Wasn’t sure whether to post this today or not. Maybe many readers are just not in the mood for some blathering about reindeer.
At the risk of getting too political, there will be those who say (as they always do in the face of a massacre), “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” No. No, no, no. If the sick people could not have guns, they would not be able to take the lives of those who were innocently going about their daily activities, oblivious to the fact that they are about to come into contact with someone who is dangerously mentally ill and who, for whatever reason, wants to kill others at random.
It is time to take a serious look at gun control. But it may already be too late for that. Think about the vast quantities of guns already out there, how could it ever work? For sure, the majority of gun-owners would not give them up voluntarily. The ammunition would have to be controlled, and little by little it would become precious and cost much more than it was worth, and so maybe deter a fraction of the crazies.
We, as parents, have a responsibility to evaluate our children and determine if they are functioning normally or not. This guy, Adam, must have been exhibiting some characteristics that might raise an eyebrow. He had no interaction with friends. And what was his mother doing with a couple of Glocks anyway?
I feel so bad for those caught up in these situations, those unlucky enough to be in a place targetted by psychotics with guns. It is just by chance they are there, where there is danger.
If you don’t want to read further, I understand that. I wrote it yesterday before I knew, so I’ll post it.
Next up is Comet. Moral of this story is: It’s never to late for a second career.
Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.
Santa stepped inside The Deer Hall, just as Comet and the Buckabillies were hitting the signature line of their signature song “…when the stalls come tumbling down …”. The microphone let out a squeal that nearly fried his hearing aid.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Santa exclaimed.
Thankfully, the other patrons didn’t hear him over the din. They hissed, booed, and covered their ears.
After the set, Comet sat at the bar, downing double grogs, and Santa plopped his plump posterior on the next barstool.
Might want to adjust the EQ on your microphone channel, Santa suggested.
Comet downed the grog left in his trough. Everyone’s got the answer, Comet said. It’s our last night here. Fired.
Santa patted Comet’s haunch. Tell you what, he said. Might have an opening coming up. Slicker, been with me over two hundred years, got cataracts, gets dizzy. Needs the Oxy so as not panic now when he flies. All the other reindeer been bitching, saying he ain’t pulling his weight. They claim they’re hauling his deadass around. Gonna have to put him out to pasture, put him on Oatstamps. You look you got a few centuries left in you. Want the job? Consider it a midlife change in career.
Comet sighed. I’ll let you know.
You do that, said Santa.
Took Comet about thirty seconds. I’ll take it.
And Comet has been pulling Santa’s sleigh for well over one hundred years with no sign of slowing down.