A Funny thing happened on the way to the gun-shop..

Not for nothing, but I'm beginning to think that I was a sniper in a past life - lifelong examples of exemplary marksmanship letting me know that I could kill a wack blogger at 200 meters out if I had to. From amazing my father in the sticky Sumter South Carolina heat by me picking off tin cans one by one with his handgun as if I was conceived while my parents watched a Charles Bronson movie marathon mid-coitus, the many shooter-style arcade games that I've been drawn to and tend to excel at over the past two decades - or a few years ago when I went to this mock boot camp where they actually had us shooting real weapons at targets which resulted in the drill sergeant screaming something in my ear like "God-dammit Bob Marley, that's one hell of a shot son!! If you ever decide to cut the hair and put down the wacky tobaccy, you;d be a fine addition to Uncle Sam's Army!" Not only that but I don't particularly have a guilty conscience, sure I'd feel guilt ridden if I ever took someones life accidentally - but I would have no problem whatsoever sending a man on a red-eye flight to hell in the name of self defense, using the pictures that I took at his funeral as my PC's screen-saver. But the only thing stopping me from being a murder-for-hire professional, besides the whole incarceration thing where I might find my prostate being rhythmically pounded like a speed-bag resulting in me later holding the pocket of an ironically named inmate named "Tiny" as a sign of ownership - is the fact that I'd refuse to kill women or children, and the only men I'd kill would have to be the absolute scum of the earth. Plus, I'm extremely lazy man, jobs that are supposed to be a stealth kill where I take the target out from two buildings away would be done up close and personal. Dispatching the target as soon as he opened his hotel room door - only to feast on the gentleman's room service while watching "The View", feet up as that poor bastards blood makes a small lake around his lifeless body.

But hey, that's in a past life - this particular life that I'm leading now, one where fits of rage are the theme of my life to the point that I'm certain chapters of my autobiography would be titled things like "Bar Brawl" and "Malicious Wounding" - I've made it my business to stay as far away as possible from firearms. I always knew that an unregistered weapon and my temper would elevate bar altercations into bar executions, innocent arguments with the man at the cell phone place over a bill discrepancy would turn into me flashing a shiny pistol lodged between my belt and my gut - me saying something like "What were you saying about those roaming charges again?" Fits of road rage where I threaten to pummel a redneck to death would be replaced with me shooting out his tires, and as his car is disabled on the side of the road I'd angrily scream while exposing my handgun, "Cut me off again Jethro, and you won't hear the next one!!"

I have to say, I thought about all of those examples that I just gave you on the way to the gun-shop and as I sat in the parking lot of said establishment - me slowly realizing that I was kidding myself thinking that I was more responsible now that I'm 33, the last thing in the world that I need is a gun in my chubby palms - hands rougher that the Zapruder film from constant masturbation and a shitload of fistfights by the way. Sure I'm not as confrontational as I once was and more times than not cooler heads do prevail as of late, but that has nothing to do with maturity - its akin to that aging basketball player that suddenly depends on fade-away shots to the basket, he'd dunk it on your silly ass if he still had the ability to do so. As I pulled out of the gun-shop parking lot, looking as the sign became less visible in my rear view mirror - I thought about all the lives that were just saved - everyone from Lil Wayne fans, black republicans, cell phone wielding motorists, women who don't reciprocate oral. But most of all I saved my prostate from being beaten on like a pinata in a maximum security institution, having my rectum turned into a very roomy crawlspace isn't exactly my idea of a good time.