The Inanimate Objects At My HouseFor years now I’ve listened to TV talking heads, NPR, socialist politicians, soccer moms, UN fascists, and other idiots tell me about "gun violence." Now, I know for a fact that my own guns are not particularly violent at the moment. The only violence I’ve seen out of them recently was a great shot at a penny at 100 yards, and that was just the Ruger .22. The Winchester 12 gauges haven’t done squat lately—mostly because they consider me just too damn small, sneering at me behind my back: "Little idiot can’t handle us big boys. She oughta get something she CAN shoot." So, the guns are quiescent, at least in terms of violence. But in terms of bragging? You oughta hear them! They LOVE being the center of attention! Hell, you ain’t seen such braggadocio since Daniel Boone laid down his last brag! What the anti-gunners don’t know is that all my inanimate objects are near revolt since the media harp and twitch ONLY on the guns. Report after report—and it’s gone directly to the guns’ heads. The other objects are furiously jealous at the fame the guns are getting, while the guns only make things worse with their puffed headed bluster. Trouble is not only brewing, it is beginning to boil! There’s the Louisville Slugger by the front door. That’s where he wants to be, so that’s where he is. He sez he will beat the everlivin’ crap out of anyone who bothers me on his turf. I can appreciate that protective nature of his—he is one hardwood sumbitch. But now he’s grumbling and complaining. "Damn guns getting all the press. Hell, the press don’t even know I’m HERE," sez he. The Estwing hammer who lives by the back door is just as protective and just as pissed off about the gun thing. "Damnation! I’ll CROWN anyone who bugs you coming in at this entrance! I’ll pound them just like I do your thumb and worse iffen they try it! Where’s MY glory, dammit! Damn guns have had 15 YEARS of infamy—I want at least my 15 minutes." Sigh. And those are just a few of ‘em. Can you imagine what the boomerang is saying? I can imagine, but I’ve never been able to understand its Aussie accent. And the Egyptian bedouin knife that lives under my pillow—bloodcurdling Arabic curses are keeping me awake at night. I can’t understand Arabic, but it sure sounds like it wants to disembowel and decapitate something—probably the Winchesters. (Hmmmmmmmmm.) Even the intelligensia are in on it: the Globe Complete Shakespeare, the Webster’s Unabridged and the Britannica (combined they weigh a TON) are conspiring in whispers to leap off the shelf and brain anything in the vicinity—which will probably be me! From the silverware drawer I hear an incredible racket and some squeaky gutter French, "Va foutre!" "Batard!" "Tu vache!" "En garde!" Damn knives are brawling again. My headache grows apace. Out from under the sink danced the box of Rat Poison, swaggering around with its chest out, claiming that it really IS dangerous—I sighed and kicked its ass back into the cupboard. And then there’s the damn microwave. It thinks it can probably blow stuff up (it can, it has, but I ain’t telling it that). And even the GE Iron wants to get into the act. "I’m gonna get medieval on yor ass . . ." "SHUT UP RIGHT NOW, Objects!" sez me. "I’ve had ENOUGH! Everyone just hush up and settle down or I’ll set the damn house on fire. I WANT PEACE AND QUIET IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" The cacophony gradually died to a dull roar, then to a low-level murmur. "That’s better," I sniffed. Damn, I wish NPR would shut up about the guns. Aren’t they aware of the trouble they’re causing? Not just in my house—everyone else must be having this trouble too! You can see the chaos this totally unfair "gun violence" thing is creating among my objects. It is driving them all nuts, and I can’t tell you what it is doing to me. It is, as polite Southerners would put it, making me "nervous." Insurrections are never tidy. This one is gonna be a real bitch. March 13, 2000 Patricia Neill is managing editor of a scholarly journal on the life and work of William Blake, the 18th-century artist and poet. © 2000 by Patricia Neill |