Three days after the deadliest shooting rampage in American history, many are left wondering what could have possibly driven a seemingly bright young man to acts of such unspeakable evil. Was it violent video games? Rap music? Bush's tax cuts for the wealthiest one percent of Americans? Or was it the result of bad parenting, perhaps?
Highly unlikely. My childhood wasn’t exactly idyllic, but I would never dream of harming another human being. If someone put a gun into my hand, though, there’d be nothing to stop me from marching over to Mr. Caruther’s condo, kicking down his door, and popping a cap into his fat Repug ass.
“YOU MADE ME DO THIS CARUTHERS!” I’d scream at him. “YES, YOU!! WITH YOUR BIG FANCY SCHMANCY SUV AND YOUR SEMPER FI BUMPERSTICKER ON THE BACK AND RUSH FATTY PILLPOPPER BLARING FROM YOUR FANCY SCHMANCY CAR STEREO! I HATE YOU, CARUTHERS!!!! I HATE YOU, AND NOW YOU’RE GOING TO DIE, RIGHT HERE, IN YOUR POORLY DECORATED LIVING ROOM, YOU RIGHT-WING CHICKENHAWK!!!”
“No I’m not,” Caruthers would say.
“OH YES YOU ARE!” I’d insist.
“No I’m not,” he’d insist back.
“YES YOU ARE! YES YOU ARE! YES YOU ARE!”
“No I’m not,” he'd sigh, and go back to biting the heads off of puppies, or whatever it is that Repugs do when there aren't any Blacks around to lynch or poor people to screw over.
“OKAY, JUST SUPPOSING FOR A MOMENT THAT YOU’RE RIGHT," I'd offer, "EXPLAIN TO ME EXACTLY WHY YOU AREN’T GOING TO DIE LIKE THE NEOCON PIG YOU ARE.”
“Because you left the safety on,” he’d reply with that smug little smirk of his.
“NO I DIDN’T!” I’d say.
“Yes you did,” he’d insist, “and you’re holding the gun wrong. The barrel is supposed to point away from you.”
‘NO IT’S NOT!” I’d retort.
“Yes it is,” he’d volley.
‘NO IT’S NOT! NO IT’S NOT! NO IT’S NOT!”
“Fine then,” he’d relent. “Go ahead and pull the trigger.”
I’d hesitate for a moment, perhaps caught off guard by his utter stupidity, and he’d seize the moment to quickly snatch the gun from my fingers and pistol-whip me to a bloody pulp right there in his poorly decorated living room.
Mother would show up drunk at the funeral. She’d probably try to get into the preacher’s pants. Then she’d strip naked in front of everyone and start dancing around like she’s back at Woodstock until she clumsily knocked my casket over, spilling my pale, rotting cadaver onto the ground.
‘YOU BITCH!! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!”
But the blame for my terrible fate is not hers. It belongs to Bush and his NRA cronies for putting that gun into my hands. You see, it’s not one’s upringing, nor rap music, nor is it being bombarded with violent imagery since before he could crawl that turns a man into a monster. It’s not a culture lacking a moral compass that creates someone who could pick up a gun and murder 33 innocent people without any remorse. It’s George W. Bush.
But it’s also the mere existence and ready availability of guns that drives men to kill one another.
But mostly it’s Bush.
