Because I felt like it.
Back in the early 1990s I had a similar permit, but I allowed it to expire because, at the time, I felt no real reason to carry.
Things change, and I decided recently to re-up...this time for a lifetime license.
Firearms are kinda funny, sometimes, in that they make people act sorta weird.
Ok. So I’m going to go to the corner Speedway station a block away to get some gas and smokes and a pack a Juicy Fruit. I know I gotta pack a rod, but the question is…do I go concealed or out in the open in front of God and his son Barack and everybody?
I decide to go concealed, because possible confrontation scares me…but which piece? Will it be my gold-plated Baby Desert Eagle, or my dayglo-pink Glock?
I decide on the Glock, because I’m feeling a little frisky and silly this morning, but now, I gotta decide on which kinda rig I’m gonna use to conceal and wear my gaily colored Glock. Should I go with the black nylon Uncle Mike’s shoulder holster with spare magazine pouch under a light jacket, or should I use my Gucci horsehide and rhinestone-studded pancake holster which hooks nicely on my pants belt and can be covered with my oversized tie-dyed commemorative 2004 Indy 500 t-shirt?
I decide on the shoulder holster because:
A) I can carry a spare magazine, and you never know when the shit’s gonna hit the fan or Al Qaeda’s gonna show up at one of the convenient stores of Speedway.
B) It’s just always more cooler to carry spare ammo and extra kit so you look like a private operator in Iraq if someone accidentally sees your stuff under your jacket.
3) I heard somebody make fun of Uncle Mike’s products. Uncle Mike is a close personal friend of mine and he’ll kick your ass too!
Next, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do if I get pulled over by the cops on the way to Speedway, or, if there’s cops inside the Speedway flirting with the cashiers and getting free stuff and they see my gun…how am I gonna handle myself? What if they ask me about why I have a gun, or if I have a permit? Am I gonna get all uppity and say, “ ‘Cuz it’s my God-given Constitutional right, Barney. I KNOW you don’t have a problem with that…right? Am I free to go now? Am I free to go now? Am I free to go now? Am I free to go now? Am I free to go now? Am I free to go now?”
Or, am I gonna be all nervous and shaky and polite and cooperative and patronizing and say, “Hi, Officer! I’m carrying a gun this morning! Yes sir, here’s my gun and ammo, LTCH, drivers license, social security card, a pint of blood, my nubile teenaged daughter, and…did you know that on December 14, 1984, I smoked some weed and tore the tags off of a new mattress…and…say, that’s a lovely shiny badge you have there. Did you shine it yourself? Thank you for your service. May I sniff your holster?”
I decide, “To hell with it. I’ll go out tomorrow.”
Who knew going to the convenient stores of Speedway would be such a hassle and require so many decisions to be made? Certainly not me before I became a gun nutter. I blame George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Halliburton, and Big Oil.
Thank God for his son, and that he will soon save us all and take care of us and fix all our problems. Heck, before too long, we won’t even need our guns any more, and we can just turn them in and be all happy and shit…
That’s what I think will happen anyways.
I'm off work today so I can go out with my new permit and take care of some gun stuff and be cool. Sorta.
I throw the unloaded S&W .38 snubby into the car and head over to WallyWorld to make an ammo purchase. I need some 9mm ball and hollow points, some .22 long rifle, and some .38 ball and HPs for that empty snubby.
WallyWorld has everything but the HP 38s. Great. So I spend too much cash on ammo, then head over to Kinkos to get my LTCH copied/laminated.
Retard at the counter tells me he can't copy the license on pink paper because it's a form of ID. I say bullshit...call the State Police, Sparky. He starts to get all uppity, and I start to feel the urge to leap over the counter and gut him like a carp...but I don't...because I am a man of peace...like Gandhi...or Mandela...and I forgot my knife...so I tell him to just laminate the original and be done with it.
Soon, he is finished spitting on me while he talks and laminating my license and taking my $1.34...and I am on my way to Beech Grove Firearms to see if they have any rubber, Pachmayr-type grips for my snubby because aftermarket grips are uber-cool and the factory/stock wooden grips are too small for my massive hands...and you all know what massive hands mean...
Beech Grove Firearms didn't have any grips in stock, but we work out a super secret deal for some later, which I can't tell you about here now, and I buy some 38 HP rounds from them because they are groovy.
The guys in the shop are cool, even though they just about wore out my snubby as they looked at it and told me its glorious history and stuff.
They tried to sell me one of those new-fangled plastic or ceramic guns, but I would have none of it. I politely told them that it would be improper and imprudent for me to purchase a firearm made out of the same material as my mom's potted geranium container.
Then, I stole a butt-load of Beech Grove Firearms stickers and window decals, and I ran out of the store dodging a hail of gunfire. I was not wounded, thankfully, because the guys at BGFA are kinda like The Gang That Can't Shoot Straight. Maybe. It was worth it, though, because the entire world knows you rock and are cool when you have a BGFA sticker on your rig!
Now you know how my day out went.
How was your day?