An Open Intervention for the NRA

26 Dec

Come in, please. Have a seat.

No, It’s not a party in your honor. Not exactly. I mean, it’s in your honor, but it’s not a party. Oh, one more thing. Can you please check your guns at the door.

Don’t lie to me, I know you’re carrying. We all know you’re carrying.

That’s why you’re here.

Okay, good. Now give me the Glock. And the Sig Sauer. The Luger, please. The AK-47.  And don’t forget the Saturday Night Special on your hip.

Feel better yet? No? Well, it will take a while. But that’s why we’re here. Yes, all your friends are right here for you. We’re here to help.

I know you don’t think you need help, but that is because you are in denial. You need help bad. Please, NRA, have a seat right over there. Yeah, next to the coffee and banana bread. We all know it’s your favorite. See, I told you we’re here for you.

Okay, now as you may have guessed, this is an intervention. “An interwhat?” you may ask. An intervention. Where we take our loved ones who have nearly destroyed themselves via abusive actions and tell them that we care about them and want them to get better.

To be perfectly frank, most of us don’t actually love you, NRA. Chamber of Commerce and AM Radio totally dig your shit, but they’re in the minority, no matter how loud they might get at Thanksgiving dinner.  The rest of us tolerate you. We know that you’re not going anywhere any time soon, so we might as well have a healthy, not completely fucking insane NRA if we’re going to have one at all.

Don’t leave. Sit down, please. Besides, we’ve locked the doors and posted (unarmed) guards at all exit points. They’re all from AIPAC and know Krav Maga, so SIT THE FUCK DOWN ASSHOLE!

Sorry, lost my cool there. But, you know, it’s been a hard couple of weeks, what with a mass shooting in a school.

Oh, you heard about it? Yeah, we know. That’s why you’re here. Because, NRA, you’ve got a problem. At one point we thought you might have been able to keep your shit together, but…well, actually, most of us didn’t think you’d do that because honestly, we’ve been enabling you far too long. I mean, many of us are scared shitless of you. Because you’re the one with the guns. And the money. We’re more scared of your money because whenever you do something of incredible stupidity with your guns, you simply pay us off to look the other way.

So, yes, we are a bit culpable too. But it ends here.

Remember when we first met? You were a pretty cool cat back then. You basically sponsored marksmanship classes. That’s nice. It’s like when my Uncle Shlomo the Tippler would come over for Purim and make his special Hamentaschen Nog (thankfully the prune variety was discontinued after the first year). He’d make this wonderful drink and we’d all sit around the Purim Log and get a little warm, and a little tipsy. And then he’d go home and have sex with Aunt Goldie.

One year he even abstained from drinking any of the Nog because he was the designated driver. It’s kind of like how you supported 1934’s National Firearm’s Act as well as 1968’s Gun Control Act. Both of these regulated and taxed firearms. You wanted people to have a good time with guns, in fact your motto was “Firearms Safety Education, Marksmanship Training, Shooting for Recreation.” But I think even you understood that guns are dangerous and having them, ahem, well regulated was part of your civic duty.

It’s kind of like what Shlomo the Tippler used to say: “A bisl of booze makes the night a bit better. But four or five and you’re farshikkert.” That’s when he was merely Shlomo the Tippler, and not Shlomo the Besotted Douchebag Who Can’t Keep His Hands Off the Waitress’ Keester. That came later.

There was a time when you didn’t use the Second Amendment as a shield to hide behind. You were okay hunting game and helping people with their aiming skills. We all got a long back then.

Then you changed your motto to “The Right of the People to Keep and Bear Arms Shall Not Be Infringed.” Instead of being good ol’ funtime NRA, let’s go shoot a deer, clean the guns properly and stow them in a locked case, you were talking about cold dead hands and advocating for Uzis in kindergartens.

Okay, it didn’t all happen right away, but you had this bizarre change, where you went from an innocuous sportsman’s organization which advocated for gun safety, to a little bitch who was making normal people (who really enjoyed shooting guns) afraid that some evil New York liberal was coming for their pea shooters.

It’s like when Shlomo the Tippler (prior to becoming Shlomo the Besotted Douchebag Who Can’t Keep His Hands off the Waitress’ Keester) suddenly turned into Shlomo the Suddenly Sad and Fidgety Who Smells Vaguely of an Irishman. We all knew that something was wrong. He kept going on about the mamsers at his job. The Hamen Nog was stronger every year, until he just put a bottle of slivovitz on the table and said: “It’s quicker.”

Then he got into that fight with Aunt Goldie at their 25th Wedding Anniversary. She called him a shikker and none of us knew what that meant, so we had to ask Zeide Moishe, and he said it meant that Shlomo the Tippler was an unhappy man who found comfort with intoxicating spirits dispensed in disreputable goyishe venues, and that we shouldn’t let him drive us anywhere or give him money.

I had no idea what Zeide Moishe was talking about. We’re Jews, we don’t drink. It doesn’t work with us. I mean, at the Passover Seder, we’re supposed to have four glasses of wine, but rarely do we get past two before we’re all “bring out the brisket already.” Booze doesn’t sit well with us. Gives us agita. So I couldn’t understand why someone would intentionally pour that crap down his throat. I mean, Shlomo had become such a miserable person, why would he do that to himself? It was like he was trying to be unhappy.

Also, as Jews, we don’t really like guns either. They make loud noises and kill people. Not our thing, see.

What’s that? Oh, if we had guns in Germany during World War II we could have stopped the Holocaust. Look, NRA, we weren’t the Maccabees. We didn’t have an all-powerful God behind us. We probably could have taken a few Nazis out, but they had tanks, we didn’t. Hell, it took America and England and Russia something like five years to beat the Nazis. They had a lot of guns. And planes.

It’s like when Shlomo the Suddenly Sad and Fidgety Who Smells Vaguely of an Irishman became Shlomo the Bizarrely Angry, Mean and Flatulent and began to drink during his lunch hour. “It calms me down and makes the job a lot easier.” That was his reasoning. He liked to drink so much that he manufactured excuses to do it, even if they were really fucking stupid ones.

It did make the job a lot easier. After he puked all over his boss, he didn’t have to do his job anymore.

And you know whose fault that was? Yup, it was his boss’ fault.

Kind of like how when some nutjobber shoots up a first grade, it’s suddenly the fault of violent video games. If we didn’t have violent video games would said nutjobber not have considered killing a bunch of kids? Would the idea of committing a violent act not have entered his mind? I dunno. I guess there’s a possibility. Like about the same possibility that Shlomo’s asshole boss forced Shlomo down to McSwilligan’s for a two hour liquid lunch, pouring Cutty down his throat.

Well, after that poor Shlomo went from being Shlomo the Bizarrely Angry, Mean and Flatulent to Shlomo the Dyspeptic, Disheveled and Screamy who began to blame everyone else for his problems.

His wife, who never listened or understood.

His kids who didn’t appreciated the sacrifices he made.

The bastards in the government who taxed him too much.

The Germans, natch.

The goyim who were always plotting and planning.

The lady down at the unemployment office who cut off his insurance because he may have said that he applied for a shitty clerical job at the kosher slaughterhouse when in fact he only thought about applying for a shitty clerical job at the kosher slaughterhouse.

And for some reason, the Koreans. Never figured that one out.

But the one thing he didn’t blame was the booze. He never for once said to himself, “You know, if I stopped drinking, I would sleep better, feel better, be healthier, not have my farts smell like burnt cabbage, keep a job, actually maybe like my job, not run away from life, but challenge it head on.”

In fact, his solution to all his problems was more drinking. Kinda like saying, oh, I don’t know…

“The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”  

Yup, that’s what it sounds like.

And the sad thing is, I think you actually believe it. I think you are in such denial that you really believe that we need more guns out there because then maybe a first grade teacher, instead of hiding her kids, can open fire with a semi-automatic at some perceived threat. And, you know, spray the room with bullets.

It’s like the time Uncle Shlomo the Dyspeptic, Disheveled and Screamy went to the bank to get a loan. You want to know what the loan was for? A bar. He was going to open a bar. It was just an idea he got one afternoon at, yup, the bar. “Hey,” he thought, “I like being in a bar. I could own a bar and make money off it and drink for free.”

Thankfully, that loan was denied. Unfortunately, that’s when he became Shlomo the Morose and Possibly Suicidal.

So this is what we need from you, NRA: back off the ledge. Take a deep breath and examine this situation from an objective point of view. Realize that your allies are breaking ranks. I mean the New York Post called you a gun nut. That’s like Shlomo saying Charles Bukowski drinks too much.

Now do you have anything to say for yourself?

Oh shit, he’s got a knife!!!!!

Thanks for disarming him, representatives of the ACLU, Hollywood Foreign Press, and PETA. Hey, Chris Christie, get over here and sit on this motherfucker. Good.

What’s that sound? Oh no.

Do you hear that, NRA? That crying. Do you fucking hear that? That’s the representative from the Uncrazy Christians of America.

Yeah, you got it. That’s Baby Jesus. You made Baby Jesus cry. I don’t even believe in Baby Jesus, but you fucked up so much that you magically made him real to me and now he is crying and he won’t fucking shut up and this is a long goddamned flight.

Gar! Shlomo, pass me the bottle.

I yield the floor to the representative from the PTA. Bring it, sister!

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