It all started last week when a co-worker purchased a gun. In and of itself that isn't a big deal, or so I thought. That was until she came into the office and started telling everyone about her big purchase. It wasn't long until many of the women were huddled together talking about ammunition, weight balance and how many shots the gun held. "If I can't hit what I'm aiming at with seven shots I might as well shoot myself," was one comment.
Then the proud gun owner described her target shooting, which was a man drawn on a big sheet of paper giving the finger and mouthing expletives. All of a sudden I didn't feel so safe sitting in the office. Especially with a group of women sitting around talking about what type of guns they wanted. One said she wanted an Uzi. This is the same woman who got her arm stuck in her car trying to unlock it after she locked her keys inside. Just the person who would need an Uzi.
I've never been a big believer in gun control. My theory has always been if you want to own a gun it is your right, unless it impacts me. That means everyone else can have a gun but I don't want one in my house, which is where this epidemic can be dangerous.
While I don't care if Ms. Itchytriggerfinger and the Wild Bunch get guns, ever since I have known my wife she has wanted a gun. She says it would make her feel safer but it sure wouldn't make me feel safe. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I would ever get a good night's sleep again as I cower in the corner at gunpoint. My wife says not everything is about me, but when I'm lying in the floor, gut-shot, you'd better believe it's about me.
We have a BB gun that I even try to hide from my wife. And if she would happen to find it, I don't keep it loaded. I figure that gives me an extra 10 minutes to get away before she can load the gun and fire.
Unfortunately, a real gun doesn't have tiny little BBs that are hard to grab on to but bigger bullets complete with gun powder that are much easier to load. And they don't leave little welts when they hit you, but big holes which causes you to leak out vital red fluid.
I can imagine it now. I come home and there is my wife sitting in the dining room with gun in hand. "What have you got to say now about my Victoria's Secret bill?" Bang! Dead columnist. It wouldn't be pretty, for me anyway.
But now with co-workers getting guns I am now once again confronted with the "Can I have a gun?" question. It isn't that I don't want to come home and see my wife taking target practice with my picture that hangs on the wall, because I think she already throws darts at it, but I worry about the neighborhood. There could be collateral damage as she shoots at me running down the street.
Not to mention I would be much more involved with the household chores. I can see her smiling saying "Sweetie, I need you to put up the laundry, mow the grass and do the dishes," all while she cocks the gun and points it at vital parts of my anatomy. She would be the type to buy a hip holster to so the gun would be with her at all times. Take her parking spot at Wal-Mart and you're likely to be another notch on her belt.
With that said, maybe I should let her have a gun. Nobody would ever dare break in our house or even knock on the door. No more visitors ever. Of course, that might make it tough for the ambulance to come pick me up when she is finished with me. Oh well, unless they start selling guns at Victoria's Secret I think I'm safe. For now.