Guns
don't kill people, it's people throwing bullets at each other at
thousands of miles per hour, say the NRA (National Rifle
Association). The NBA (National Bullet Association) on the other
hand say "Bullets don't kill people; people firing guns at
each other kill people". The NBA (National Bullet
Association) isn't, of course, to be confused with the NBA
(National Basketball Association) who say "Basketball
doesn't kill people; ice hockey kills people." (The NHL in
turn blame the Field Hockey Association, who blame the American
Croquet Association). Most of them are in agreement that people
play some part in it, which is no doubt why the National People
Association is noticeably quiet. Quite.
So
why am I telling you this I hear none of you ask? Because, dead
readers, here I am languishing in prison, awaiting the first step
- whatever that might be - in my trial for murder. The story goes
something like this: early yesterday morning (don't even bother
trying to figure out how that chronology fits in with other
things I've told you about my life, or you may discover my sordid
little secret) I snapped and went postal. I positioned myself on
the roof of my house, with my trusty NRA-approved shotgun, my
NBA-approved bullets, and my NBA-approved Nikes (who knew you
could get armour piercing trainers/sneakers/whatever the hell you
kraazy gangstaz call them?). Shortly after 7am, my postman turned
up to deliver my letters. Shortly after shortly after 7am, he lay
dead in a pool of blood that I keep ready at all times for just
such an occasion. Exactly at 9am, people began ringing the post
office wondering where their goddamn mail was. Another postman
was dispatched to find the original postman, and finish his round
if he was unable to do so. Another postman was dispatched to my
pool of blood, replete with airbeds and inflatable pool toys. And
again people complained, and again another postman was
dispatched, and dispatched. After the sixth postman was lying
dead in my pool, the post office called the police to check what
was going on. By now it was after midday, so I'd better move on
to another paragraph.
The
police turned up with another postman in order to not arouse my
suspicions, and I must admit, for a moment I ignored the wailing
sirens and police hitmen all running around. I took out this
seventh postman and a couple of policemen before a sniper took me
out with a tranquilliser dart to the back of my testicles.
Everything went black, and I guess I must have fallen off the
roof on to the policemen's fists and boots, which is the only way
my bruises can be explained. During the questioning process, I
maintained my right to bear arms and bare arms and took out
another twelve policemen. Then the Nazis said I no longer had any
rights, took away my guns and bitchslapped me from the police
station to the prison. I'm gonna complain to Amnesty about this
shocking violation of my human rights and see if we can't get the
case thrown out. If not, good ol' Chuck 'Scatmuncher' Heston has
promised to defend me, and unless we hear from the American
Croquet Association, we'll pin this thing on one of the NBAs.
Guns
don't kill people, it's the people who allow the bullets to enter
their personal space who are to blame. Or slightly effete men
with mallets.