For as long as I can remember, our Second Amendment right to own firearms has been under attack. Opponents say having guns creates added dangers, that they hurt more than they help. But what these liberal do-gooders never seem to care about are the innocent families taken hostage and murdered inside their very own homes. Or the women who are attacked while walking back to their cars late at night. Or even the men, in their early 60s, for whom life was going just fine until one day their wife decided that she wanted a divorce.
As Americans, it's our moral duty to protect our loved ones from the scum and filth of this world. And, by God, if those loved ones leave us because we drink too much or refuse to go to couples therapy, then we should also be able to feel the cold steel of a .45 caliber pistol between our trembling lips.
Our founding fathers realized this when they drew up the Constitution. They recognized the right for every man to bear arms against his aggressor. And, if that aggressor was not so much a physical entity as a devastating feeling of loneliness, the right of every man to cash in his chips and call it quits.
People in this great country of ours should never have to live in fear—or live at all, once all hope of happiness has passed them by, and the thought of unloading a round into his worthless skull seems strangely comforting.
To the Hillary Clintons and Rosie O'Donnells of this world, I only have one thing to say: If you want to take our guns away from us, then you're going to have to pry them from our cold, dead hands. Most likely in our basements, near the woodpile. Or in the bathroom.
We refuse to let some left-wing numbnut in Washington, someone who has never had his truck jacked or spent an entire morning guzzling whiskey and staring at old photos of himself back when the future seemed bright, decide what's best for us. This is America, people, not France or some other godforsaken country where weapon ownership is limited or banned, and citizens are routinely denied the right to the quick, painless death that only a semi-automatic can bring.
You’ll have to excuse me for not wanting to take any chances with my own life. For choosing not to have to depend on my local police department, or an entire bottle of sleeping pills, to bail me out of a tough situation. I just happen to believe that sometimes the only person you can really rely on is yourself. And when the time comes to make a life or death decision, it's comforting to know that you can always pull the trigger on that long barreled rifle with your toe.
So go ahead and call me a "right-wing extremist," a "radical gun nut," a "man who used to routinely forget his daughter's birthday, and who now, alone in the home he once shared with his family, spends every waking moment thinking about leaving a bloodstain the size of Kansas across his bedroom wall." But before you do, ask yourselves this:
Would you want to be without a gun if some crazy, drug-fueled maniac broke into your home late at night? Of course not. Now, what if nobody broke into your home, or even thought to enter it, even if they still had the keys and could come in at any time just to check in on you and make sure you were okay, because they were never coming back and didn't even want to speak to you again until you had "resolved some deep issues"—would you want to be without a gun then?
I didn't think so.