SISSIES, IDJITS, MORONS

Maybe I had you GUNS readers figured all wrong. I thought, compared to American Handgunner types, you were the ones who sorta crook your pinky-fingers when holdin’ your fine china teacups, you know? And I tried to offend you right off the bat with my first column so’s I could get outta this gig and maybe even get fired. See, that would be a “first” for me. I’ve been fired on, but never fired. I figured it was about time.

But judging from the e-mails, 84.8 percent of you were not offended by “humorous reference to digestive gasses,” a piddly .03 percent were deeply offended, and … 15.17 percent responded, “more about passing gas! “ — including the one guy who wanted specs on density, velocity and gas expansion rate. You, sir, are one sick puppy. Funny, but sick.

This is weird. I tried to offend you guys and didn’t, and I offended a Handgunner reader when I wasn’t even tryin’. I wrote this thing about how “Gun-Free Zones” haven’t worked for squat, and how we ought to try some “Gun-RICH Zones” for a change.Outta hundreds of reader responses, everybody loved the idea but one, and that dude said I was “gay-bashing” and called me a “brutish Neanderthal”!

I’m okay with the brutish Neanderthal stuff, but “gay-bashing”? I went back over that article word by word, and the only thing I can think of that might have lit his fuse was my reference to living in “a sissy-rich environment.” It’s true; I do. There’s scads of sissies around here; flocks of `em! But the word “gay” never entered my mind when I was writin’ that, I swear. I was talkin’ about SISSIES! They come in both genders, and a wide assortment of “lifestyle preferences.”

You All Know Who They Are

Most of you already know what I mean by “sissies.” They’re the people who believe safety comes from cops, justice comes from courts, and food — like ribeye steaks an’ pork roasts — magically appears neatly shrink-wrapped in supermarkets. They’re the sheep who are so bleatingly opposed to violence in any form that they wanta vote to deny the existence of wolves, and de-fang an’ de-claw us sheepdogs.

This burglar-alarm company has an ad runnin’ on TV now. Two dirtbags show up at this nice middle-class house in the `burbs, one dressed like a delivery guy. The “target” house has mail fallin’ outta the jammed-up mailbox an’ 42 newspapers yellowing on the porch. Dilbert Dirtbag rings the bell, gets no reply, then punches out a side window with a crowbar. Instantly, sirens wail, klaxons klax, and Dilbert flees like a scalded dog.

Inside that house, Heather Homemaker gathers up a coupla children, grabs the ringing phone — it’s the alarm company calling, of course — and then — then! — she reaches over an’ locks the door! The alarm company dude is soothing, the cops come an’ take a report, and nobody gets hurt. No dirtbags get caught, either, I noticed. What’s wrong with this picture? It’s fulla sissies, morons, and idjits!

What kinda moron buys a nice Cape Cod in a good neighborhood, equips it with a state-of-the-art alarm system, and then — what? — Doesn’t bring in the mail or papers for six weeks? Leaves the front door unlocked? Thinks puttin’ her arms around the kiddies will protect them from a dirtbag breakin’ in with a crowbar? This lady, I conclude, is a sissie, a moron, and an idjit — a real triple-threat.

The crook was such a moron he walked past huge signs on the lawn saying “This House Is Alarmed, Ya Moron!” — such an idjit he rang the bell but didn’t even try the unlocked door; used a perfectly good crowbar to bust out glass instead a pryin’ the frame, and then the big sissie runs away when something screeches!

Memsaab Mug-Wipe

Hey! I can tell you somethin’ about sissies and morons and even get SEX into it! See, I can’t write about life without writin’ about my wife, the Memsaab Helena, and she’s, well … OK, sexy. And she’s got this tactical technique she pioneered called The Memsaab Mug-Wipe. If you wanta know about the first time she used it, you have to go read the Jan-Feb 2005 American Handgunner, but I’ll tell you about the most recent time, okay? And, check the photos.
Our daughter, Little Red, is gonna demonstrate it for you.

Memsaab was doin’ a conference at this country club in Palm Springs, Calif. Nice meeting room between the golf courses, all that, with about 30 guys and two other women attending. Suddenly, leering, goofy faces appeared at the windows. You know; the kind that didn’t belong there. Scumbags, prob’ly prowling cars in the parking lot, and failing at that, they decided to engage in recreational intimidation of a buncha well — obvious sissies. It’s a game for them. They missed — or dismissed — the presence of a sixfoot blue-eyed redheaded Amazon Army of One amongst the sheep.

Helena strode to the window while the grass-eaters shrank away, trying to get out of sight, huddling in little sheepy-pods like dirty looks could kill, you know? She told me later the two women were hiding behind a buncha hiding “males,” then two “males” were hiding behind them!

She scoped `em out, then asked kinda loud, “What the heck is wrong with you people? These aren’t even straight-up bad guys! They’re just dirtbags!” ID’ing the Lead Moron, she smiled, pulled her cellphone, and called Security. The dirtbags figured that out, looked around, and laughed. That’s when she did The Patented Memsaab Mug-Wipe.

The Memsaab’s a pretty big girl. She often wears a 1911 in an IWB rig just right of front-an’-center down her shorts. Keeping her gun hand free, she reaches over with her left, pulls the right side hem of her blouse up, and daintily dabs at her mouth an’ chin, revealing, of course, both this lovely expanse of midriff — and a Les Baer .45 auto. Yup. It mesmerizes, and terrorizes, sometimes simultaneously … There was a fluttering of feathers, and the chickens flew the coop.

I told Helena about that “brutish Neanderthal” stuff. She batted her big blues, gave me a little hip-bump, and breathed, “He’s right — and that’s why I love ya, baby.”

Me go drag knuckles on pavement now. Me happy caveman.

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