I am phallically anti-gun in spring. Both right and left wing vitriol are like burning whiskey shots in a country bar full of twenty-thirty something male drunks and a handsome couple at the end of the bar, stopped in to call a mechanic who’ll come tow their car broke down up the road. They’re on a romantic getaway to California and dreading the immediate future of this present moment setback.
The local drunks get talkative. The cue ball cracks louder. Half the men start eying the wife, and all of them snarl their best profundities, which might involve an ATV clash with a tree, last week’s drunken brawl, or a threat to another and another’s ugly mother. Louder and angrier. More whiskey. A boilermaker. And then, God help the hapless traveling couple, political opinions. Each drunk dude will have five, and all five will be the same five as the talking heads had on the radio shows during the week. Whether it was Diane Rehm or Rush Limbaugh, official opinions have been successfully injected—now to disseminate them throughout monkey land, and observe similar simian opinions no matter how remote and degenerate the watering hole.
The couple gets wise. They know that the following Saturday night shall bring the next round of official opinions from state media. Kids will shoot kids. Drones will bomb kids. And adults will drink to oblivion defending a culture that went sputnik the day after the last shadow was counted on a Hiroshima rock. Bonnie grabs hold of the machine gun under her coat; Clyde grabs the only set of keys within reach and pulls the pin on his hand grenade. Out the door, ba-BOOM! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, and a race down lover’s lane to California in some Chevy built tough truck with two balls dangling from the trailer hitch.
Moral of the story: Might is right, or, Opinions are a weak puppy to the belief with the rolled up newspaper, or finally, Freedom is free to romantic couples well-armed and anonymous, but only for a limited time.