March 23, 2011
Welch, a 71-year-old retired property manager who lives in Richmond, Va., doesn't see any reason why he shouldn't bear arms while he gets caffeinated. "I don't know of anybody who would provide me with defense other than myself, so I routinely as a way of life carry a weapon, and that extends to my coffee shops," he said.
— Associated Press, on an effort by some gun owners to exercise and advertise their rights to openly carry firearms.
Dear Juicy (whom I accidentally shot in Starbucks),
It is my unalienable right to own a gun, and so is my right to go to Starbucks six times a day. And now that I can proudly bear arms in public, displaying my Colt 1911 wherever I go, I feel safer and I’m sure everyone around me does, too. Still, I’d like to explain the string of events that day.
Walking into Starbucks with my firearm in plainsight, I saw clear evidence that carrying a gun is a comforting gesture that coaxes small children to cling to their mother: maybe my weapon instinctually reminds them of safe havens, i.e. the womb. Put it this way: When I saw this doe-eyed kid hanging for dear life from her mother’s hair, it was a mirror image of the glistening eyes of a petrified deer you’re about to shoot. Too bad the kid was such a klutz in her affection, causing her mother to spill a scalding latte all over herself and the child.
But man did that image get me amped up to go hunting, especially after I got my hot, skinny, upside down, venti, quad ristretto, extra dry, caramel machiatto, with one (I-said-one) shot of simple syrup. The drink really seemed to be kicking in, or maybe I was just warmed with feelings of pride in the Second Amendment, but dang if soon enough I couldn’t actually hear my heartbeat. And I’m pretty certain the vein in my forehead was visibly pulsating. I tried to concentrate on hunting – “get your game face on Gary” – I remember saying to myself between chugs of my drink and chest thumps. Maybe I’d bring me home a new buck to mount on my wall ... come to think of it, Starbucks (get it: Star ”bucks”) should display five star bucks on its walls, or at least give out free shots for one.
Great thoughts like that were coming to me like rapid fire. I could feel my synapses firing faster, and I didn’t want it to stop. So I got back in line for another cup. But, hold on, what the F? Did that pierced twit in skinny jeans seriously just cut in front of me? That’s when I decided to see how he liked the feel of my holster, which I delicately rammed it into his ribs. He saw a patriot before him and stood down, and I retook my place in line behind a pregnant woman with a stroller.
But goddamn! Was that stroller big enough? At least my GMC extra-wide extended-cab truck takes gas and supports our economy. Even worse, the menace-to-society was screaming for milk. As a citizen concerned with the security of a free state, I got the toddler’s attention by suggestively fingering the firearm’s trigger, just to show this zero-wage earner, lolling back and gurgling like some freeloading, stoned hippie, that it’s not acceptable to disrupt the public peace ... And that’s when the thing really started to wail.
Praise Heston, at this point I felt like I could hear everything louder; more clearly. And that crying kid was driving me to drink. More coffee. When the boy barrista, sung out “Caaaa-rrrry,” in what was a much-too high-pitched voice, I nearly grabbed my gun, especially when he seemed to wink at me as I retrieved my cup with a heart scribbled next to “Cary” on it.
Mmmmm it was molten tasty goodness. I’ll admit, at this point I was really clenching my jaw, but I hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline rush in a while. Sweat beads were forming on my forehead, so I started towards the napkins when a piercing dagger sensation in my bowels said to me, “Get to the bathroom.” But damn if the door wasn’t locked.
At this point my colon could have been described as a ‘loose canon.’ Mere seconds before I started firing at the door handle, the door opened and a woman walked out. I hustled in only to seemingly be hit by a wall of napalm. I looked back to what could possibly have created a smell worse than a diaper full of Indian food, and it was all I could do to refrain from using the “Juicy” on the backside of her pink velour tracksuit as a target.
When I emerged morning rush was in full-force...my hands were shaking... I couldn’t adjust my eyes to the surroundings, I heard the fatal words “Triple Shot.” And maybe something triggered my gun instinct from Nam; I’m not sure what happened next, but Juicy, I do want to apologize to you and your behind. I did not intend to unload a round into your rear. All in all, I am interested in your safety as mine while I get caffeinated. Maybe we can make the best of this, say, have a drink together. I should get a coffee and think about it.
Cheers.
No comments:
Post a Comment