to be making a “pop pop” sound, so what do you do? Do you go and get a closer look? Why NO! You get on the emergency services phone line and start screaming, “GUN,” until you get a paranoid, schizophrenic on the scene, wired, with a REAL gun! I don’t have to tell you the rest. They’re “probing” the incident. I’d like to “probe” whoever made that 911 call!
Am I the only one outraged by this? And I don’t want to hear anything about “You weren’t there,” or “His training kicked in,” or “The gun looked real!” I’m going to shock you, but had I been there I would have shot that cop! That’s what you do to crazy men who kill KIDS! Then, they could probe THAT! It’s not the gun owners who endanger this country. It is the people who will not face reality and their subsequent irrational actions put us all in jeopardy.
My heart goes out to the parents of the little boy. There are some things in this world that you are not meant to survive. This is one of them. If one of my grandchildren were killed by a cop for waving a toy gun in a play ground, after I killed the cop, my life would be over. The grief would consume me. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’ve wiped my eyes several times while writing this article, thinking about what that family must be going through. In that family there will never be closure. There will never be understanding. There will only be the immense black hole in their hearts and they ask again, and again, “Why . . .WHY?”