Athens — It looks like the great debate about guns is over in this country.

The NRA has spoken to the lobbyists who have spoken (to Congress). Pockets have been lined, and nobody is coming after anybody's weapon.

We have decided, as a nation, that our forefathers who authored the Constitution, meant for us to have the right to bear arms.

Any arms.

Bazookas, drones, battleships  and especially, little ol' assault weapons, powered  by 3,000 rounds of ammunition in reserve.  You gotta make sure those folks are dead.

It's sort of like having enough nukes to blow up the world 13 times, or so, isn't it?

Why would any dealer so much as raise an eyebrow when he is making a fortune off the sale.  Alerting  a law-enforcement authority about such orders is just being a controlling busy-body. It could empty out caches in garages all across the land.

Hey, it's a free country. Shut up. Pass the ammo. We win.

Sorry, you're going to have to count  me out when it comes to the assault weapons.

Guns should be rated, just like the movies: like a P, as in pee-shooters; PG, as in pretty guns that kill;  R, as in rapid firing, multiple death machines, not necessarily appropriate to gun down a burglar; X, as bodice rippers; and XXX, as in “It's our constitutional right to bear all arms, including peacemaker missles.”

That would include, of course, James (Carrot Top) Holmes. It goes without saying he had a bad-hair day. But he is, after all, a citizen of the United States of America.

And that's just about the cock-eyed excuse he will  undoubtedly be pleading when his case finally comes to trial.

He's insane, you know?

So are the folks who sold him the weapons, which he has every right to bear, God Bless America, pass the ammunition.



If he wants to shoot your 9-year-old daughter to death while she's at the movies  with her dad, that's OK,  because, after all, he's just exercising his Constitutional rights in a nation whose colors don't run, unless of course, it's 9-years old and blood red.

Before you start your screaming, I am not calling for the government to come get our guns, and save us from ourselves.

I'm calling for common sense, decency and the protection of all individual rights — not just the gun groupies' rights.

Whoever filled that order should be guilty of a serious felony. But no, he's just doing his job, filling boxes with war weapons for civilians. 

How does a security guard let a guy dressed up like a cross between the Riddler and Batman, get to walk frisk-free into a crowded theatre, then out the exit to get his tear gas and killing tools, and then walk right back in the same exit, and start firing at the crowd?

Have we lost our bloody minds?

We can't stop all of these mass murders, I know. But we might be able to solve a few of them, if we could get the “absolutist” nuts — those folks who won't negotiate on anything when it comes to firearms, to take a chill pill.

The plain truth is, we really are playing a game of national Russian Roulette in this country.

You don't know whether some other Carrot Top is going to come into the Luby's Cafeteria where  you're eating, and unroll his constitution, read the second amendment, and begin firing at will, while you're stuffing a slice of watermelon in your mouth.

Or maybe you'll be driving up to the high school to drop off your child —  for the last time, for all you know.

I dare anyone to convince me  how you're going to know just where to drop off your child in any spot in the United States of America.

There is no place to go. Are guys like Carrot Top (How many are there – a couple million of him?) looking for 100 rounds of glory in one minute flat?

Twelve kills. Fifty-eight maimings. What a powerful man ol' Carrot Top is.  We're gonna kill him eventually. Until then, he knows he got us.

Again.

Stupid? The guy was working on his Ph.D. He'll probably get it from his cell, before we get around to dispatching him from earth.

This is happening because we're missing something very basic in our being — especially the male being.

Call it the piercing gene. Talk about a powerful piercer — a hundred thunderous rounds in a minute?

My God, how powerful we men have become....

I'll let the shrinks take it from here. Just set me an appointment, counselor.

Art Lawler is a Staff Writer for the Athens Daily Review.