Or in this case, a grandson. In an attempt to dilute and disperse my fanatical, homicidal, antisocial obsession with possessing dangerous weapons, he has already given me a
Sacrificial Stone Dagger
We’ll call it a Scottish letter opener.
The United States has recently endured several domestic terrorism attacks, where assault-type weapons have been used to murder numbers of people. In an attempt to look like they’re doing something – anything – more of the wrong thing, and solving someone else’s problem, the Canadian Federal Government has passed legislation that further tightens gun-control laws that are already some of the most restrictive in the world. At least temporarily, the purchase, sale, or transfer of legally-owned handguns has been suspended.
Unlike Hercules, the grandson cannot cut the Gordian Knot of bureaucracy, and present me with a Government-authorized pistol. Ingenious little devil he, he has found a way to tap-dance past the restrictions. It is legally permitted to hire the services of a licensed gun-shop/shooting range owner, who will provide supervision and safety instruction, and temporarily lend and allow me to fire, five of my favorite handguns.
A sixth, my more favorite, the Berretta Model 92, is not included in the offering. I plan to (reluctantly) ask if it is possible to substitute it for one on their menu. Being Canadian, I have only fired two hand-guns in my life – a Police .38 Special, and a .32 caliber Spanish officer’s semi-automatic, a darling little thing with shiny stainless steel, and mother-of-pearl handles, suitable as a lady’s purse gun, or in the don’t ask – don’t tell brigade.
I received this I Am Impossible To Shop For package as a Fathers’ Day present. The grandson and I, and the range owner, will negotiate a mutually acceptable Saturday, probably near my birthday in late September. This is the most useless, but at the same time, the most treasured bucket list present that I have ever received.
I’m sure that some, make us feel safe at any cost, even if we’re not, Chicken Littles will want to know why I want to fire these dangerous guns. As Willy Sutton said, when they asked him why he robbed banks – that’s where the money is. Or George Mallory (not Edmund Hillary), when asked why he climbed Mount Everest – because it’s there! I feel no need to justify this adventure but, that’s where the enjoyment is, and, because I can.
I will employ my hundreds of hours of gun safety training to ensure that I don’t shoot myself or anyone else. With my worsening essential tremor, I won’t reveal target scores. It will be enough just to keep flying lead between the range walls. I will report later on this guys’ escapade. You’ll know me by my goofy smile.