Thursday, May 21, 2009

Like My Gun?

So, this story came out today.

Four guys apparently got their hands on stinger missiles and planned to wreck havoc. Yes, the missile they got was deactivated because the FBI was onto them but the question in my mind remains:

Where does one even start the search to acquire a stinger missile?

Obviously, wherever they were looking, the FBI was aware of so following in their footsteps probably isn't a good thing.

But really, it all boils down to the real question: Where can I get a stinger missile?

I mean, seriously, all these months I've had pansy-assed visions of revenge. I WANT A STINGER MISSILE! Forget baseball bats and handguns! Do you realize that the overarching deterrent philosophy of having more weapons than your enemy could play out on a much smaller scale?

Would neighbors really bitch at me regarding errant dog poop if I had a stinger missile parked on my front lawn, sitting in my flower bed? Would the postman deliver my mail on days when he damn well pleased or would he haul his Newman-esque physique up my front walk on a DAILY basis and give me my mail, no matter how frivolous and junky he deems it?

What about those Mormons? Or the Sierra Club? Or Jehovah's Witnesses? I can already see them walking down the sidewalk, going from door to door, and then they come to our house.


Of course it will help,if they do indeed decide to knock on my door, to awnser it while wearing shit stained granny undies and a yellowish white tank top smeared with chili down the front. It would probably also be useful to have a shot gun on my shoulder and a toothpick in my mouth.

What about the crazy dude across the street from me? The one that is obsessive/compulsive about parking his car in front of my house. He will frequently park his car, get out, look at EXACTLY where he is parked, pace it out, and then get back in his car and start it up again and move it five centimeters backwards. He will repeat this process until he has magically opened up a portal to Platform 9 3/4 and then disappears into his house.

All I can see is me, standing out front in my new "uniform" with a stinger missile behind me, pointed right at his car.

"Really buddy?" I'll ask him. "Really? JUST PARK YOUR FUCKING CAR AND LEAVE IT!"

Oh yeah. Our cul-de-sac? Straight out of "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest."

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