So I received quite a bit of comment action from my last post, “The Wussification of America.” Most of it was positive and expressed similar views. Several on the conservative side actually missed a few of the points, but overall they got it. Of course, as expected, I received a few smuggalicious lefty responses decrying my opinion as barbaric and also as expected, questioning my manhood. As though bending over to the whims of actual barbarians is a manly way to live your life. Count me out, Sally.

Ya see, I live in a world where men take a stand. I come from a state that believes in the values of this great nation. I come from a state that believes that freedom is worth fighting for. I come from Texas, the sidearm of the nation. Undoubtedly the all knowing eyes of the left are rolling back in their head in their, “oh so better than thou” way at the knowledge that I, a redneck hick from a backwater Klan-infested swamphole could dare utter pride at such a thing. Well, to borrow a phrase from our brilliant enlightened leader, “Yes, yes I can.”

You see, I was brought up in a place where when something needed to get done, it got done. When your neighbor needed you, you were there to help. It’s just the right thing to do. We looked out for each other. And regardless of what the hootie tooties on the left want to think of everyone not living in a thriving Metropolistical stew of “progressive” thought; we did so regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, skin color or sexual preference. So there. Anyone remember Katrina? What city opened its arms to those hit hardest? Yep, my hometown of Houston. Which by the way is the 4th largest city in the country. Just an FYI.

Now, back to my point. When you take a stand, you can’t do so on a rolling platform. You have to know what you stand for and you must be willing to fight for it. And when someone comes to knock you down, you face them and hold your ground. When you know who you are and what you stand for, you are strong, firm, solid. And yes, that makes a man. Inside and out.

Now I want to say to some of the left that responded sans smuggery. I see and understand your points. Really I do. And here is where we see the true difference. I do not agree with you. Period. I do not think less of you as a person per se. I just know where I stand. I don’t feel threatened by your stand and lash out personally as so many on the left do when someone dares to disagree with them. I don’t feel that I’m superior to you because of my stance and opinions. I do feel that I am right. And I won’t go all wobbly in the knees and buckle like a liberal in the face of those who want to kill me simply to satisfy a false sense of self satisfaction at my attempt to understand the feeeelings of the guy sawing my head off. Your feeeelings are your feeeelings and that is alright. However; your feeeelings will get me and my family killed.

I had this very conversation with a liberal friend of mine. He was adamant about the “torture” issue. He said we were better than that and that it shouldn’t be allowed and that it made us as bad as the terrorists, blah, blah, blah. And then, in the midst of his argument, he uttered one sentence which summed up the feelings of every liberal I have ever met. I’m paraphrasing here, but he said something to the effect that “Well, maybe if I knew my family was in immediate danger…” or something similar in tone. BINGO! BANGO! BONGO! Can anyone say caveat!?! There it is folks. When it comes down to them, the rules are different. Tax cheats? Horrible. Unless you’re on the left. Ruthless Dictators? Horrible. Unless you’re on the left. Terrorists? Horrible. Unless you’re on the left.

Ya see, the thing that my friend and all you on the left who responded to my article seem to miss here is that the info we got from pouring some water down the gullets of 3 (that’s right fellas, only 3) worthless piles of human debris saved our fair city of Los Angeles from a terrorist attack that could have possibly killed your whiny flower-pickin asses! Oh, and how about if not your lives, what about everyone else’s? Do those not in your enlightened sphere of influence matter? When someone wants to kill you and has stated so, made arrangements to do so and is heading your way with a little “COEXIST” sticker on the bumper of their “chock full o explosives” laden love mobile; you don’t help them gas up their car, clean the windshield, and air up their tires. Ya, shoot em! Aaaaaaaaaaand, scene.

Is that so hard to fathom? Really? Bad guys do bad things. And I’m sorry, it may not be Biblical in the liberal sense, but when someone hits me on the cheek, the only way I’m turning the other cheek is in the midst of a solid roundhouse kick to their frickin head. I’m done with this silly feminized version of what a man is supposed to be. Will I open doors for women? You betcha. Will I share my feeeelings with a woman. Absolutely, at an appropriate time. Will I even write poetry, pick flowers, and have picnics with a woman. Yes, yes, and yes I certainly will. But what’s even more important than all that lovey dovey mushy romantic stuff?

I will stand firm in my convictions. I will stand firm in my support of those who fight for me. I will protect the lives and homes and freedom of those I love and their families and friends. I will fight the miserable evil that would make a slave of my woman. Stone her for driving a car, treat her like property, and kill her for being a victim of another piece of crap thug. That, my liberal friends, is the kind of man I am. I don’t want to hug a terrorist today. I want to hug a lovely, gorgeous, outgoing, outspoken, woman that can feel free to drive, read, vote, sing, dance, and choose the type of man she will spend her time with. And I’m pretty much willing to bet, that when the chips are down, she won’t go running to you for safety, there sweetpants. She’ll be looking for the manly guy ready to fight for her when the time comes…

And P.S.
It’s time!

Oh, and P.S.S.
Namaste

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“And what happened?”

She shakes her head from side to side, wraps her arms protectively around her chest.

“I got a restraining order against Ned, that’s my ex-boyfriend. But you know what good that is, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

She inscribes a big zero in the air.

Five Minutes Earlier

It’s a crowded Sunday morning in the Martin B. Retting Gun Shop in Culver City.

There’s the usual cross-section of customers:

Two elderly black women, sisters, who have been robbed countless times by drug-addicts. Ignored by the LAPD, they have no choice but to buy a gun for self-defense. The women wear colorful bonnets. Yup, they dressed up to go gun shopping.

There are a couple of hunters buying high-powered ammunition; they sound like Los Alamos scientists as they discuss the exquisite physics of various exotic slugs. It’s way beyond my comprehension.

Two Marines on leave are stocking up on rugged, combat-ready clips for their side-arms. Semper Fi.

There’s also a young Hispanic apartment manager who lives in a high-crime area. His wife just had a baby—Mazal Tov!—and he wants to protect his family from the local “desperadoes.”

I’m waiting my turn.

Protagonist

And so is a young woman who absolutely sticks out in the gun shop. She’s wearing a cream colored linen baby doll with blue grosgrain trim; on her feet, pink flip-flops that pop off alabaster skin. Her hair is the color of golden Kansas wheat. Mid-twenties, she’s an iconic all-American beauty who makes me flash to memories of a truly insane childhood crush: Tuesday Weld as Thalia Menninger on The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.

Looking as if she’s on the edge of a meltdown, she paces, glances nervously at the display cases lined with gleaming rows of pistols and revolvers. She makes a move to exit the gun shop, then returns, as if yanked by a fishing reel.

“Excuse me, do you, do you know about guns?”

She’s even got that vulnerable, tremulous Tuesday Weld pitch to her voice.

And she is talking to yours truly.

“A bit.”

“I’m terrified of guns.”

I hold out my hands as if checking for rain.

“Sounds crazy, I know, thing is—do you think the salesmen are going to be much longer?”

“There’s tons of paperwork if you buy a gun.”

Her eyes dart about, then she just looks at me straight-on:

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

Antagonist

That’s when she tells me about Ned; the evil, the obsessive, the ex-boyfriend.

Ned is a stalker, a human virus who has infected every aspect of her life.

She speaks of restraining orders:

“The thing about them is that people like Ned always find a way around them. He’s there on my computer. He’s a computer guy, for Chrissakes. He knows when I start going out with a new dude and he makes sure to tell the new one all sorts of trash about me. And d’you think the dude sticks around? No one wants that level of drama. I’ve moved twice already and he always finds me. Ned’s always there. Sometimes I wake up at night, go to my window and I’m telling you he’s watching me. Hey, I’m sorry for unloading on you. You must think I’m such a loser chick.”

“It’s fine. I feel awful for you. But it’s good you’re taking steps to protect yourself. It’s admirable. Men like Ned count on women being scared and defenseless.”

She pauses. Looks down at the display of guns.

Conflict

“I can’t believe I’m here. I’ve been against guns and violence my whole life.”

I let this pass. Now is not the time for a self-righteous lecture.

Intertitle: UTOPIA IS THE OPIATE OF LIBERALS.

“Did Ned threaten you, physically, I mean?”

“Said I belong to him and no one else. That’s about it. But I know what he means.”

“What did the police say?”

“The last cop, as he was leaving, whispered for me to get a gun.”

I tell her that owning a gun isn’t sufficient. She has to take safety classes, self-defense classes. She has to know what she’s doing. From the counter, I grab a handful of NRA brochures and press them into her hands. I make her promise that she’ll sign up as soon as she gets her gun in ten days.

“Ten days?” she says.

Nodding, I explain:

“First you have to take a test, here in the store, a written test. They’ll give you a booklet to study. Then you get a certificate making you eligible to buy a weapon in California. After you purchase the gun there’s a ten-day waiting period until you take possession.”

“But why?”

“Background check. To make sure you’re not a felon, a psychopath, an illegal immigrant, a terrorist, a drug addict. It’s the law.”

Once again, she wraps her arms around her chest, as if trying to keep her heart inside her body.

“Ned’s really smart—a psychozoid like you wouldn’t believe.”

Rising Tension

I do not ask her why she went out with Ned in the first place. The answer is obvious: psychopaths are clever at disguising their pathologies. Evil is seductive.

“You’re going to be okay. I know you are.”

She shrugs, scans a row of pistols.

“Are those good?”

“Those are .45 automatics. Probably too much gun for you. I’d recommend a simple revolver. Probably a Smith & Wesson J frame, a .38. But we’ll see what the salesman have to say, they are the experts here, okay?”

She manages a thin smile, her first since I’ve met her.

“Cool.”

“One piece of advice, even before you buy a gun, and this is important.”

“Yeah?”

“Lose the flip-flops.”

She looks down at her feet, curls her toes, lacquered a hot psychedelic pink.

“Huh?”

“You can’t run or maneuver in those things. Get in the habit of wearing a good solid pair of running shoes.”

“Oh, right, right. What was I thinking?”

I lead her to the glass case that holds the wheel guns, weapons that are simple to load, easy to handle, jam-proof. And, you better believe: lethal.

She scans the display. She seems overwhelmed.

Finally, she looks up at me and says: “What’s to stop Ned from killing me in the next ten days?”

I have no answer.

Resolution, Not So Much, For This is, Unfortunately, Reality

Hours later, I tell my wife Karen about the conversation. In the background FOX Cable News is reporting the brutal murder of a pregnant woman. The chief suspect is her ex-boyfriend, an evil piece of human garbage with a history of stalking women.

“I’m terrified I’m going to wake up one day and see that she’s been murdered. Maybe I should have done more.”

“What more could you have done?”

Shrugging, I admit I have no idea.

But Ned is out there, obsessively dreaming, watching, waiting for the right moment — to make her his own.

The Cornered Cat is an excellent resource for women who wish to learn about self-defense and firearms. Highly recommended.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech