a required taste for the pretentious as all get out





tickets to the gun show
February 09, 2006, 9:51 pm

The basement is a war zone. I mean that in a nearly literal sense.

Every day when I come home, Harley is in full battle mode: headset, controller, swearing, the works. When Chris gets home from work, it is more of the same until I kick out both of them and watch Dancing With The Stars. It is a constant WWII blaring...and it's mostly against eight-year-olds.

Harley and Thumper amused themselves silly buying an XBox 360 off Ebay, and now they're completely hooked on XBox Live (ASeriousStench, for those wanting to befriend them) and Call of Duty 2. It is BRUTAL; one mistake, or say, a girlfriend trying to give an errant kiss, and a soldier dies, er something. Usually there's a nine-year-old yelling, "PENIS!" into the microphone, and all I can think is that this is what my grandfather saw, except he didn't have the luxury of dying 79 times, or having his buddies respawn before him. The game may be realistic, but it's not real. It's not real.

What is real is that Thumper purchased a gun; a real gun, not one I keep loaded with water for "emergencies" (Blulinepaper taught me in college to never trust a locked bathroom door). I am NOT okay with it...or at least I wasn't, until yesterday.

I had come home from school before anyone else and was getting the dogs inside, using the bathroom and playing Sudoku for about 45 minutes, and I was just going to clean up the dining room table when I heard loud voices. Arguing voices. Scary, angry voices right outside the door. I thought it was just a passing couple, but the voices got louder and then there was a banging on the door.

There was no pretending I wasn't home, and a woman was screaming, and I thought she was in trouble. Phone in hand, I raced to the door and looked through the peep hole to see a woman just sort of standing on the porch. I opened the door a crack, 911 dialed on phone, my finger ready to send it...

"Where the FUCK is BOB?!"

"Um," I shook, "Bob lives next door."

Laughter. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I was swearing and stuff...Bob is next door!" she yelled at some guy on the sidewalk, and they left.

I was alone. If something would have happened, I would have never stopped it. I learned an important lesson: I should never be home. Two, my mind plays dirty tricks on me. Three, maybe a gun isn't such a bad idear after all?

Not that I can even TOUCH it, let alone pick it up.

I think I'm afraid to use it because I know I'll be really good at it; I mean, have you SEEN my Duck Hunt score?

For now, the only guns I really want to see are on Stacy Kiebler's dance partner, Tony.

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