In the Key of Porn

Leave a thirty-year-old guy at home for any period of time greater than one hour, and he's going to look at porn. At least, I hope he is because, if he isn't, than I'm abnormal-- and we all know how much people dislike being abnormal.

I hope that what I do is normal. And, when I'm alone for more than one hour, T.W.B.P.

Yes, that means, "There Will Be Porn."

There will also be blogging, of course which, for me, is like porn. A little bit. I am wearing trousers right now. I swear to God.

Some people say that married men who look at porn are essentially cheating on their wives. I do not subscribe to this rather narrow and puritanical school of thought. If I did, I would be even more overcome with guilt than I already am-- about lots of things. About nothing in particular. I even feel guilty about feeling guilty.

I do not, however, feel guilty about looking at porn.

My wife knows. I am transparent. When the internet history has been cleared, she knows. She jokes with me about it. Thank God we have this kind of relationship, or I would have to be all secretive about it, and I hate secrets. When people tell me secrets, I keep them, but I'm not very enthusiastic about it. In fact, I'm kind of hoping I slip up and say something to someone about the secret, but I never do. Because then I'd feel guilty about it.

And then I'd have to punish myself for that guilt by, you know, looking at some porn.

They say that porn objectifies women. I think it celebrates them. When I see a really good streaming vid online, I sometimes nod my head and make that, "Wow, I'm impressed" face at the monitor which, to me, is akin to pinning a medal on a soldier's wool coat. I mean, these individuals are providing an excellent service. They're going all out. They're taking those money shots and donning their pearl necklaces with pride. And the ones who are really good at what they do (you know who I'm talking about and, if you don't, well, you should) are skilled artisans. And not just the performers, either. The camerapeople, too, are to be credited. I'll never forget the first porno I watched. I was probably twelve or so, and I was at a sleepover at my friend Michael's house, and one of the first shots of the film was taken from behind some hairy dude's ass, at crotch level, while a pair of furry balls slapped mercilessly into this chick's thighs as she was drilled from behind, and the camera couldn't have been more than two inches away from this guy's bouncies. Everyone in the room, ensconsed inside their polyester sleeping bags, was dead silent. I, of course, broke the silence.

"Wow-- can you imagine being that camera guy? What a job!"

I mean, seriously-- people get paid for that. And, even at twelve, that pretty much blew my mind.

Some people dream about sex. I dream about porn. Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting at my computer, watching porn. That's kind of fucked up, don't you think? I dreamt that I was watching this dude lying face-up on a table and this tattooed chick was riding the squirt out of him. I mean, this chick was doing the reverse-cowgirl thing, just absolutely going to town and she was gritting her teeth as she was saying, I guess to the "camera":

"The trick is to pretend like you're enjoying it!"

And, in my dream, hearing this was like some sort of stunning revelation, and the dream-self of me was thinking, "Oh my God-- you mean it's all an act? She's not really enjoying getting drilled like some sort of highway works project? Jeez!"

Who fucking knew.

Nick My Name

If you knew my name, you'd make up nicknames for me, and I'd like that.

Some of you already do, and already have. And I like that, too.

Nicknames are a way that other people let you know that you're accepted, that you're one of them, that, at the very least, they give enough of a shit about you to bother coming up with a nickname for you in the first place. Because, let's face it, coming up with the precise nickname for a person is rather an art form.

Just ask that black dude from "Huckleberry Finn."

In middle school, I wanted a nickname badly. I never got one, at least, I never got one that people shared with me. Sometimes you get what you want-- but, most of the time: you don't. Yes, that is my outlook on life. Want cheer and fluff? Go read some fucking pink-assed mommy blog.

I thought that coming up with a nickname for me, (you know, besides, "Jew"), would be easy because of my impossibly skinny stature.

"Maybe they'll call me 'Beanpole,'" I fantasized, "or 'Broomstick' or 'Stretch.'" In high school, if you can believe it, I wore jeans, pretty much every day. "They'll call me 'Jeans,'" I decided.

They did not.

I did not receive a nickname, in fact, until I became an EMT. True to form, when I pined for something, I didn't get it. Once I got it, I didn't want it. My nickname came from my 300 pound paramedic partner, who spewed such terms as "Sand Nigger," "Jit-bag," and "Cumstain" when talking about Middle Easterners, our supervisor, and his girlfriend's husband, respectively.

He used to call me "H.P." which was a less-than-affectionate nod to my physical resemblance to the world's most famous bespectacled wizard. Once, when it came time to lift a rather portly patient who was strapped to our stretcher, my partner looked up at me as we were crouched at the head and foot of the stretcher and said, "You ready for this, H.P.? Got your wand?" The patient cracked up. I was not amused.

I suppose if I had become a mobster or a rap singer, or, um, a professional football player, or a soldier, or basically any other career for which I am utterly unsuited and unsuitable, I would have received a nickname.

As it is, I am none of those things, and never will be. And so I suppose I am going to have to let the nickname be another unrequited dream of mine, that I'll put up there on the shelf with policing and becoming a professional writer, watching Indian girls shower each other, and participating in Wing Bowl.

And that's okay. Because you can always call me, "Apron."

Well, Honk My Pubes and Shave My Boobs, It's... DEAR APRON!

Ever feel like you need to take a shower after reading my blog?

Ever feel like, I don't know, taking one... with me....?

Oh, yeah... soap up my bony kneecaps. You know you like that shit.

Know how I know you like that shit?

'Cuz you're a supa-freak. And 'cuz you like...

DEAR APRON:

A former student asked me to write a character reference to help her land a teaching job abroad. I agreed, since I thought highly of her potential as a teacher and scholar, and her level of character. However, after she was placed in the classroom, the ministry of education of the nation where she was to teach discovered some inappropriate posting on her social networking site.

Because I had written the recommendation, they contacted me asking if they had a problem and provided me with copies of what they had found. Her posting detailed a history of forging fake IDs to buy alcohol while underage, numerous episodes of binge drinking in high school and college, her marijuana use and several exhibitionistic stunts and sexual activities that I won't mention. I was shocked. None of this matched the person I thought I knew.

This situation has so shaken my trust in the character and judgment of the 20-something crowd that I'm now reluctant to write recommendations for any of my students. What do you think I should have done? I'm concerned that too many of these young people, however intelligent, lack integrity, character, judgment and common sense. -- HEARTBROKEN TEACHER, OAKLAND, CALIF.

DEAR HEARTBROKEN TEACHER:

"Several exhibitionistic stunts and sexual activities that I won't mention"???

????????

Oh, come on, Teach! Stop being such a fucking dick-tease! I want at least ten photos and two streaming vids or I'm just not going to treat your letter seriously at all.

Here's the thing: 20-somethings don't have integrity, character, and/or common sense. These traits were breeded out several decades ago when 20-somethings started thinking loud Glen Check patterns and polyester suits were cool. Straight up: if you want to know if the dumbass you're writing a recommendation for is a cumwhore or a Johnny Tokesalot, Google them or friend them on Facebook. If you write something extolling their virtues before doing that, then you're a pale-assed idiot who deserves whatever you get.

By the way, don't Google me or recommend me for anything other than a hog-tied spanking with an apple in my mouth.

DEAR APRON:

My wife went on a diet a year ago and lost a tremendous amount of weight. The problem now is she won't quit. Every time I suggest she stop and put a few pounds back on, she gets angry and won't speak to me.

My wife isn't anorexic, but I have a feeling she may be headed in that direction. She has no health concerns that either of us is aware of, and when I say anything she just says, "You wanted me thin, so now I'm thin!"

Please tell me what I should do before her dieting gets out of control and becomes a serious threat to her health. -- DISTRAUGHT HUSBAND OF A VERY THIN WIFE

DEAR DISTRAUGHT HUSBAND OF A VERY THIN WIFE:

I've got to say, that's one of the cleverer, if bulkier, pseudonyms I've come across in a while. Kudos to you. It's much more awesome than "Carbon-Based Form of Life Sitting at a Computer Who Writes a Letter for Advice Because He is Too Incompetent to Face His Problems By Himself."

Or "Claude."

So here's what I suggest, Claude: start having an affair with a really fat chick. I'm talking about one whose paunch you need to prop up with like a crutch or a tree limb or something just so you can like get it in there, n'yah mean? Some really skeezmatic shit there, yo. Then, your wife will be all like, "Damn-- he must really like some fat-assed shit," and she will gain more weight and will forgive your infidelity and it will be all cool.

Just make sure you wear a condom when you're doing this fat chick, because they carry all kinds of diseases. Especially in their butts.

DEAR APRON:

My husband's sister, "Irma," has hurt us with her words and actions many times. When the drama is over, she will suddenly send an e-mail saying she "misses" my husband and me. I do not want to seem like an unforgiving person, but I'm tired of this repeated behavior. My husband and I feel we're better off not socializing with her and my bother-in-law, but if I respond to her e-mail, it just opens the door for yet another incident. How can we clear the air but not leave ourselves open for another attack? -- FORGIVEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

HEY, ASSHOLE:

Steve Jobs just invented this amazing thing-- it's called the "iDelete Key." Go get one at Best Buy.

DEAR APRON:

I have been spending more time than usual in doctors' offices now that I care for my elderly father. Lately, a lot of these offices have added TVs to their waiting rooms.

The sets are invariably tuned to 24-hour news channels on which combative people yell at each other. I think this is a bad choice for sick people. Subjecting them to this kind of programming can only raise their blood pressure. If the televisions have to be there, they should show calmer programming, like shows about food and cooking, homes and gardens, science or history.

I have tried making this point to the various health care professionals, but they look at me like I'm from Mars. Am I overreacting? -- TIRED OF YELLING HEADS IN SOUTH CAROLINA

DEAR TIRED OF WHATEVER:

You're right-- CNN has been clinically proven to elevate blood pressure of patients over 80 years old. The Tuscumbia Alabama Journal of Horseshit Medicine just came out with that study, I think. They should definitely be turning the station to "Jerry Springer" so your dad and his ilk can watch white supremacists break chairs over the heads of Hispanic hermaphrodites with 38-FF tits and no teeth.

It's okay, honey-- you're not from Mars. You're just an asshole. Thanks for playing.

A Fucking Robot or Something Wrote This Shit

I'm beginning to think I'm not human.

You may very well have been three or so steps ahead of me in thinking this about me yourself for quite some time already. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that you're ahead of me. In fact...

Thank you.

I may very well be an alien, or some sort of medical marvel. I haven't decided which-- maybe I'm both! A medical marvelous alien medium-shirt-wearing miracle child. Mmm-HMM!

Allow me to explain why I think I'm, well, special, and, before you get totally turned off-- I promise, it has nothing to do with my writing prowess or my ability to drum my toes, which really freaks my wife out. My reasons for thinking thusly about myself lie predominantly in two of life's basic functions, (don't worry-- I'm not going to take this blog straight into the boom-boom and/or doo-doo room, much to your assured and appropriate amazement), and those functions are:

EATING & SLEEPING

Permit me to excorpundulate:

1.) Eating

Straight up, ladies: I can eat whatever the fuck I want. I know, you just clench your little fists and get all hot-and-bothered, but, hey-- what can I say?

It's the truth.

I am a fucking disgusting garbage disposal. I haven't put on a single pound in twelve years and counting. I eat seconds. I eat thirds. When I order lo mein, I can never decide which animal ought to be graced with the privilege of swimming amongst the noodles and peanut oil I receive (in quart size-- pints are for puss-o's) so I get the "House Lo-Mein." In Chinese, the word "House" translates to "Chicken, Pork, Beef, and Shrimp."

I am revolting. Revolt in revelatory revolution against my reviling, revolting revoltingness. I support your campaign against me and what I stand for.

Not only am I blessed with the metabolism and ability to eat whatever the hell I want (and whatever the hell YOU want, for that matter) without gaining any weight, I have also been granted ownership of ironclad intestines. I have not thrown up since I was a senior in high school.

How many of you socklickers can claim you made it through four years of liberal arts education without hraulgphing up at least a quarter of one of your lungs?

Obvs, the fact that I choose not to libate licentious liquors certainly contributes to the fact that I have clung to the ability to keep partially-digested food matters where they belong, but, honestly-- I've eaten some pretty sick shit in my days, and some pretty sick quantities of some pretty sick shit and, by all that's holy and all that's proper, I should mung-dung'd into the bowl numerous times, especially in my early twenties, when I routinely consumed two "Hungry Man" frozen dinners in one six-hour period.

Salisbury Steaks, motherfuckers.

I told you-- I am not human.

2.) SLEEPING

As I write this sentence of this blog, it's exactly 8:01pm, EST. Seeing as I have to wake up at 5:15am, I should probably be asleep right now, but that won't happen for another three hours. It rarely does. Sure, I've been in my pajamas since my wife and I came home from the gym at 5:45pm, but that doesn't mean I'm anywhere near ready for bed. Why? Because, the simple fact of the matter is: I don't sleep.

I don't need sleep, apparently, because only humans need sleep and, as we are discovering together: I am not human. I get a couple hours of sleep, literally, a couple, and then I'm making coffee, making lunch, walking two dogs, shoveling snow, driving to work within the confines of the law, interacting with all manner of sociopaths, borderlines, and other feces-smearing individuals according to established protocol and common sense, and then I come home and interact appropriately (?) with my wife and dogs.

Sleep? Who needs that?! NOT ME!

How do I know? Because I go to sleep at 11ish, and then, between 2:15 and 3:30 in the morning, I wake up. Why? I don't know. Because, um, I have a lot on my mind? I'm thinking about blog topics? There are obscure folk songs running through my head? I replay conversations between coworkers or patients that happened during the day? I obsess over paperwork I trick myself into thinking I didn't complete or sign? I'm hard and it's difficult to fall back to sleep when you're hard? My pajama pants are twisted because of the coefficient of friction proffered by the flannel sheets? You know-- twisted around my hard dick?

Well, I don't know-- whatever the reason is that I'm awake between the hours of 2:15 and 3:30 in the morning, the fact is, I'm awake. And, when you're awake at that time, you want to know exactly what time you've awakened so you know how much time you have left to sleep-- this is assuming, of course, that you are able to fall back to sleep for a sufficient portion of that time.

(You can't.)

So, if you're me which, in this scenario, you are (you lucky fucky), you are in a bit of a dilemma, see, because the alarm clock is on your wife's side of the bed, on her bedside table and, while its numbers are in gigantic red digital numerals that stand about a foot high, you can't see those numerals from that distance with your glasses off. Sure, you could reach over and put them on, but, when you're lying in bed, hard, with your pajama pants twisted around your legs like a straight trouser and folk music is running through your head, putting your eyeglasses on is basically just like running a white flag up the pole. It says, "I've given up. I'm never going back to sleep. I'm fucked."

And you don't want to give up. Because you're me, Hardon.

So, you prop yourself up by placing your right hand firmly on the bed and you try to push yourself over your long-suffering wife, straining and squinting so you can make out the numbers on the clock. And your long-suffering wife wordlessly, without opening her eyes or missing a beat, takes her left hand, presses it against your sternum, and shoves you back, flat onto the bed.

Because she is most definitely, beautifully, human.

Monetize Me, Batman

There's some funny little buttons on top of my Blogger template.

Posting

Comments

Settings

Design

Monetize

Stats

Clearly, I haven't done much the "Design" button, as the "design" of this blog, if you can call it that, (hence the quotes), has remained relatively unchanged for the entirety of my 674 posts hereupon. That is largely by, ahem, design. I don't put much stock into tinkering with things, or prettying them up. I'm under no delusion that this blog isn't, well, a guy's blog and, therefore, will remain unadorned with and unencumbered by pesky things like aesthetics or, you know, class.

The stats button I look at regularly. I obsess over who's reading this blog, who isn't, how frequently people come back here, what posts are attracting the most attention, and where people live who read this cockshit. Those of you who use Google Reader obfuscate and confuse my stat tracker, damn you, as it doesn't pick you up. What the hell is wrong with you people? Who do you think you are-- fuckin' Batman or something?

The one button or tab or whatever the hell it is that I've never pushed, never really even thought about, is the one that says "Monetize."

The idea that "My Masonic Apron" could somehow make me money, even the equivalent of two buffalo nickels, is enough to make me, well, smile. It's funny. It's difficult to believe. It's counter to pretty much everything I believe in. In fact, I have politely rebuffed two individuals who attempted to compensate me in some way for either reviewing/pushing a book on this site, or reviewing/pushing a product on my blogdience.

For those of you who don't believe that I am capable of politely rebuffing somebody-- I really was nice. I promise. I even turned it around on myself.

"I believe you may have grossly overestimated my influence," I wrote to one of them. Because, really, I believe that they did.

Grossly.

Some people who are far savvier and cleverer than I are making their blogs work for them, and why shouldn't they? Blogging is hard work, I don't mind telling you. I mean, here I am, slaving away over these hot keys for you, to produce this... um.... product. This service. This infotainment. This blog equivalent of a trifle for you to serve to your cyberfriends.

(What?)

Seriously, though-- blogging is the easiest thing in the world-- and there's sizzling shitloads of donkheads who get paid for doing unbelievably easy crap. So, like, where's my fucking money, y'alls?

Like, monetize me, Batman.

I mean it. Send me money. A long time ago, I stopped blogging for, like, six weeks, and this other time a long time ago, I had this lameass existential crisis where I made vague threats that I was considering not blogging anymore, and you guys were all like, "No, don't," or something, and so I kept doing it, without any tangible, fungible, or negotiable reward whatsoever. Hell, most of you don't even comment anymore, so I don't even get the thrill of knowing that I'm making some kind of meaningful connection with the giddy, raven-tressed, pig-tailed, tank-top-wearing masses reading this tripe on cute white laptops on frilly pink bedspreads all across the world.

So, pay up.

I was thinking about putting a Paypal "Donate Now" button on the blog, but, gee, that's kind of like sitting outside a 7-Eleven, shitting in my pants and holding out a rusty, tin cup for drink-drink money, isn't it? I mean, I don't want to appear desperate or anything.

I just want to get all monetized or whatever.

Sure, you could donate to the "Julian Assange Defense League", or to the "Save the Welsh Corgis from Families Who Live in Scarsdale Foundation", or to the "Extradite Rachael Ray to the Golan Heights Fund" or to "Habitat for Profanity," but why would you rescue Greyhounds or honor Bluebloods or support Redbirds when you could just as easily put a few more in the pockets of a true, genuine, American antihero: Mr. Apron?

Give. It's as easy as taking off a tank-top.

Hey, I'm Talking to Your Daughter About Menstruation

A while ago, my mother-in-law signed my wife up, most likely unsolicited, for a subscription to "Reader's Digest." I'm sure there are people out there who enjoy "Reader's Digest." I'm equally sure that most of them are over the age of 77. The first time, in fact, that I can ever recall seeing an issue of "Reader's Digest" was at my Bubba's apartment in Center City, and she owned a velour sofa, a television with a vacuum tube, and knee highs. She also cooked unrecognizably burnt liverwurst hamburgers that my sister and I delighted in flinging off her 18th story balcony.

I don't know your feelings on this subject, but, to me, giving someone a subscription to "Reader's Digest" is basically like giving them a year's worth of diarrhea, or a year's worth of fingernail clippings. A year's worth of, well, liverwurst hamburgers.

Mrs. Apron reads the "Reader's Digests" that she receives with what appears to be a mixture of apathy and interest, which admittedly is a tenuous combination. Her eyes, however, sparkled last night as she got to one particular advertisement.

"Here, Bobber," she said to me with a devilish grin, "this can be your blog topic for tomorrow."

Indeedy-doo.

It's a full-page advert, courtesy of your friends at "Always." A young-looking, improbably hot mom with long, chestnut hair draped lovingly over improbably pert 36-Bs sits Stage Right. She's lightly touching the chin of her slightly awkward-appearing daughter, with unfortunate bangs, who is gazing almost soulfully into her mother's eyes, as if said mother were in the process of dispensing some carefully-guarded pearls of MILF wisdom.

And she certainly is. She is talking to her daughter about menstruation and, by the same token, she is...

TALKING TO YOUR DAUGHTER ABOUT MENSTRUATION

"Although most girls get their first period around age 12," the ad copy states, "some start menstruating as early as age 8. That's why explaining what's ahead is so important."

* "The best appeoach is to start early and speak often. Don't wait for one 'big talk.' Provide age-appropriate information and let her know you're okay discussing it."

I don't know that I agree wholeheartedly with this first one. I'm a pretty ardent proponent of the "big talk." I would recommend renting out a boardroom of a local hospital or corporate entity-- the more formal the better-- perhaps with some austere oil paintings of stern-looking middle-aged or elderly men in tweed suits staring down over spectacles with one wily eyebrow raised. This will make your daughter aware of the importance of the information that you are about to reveal to her, and will enhance the gravitas of your presentation. Remember, don't be afraid to yell. Yelling drives home the important points.

* Talk about all the issues of puberty - physical changes, reproduction, menstruation, etc. There's a lot to cover."

Whoa, Always peeps-- we're supposed to have this marathon conversation with our eight-year-olds? Reproduction? Shit, man. You're damn right-- there IS a lot to cover. Renting this boardroom isn't coming cheap, you know. You might have to throw on a few extra hours, just to cover foreplay alone!

* "Let her know everyone's body is different and development comes at different times for every girl."

This is also known as the "It's okay that you're completely and utterly flat-chested" talk. Yeah... have fun with that.

* "Always put the discussion in apositive light. Explain that menstruation is a wonderful part of being a woman - without it, women couldn't become mothers!"

Right, because your eight-year-old daughter really gives a big honkin' shit about that. In other words-- lie through your goddamn teeth, leave out all the unpleasantness about that first horrifying drip on the floor during the 6th period math test, the cramps, the bloating, the misery, the scores of stupid, incompetent men who just don't get it and, at the high school prom, will suggest doing you "in the mud" as a viable alternative to vaginal intercourse while you're menstruating. Oh, and don't you love how they start this one off with the word "Always"? Just can't resist dropping that brand name, can you, bitches?

* "Have a book available if your daughter would like to look at it."

Great advice. Any particular one you have in mind? "To Kill a Mockingbird" maybe?

* "If your daughter doesn't bring up the subject, get the conversation started by asking her what she knows about puberty and what questions she has. Time this with a doctor's appointment and let her know that the doctor can help explain what's going on with her body."

I don't know, man. Getting the conversation started by "asking her what she knows about puberty" doesn't seem like a really creative icebreaker to me. I suggest trying something like this:

Spill some POM Wonderful juice on the white livingroom rug. Turn to your daughter and say, "Janice-- once a month, for a very long time, this is going to be your life. Now clean that shit up, goddamnit, and go to your room for five days. Mommy's going to go in the den and read 'Reader's Digest'."

Whatever Happened to Just Being Sad?

News moves at a blistering pace these days.

Soundbytes. Blips. Thumbs moving at incredible speeds on teensie QWERTYs. Tweets. Updates. Messages. Blip. Bling! Glang. Streaming tickers on the HD flatscreens in front of the elliptical machines at the gym. NPR. FOX. Everything in between, and everything beyond.

We're practically gagging on information and spin and doctrine and palaver. No, we are gagging. And, yet, we are anything but gagged. All of us, spewing and spouting, our mouths hundreds of paces in front of our minds-- left in the neuron dust. Bye-bye, brain. Won't be needing you very much today.

Googling "Gabrielle Giffords" at 4:35pm on Monday afternoon yields 76,900,000 hits. Approximately. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. What is all of that? Is it information? Is it what we need to know, or want to, or dare to? What it is, I don't know. Now, after I hit "Publish," it'll be 76,900,001 (approximately) and I am disgusted with myself, almost to the point of wretching, for contributing to this profane noise, this internet abuse of a woman in a medically-induced coma, abuse of the corpses and memories of the victims of this appalling tragedy, this obscenity.

Hi. Here I am, another lout, contributing to the bloody mess. What a punk.

I swore up and down that I wouldn't. Of course I did. After all, it is just my style to eschew and reject what "everyone else" is talking about, as if I am some sort of badass, counter-culture barometer. Please-- what a fucking, very unfunny, very transparent joke. I promised myself I would write about something silly, maybe about different uses for bras (put one in the freezer overnight and then set it on the coffee table, fill it with candy. Haha-- what a comic genius) or some commentary about-- I don't know, inane food products or the way people look at you after you exit the restroom at work. I thought, "Yeah, well, that's what my readers want or need right now-- some levity to distract them from saturating over this deplorable situation." Like I'm going to come save you from the New York Times. Like I'm Chevy Chase, falling over a ladder.

Please.

I guess I realized that I ought to stop horseshitting myself, and you, and accept that there was, in fact, something about all of this that I wanted to say. It hit me while I was listening to Terry Gross interview some schlocko journalist about the very loose gun laws in Arizona, and, "would stricter gun laws have maybe prevented this tragedy?" She asked him questions about concealed weapons, and whether or not the Glock semiautomatic handgun would have been outlawed under this provision, or that, and how this "alleged shooter" in this incident did purchase his gun legally, but didn't have a concealed weapons permit and under what circumstances could a police officer (if one had been at this event) have stopped the suspect and frisked him after seeing that he had a concealed weapon, and I got so fucking furious I wanted to scream:

TERRY: IT IS CALLED A "CONCEALED WEAPON" FOR A FUCKING REASON, THAT REASON BEING THAT IT IS CONCEALED ON YOUR PERSON AND OUT-OF-VIEW OF OTHERS, LIKE, SAY, A POLICE OFFICER, EVEN A NON-EXISTENT, FICTICIOUS, HYPOTHETICAL POLICE OFFICER WHO WAS NOT EVEN AT THE SAFEWAY WHERE ALL OF THESE PEOPLE WERE SHOT.

Then she pissed me off even more by asking, "Well, what about unconcealed weapons? What sort of questions would a police officer ask someone who had an unconcealed weapon?" This stumped her guest.

"Well, I don't know, maybe they wouldn't ask anything."

I was very upset by this point. How ridiculous was this conversation? I just couldn't take it anymore.

Was it the fault of the store that sold the gun?

Was it the fault of the second Walmart that sold the ammunition?

Was it the fault of the parents for not notifying authorities of bizarre behavior?

Was it the fault of mental health practitioners for not notifying the state or the criminal justice system?

Was it the fault of the court that threw out the arrest for drug paraphernalia?

Was it the fault of lax mental health reporting duties?

Was it the fault of law enforcement for not adequately stationing officers at the scene for VIP protection detail?

Was it the fault of the Secret Service and/or the FBI that does not provide routine protection details state-level politicians?

Was it the fault of Sarah Palin and her stupid fucking little target symbols on that map that I can't stand to hear another word about on Facebook or anywhere else?

Was it the fault of the vitriolic state of political debate in this country?

Oh. My God. Oh, my God.

Please.

We are so thirsty for answers, to insatiably horny over assigning blame, so unstoppably greedy when it comes to our relentless, pounding search for scapegoats and reasons and division or healing that any reason, any dignity, any sense of proportion or pause is just thrown right out the window. Mr. President, a moment of silence is a good start, but it's hardly sufficient. Maybe you should have ordered a day. Or a week. Could you, sir, have ordered us some time to just be sad?

What the hell ever happened to just being sad?