“A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but he that is slow to anger appeaseth strife.” Proverbs 15:18.
This post has been brewing for a while now. Every time I sat down to write it, I ended up in tears. They didn’t flow with grief or sorrow, only salted wrath. I am usually slow to anger. But recently, a relic of past controversy reappeared to stirreth up more strife. Words cannot describe the horror I felt when this headline ripped the scabs off raw wounds:
People have condemned this brazen act of nose-thumbing, as they rightly should. But in the process, some dismissed it as tacky, crude, or “in poor taste.” I need to make this crystal clear. Poor taste is lime green dresses for the bridesmaids. Poor taste is belching when the preacher says, “let us pray.” This was more like O.J. Simpson writing a book about his wife’s murder after being dubiously acquitted of the crime. And I gotta be honest. It made me red hot pissed. It also made me partly regret that I ever invited rifts with friends and family members to actually defend the actions of this twisted crank.
Hey, you! Yes, you, Mr. Neighborhood Watchman! You think pulling that piece-of-crap Kel-Tec out of your limp, one-size-fits-none holster makes the gun suddenly worth thousands of dollars? You call that an “an American firearm icon”? Are you proud of the fact that you ignored about forty-eight perfectly feasible off-ramps before foolishly wading into an avoidable deadly force situation? You think playing who’s-the-bigger-bad-ass with a 17-year-old makes you a “piece of American history”?
Supposedly, some of the profits from your auction are pegged to “fight violence against law enforcement,” to combat “increasing anti-gun rhetoric,” or to otherwise “fund conservative causes.” I’ll believe that when I see it. Until then, I guess I will continue to hold my nose and affirm your rights — both to private enterprise and to self-defense (while simultaneously ranking you a few notches below navel lint and that white film that collects in the corners of thirsty people’s mouths).
One national news anchor dismissively asked, “Why on earth would he be selling the gun that he used to murder Trayvon?” Legally speaking, that question has a false premise, as this was not an act of murder. But still, when I see you obliviously iconizing your fatally flawed decisions while your reputation now lies in tatters, I am reminded of the ironic inscription, “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Well, now that these few sentiments have spilled onto the page, I refuse to despair over you any longer. Other than hoping your reign is short-lived as the gun community’s problematic poster child, I have big plans to expel you from my conscious thoughts for all eternity, as you have shriveled into a space even smaller than the synaptic clefts of my brain. Regardless of what you might rake in for this sadistic sale, you, sir, are but a colossal Wreck, boundless and bare. And I’m over it. Or at least I’m trying my best to get there.