sabotabby | The return of the Ted Nugent Quote of the Day

Via

99catsaway, a disturbing article about gun culture in the U.S. Like

99catsaway, I'm no hardcore anti-gun activist. I like target shooting, and I've been trying for years—with no success—to find a TTC-accessible shooting range. I'm wary of a state that has a monopoly on the use of deadly force.

This said, I find American gun culture sickening. I've encountered a lot of people who boast about their willingness to kill in order to defend property, and this is inexcusable. But even worse is the problem that Joan Burbick raises in her article; the gun lobby's eagerness to defend the "right" of potential domestic abusers to bear arms.

Today's Ted Nugent Quote of the Day is long, and it's the worst one I found in the book. I hinted earlier that at the root of his gun-mania is not a desire to hunt for his own food but a longing that he may one day find himself in a position where he can fatally shoot another human being—and get away with it. (Without having to enlist. After all, he's no "sheep." He's an extreme non-conformist!) Without further ado (my comments in bold):

Traffic in the big city mall was light and easy going. Shoppers strolled here and there with armfuls of bags and packages. Kids darted hither and yon, in and out of the video arcade and toy store. Mothers pushed baby buggies laden with stuff they didn't need.

Yay capitalism!

The lunch crowd came and went all around me in the small cafeteria. I leisurely sipped foamy double mocha cappuccino

Is Ted some sort of yuppie ho-mo-sexual or something?

and awaited the return of my spouse, fearful she may have purchased unnecessary debris.

New at Potterybarn: Rubble from a carpet-bombed apartment in Beirut! Get 'em while they're hot!

Maybe?! I hate shopping. I hate malls. I hate waiting.

Maybe you should shoot someone. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

But I grinned through it all, relaxed, just glad to be anywhere with the family that I love.

Except that they ditched you to go buy shit.

Life is grand after all.

My back was to the corner in the little cafe, a position for optimum observation I have trained myself to adhere to all my life. Partly because I enjoy watching people, partly because I want to see someone who may recognize me, as they often approach.

There are Ted Nugent fangirls. I know. I am one.

But mostly because I like to have the upper hand in the recidivistic hell of a modern world where inept, even corrupt judges have plummeted into the indecent abyss of civil cruelty determining that murderers and rapists and child molesters somehow qualify to shop alongside the good law-abiding citizens of America.

But mostly, it's about the fangirls.

Statistics prove that there is not a downtown square block in the free world that does not have a felon loose.

That may be because, even with the Commander-in-Thief being all about the death penalty, we don't tend to kill the 77% of Americans entering prison who were sentenced for non-violent offenses*.

Some black-robed clown with his misguided, socially toxic, Russian-roulette gavel, somewhere, somehow, has paroled, plea bargained, or just plain abandoned common sense to set free an army of demons into our communities.

Otherwise known as "the police."

This is a sad, pathetic fact of life we are all forced to live with. Insulting as it is, it is a reality and it is imperative that we acknowledge and prepare for it. I'm just a guitar player, but I have a date with my children,

We love balls—Purity Balls, that is!

and no brain-dead justice klusterpunk is going to deprive me of that self-evident truth and my God-given right to defend myself.

Dude, I totally understand. Why do those mothers with their baby buggies need all that shit? Where do they keep it all? I don't trust them either, which is why I'm always armed when I have to go to the mall.

A young woman [fangirl] walked straight for my corner and took a seat at the table next to me. She smiled and lit a cigarette. She said hello and looked the other way. I smiled and returned her salutation politely, then immediately noticed two men across the aisleway walking determinedly towards us...

Blah blah blah Condition Redcakes. Basically, one of the guys is the girl's ex or something. Ted is staring, and this pisses the guys off. It's all very boring.

Before I could respond, he threatened me bodily harm, alleging a sinful relationship between the female stranger, my mother, and myself. [Threeway!] At this point, the two men viciously yanked the woman out of the restaurant by her hair, dragging her on the floor, causing a major ruckus.

The mall crowd seemed to vanish from the vicinity of the melee, and the men began kicking and punching the woman savagely.

This is your first clue—since Ted hasn't mentioned it yet—that this is a fictional story. Ever seen a fight in high school? Everyone crowds around and starts shouting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Given that malls are mostly populated by teenagers, I think we'd see a similar enthusiasm.

My male instincts compelled me to intercede on behalf of the obvious female underdog.

If it had been a dude, Ted would totally be yelling, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" along with the rest of them. Who says chivalry's dead?

Ted tries to break it up; the bigger guy swings and misses. And OMG! he has a knife.

My right hand plunged into my coat, naturally grasping the small Pachmyr grips of my silver Smith & Wesson .38 caliber snubnosed revolver, yelling as loud as I could possibly yell, "Stop! Drop the weapon NOW!" Though it all appeared to flow in tunnel-like slow motion, I watched the knife swing high over the bad guy's head. My last word—"NOW!"—echoed against the hard mall walls. Just as the hunting blade hit its upper arc, my two-inch barreled handgun came up to center body mass of the savage killer,

Who actually hasn't, like, killed anyone.

and as the front sight touched his armpit, the little gun barked twice.

The knife spun to the floor like the monkey's club in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the big guy slouched over sideways. My vision was now nailed on perpetrator number two, and he was instantly on his feet lunging for me, screaming with multiple expletives deleted, [Huh?] in blood curdling shouts: "You shot my friend! You shot my friend!" I backed away and screamed back at him to "STOP" as I leveled the gun on his center. I didn't look at his face, but rather, his hands, both of which pulled at his shirt producing cold blue steel from his belt. It all happened in a nanosecond. Now my gun was pointing square into his chest, and I fired twice again. He slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, sprawling out before me, moaning loudly, his Model 28, .357 magnum clanging and spinning at our feet.

Do you get the sense that ol' Ted was beating the bishop when he was writing this? Or is it just me?

I kicked his revolver and the knife away from their reach. It was then that I saw movement from the first bad guy lying on his belly ten feet away, as he now pulled a gun from his belt.

Where is this mall, exactly? Baghdad?

I had a solid two-hand hold on my handgun and aligned the front sight with the rear sight to send my last 125-grain +P round into his neck, just at the base of his head. He collapsed into a heap.

I knew it wasn't over yet and yelled repeatedly for someone to call 911. I was a pure adrenaline wreck but had the wherewithal to keep an eye on the two downed perps and the female victim.

You never know about those females.

At this point I trusted no one. [*hums X-Files theme*] ... I pulled out my Special Deputy badge and held it plainly visible in front of me just as a policeman arrived.

Luckily, this hell-raising experience was only a reenactment of an actual death scene...

WTF? Ted's little masturbatory fantasy here goes on for six pages before he tells us that it isn't real. Why? Because he wants it to be real. The scenario is as unlikely as most of the others that right-wingers like to rave about. There's the home invasion wherein the innocent homeowner just manages to, upon being rudely awakened at some ungodly hour, be able to load, aim, and fire a gun and hit the intruder rather than his wife or dog. There's the ticking time-bomb where authorities have captured a terrorist who knows exactly where the bomb in the heavily populated city is, and he won't tell them unless they torture him. It's pure bloody minded adolescent fiction, with fictional bad guys and fictional heroics.

But these scenarios are easier than reality, where the guy with the gun is just as likely to use it on his partner, the torturer is just as likely to torture you, and no one wears conveniently colour-coded hats.

Ah, Ted.

* Justice Policy Institute; data from 1978–1996.