Dragoncaller (dragoncaller) wrote,
Dragoncaller
dragoncaller

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22, Captured. The paradox of mental health and guns.

I have not been remiss in this issue of guns and prozac, merely quiet, trying not to cave to the tidal wave of knee jerk reactions, like a avalanche of still spasaming animatronic mannequin legs.

I get everyone's concerns. We want to BE safe. This is why we built that massive steel and titanium outer sphere shell around our planet to save us from the killer asteroid.

And I was very, very disappointed with the president when he put out his suggestions and did not include cocaine and child molesters. What do you need all those little children for?

We can all feel safe with the flash of a pen, scrying boldly across a page, its ink indelible and clear. It is, after all, mightier than the sword.

But cocaine and child molesting is not a luxury, like guns. It's a mental health issue. Surely it is. They are illegal and only a crazy person would dare break those strict laws. Drug users and rapists of all kind need group therapy.

Gun owners, however, what do you need them for? And pumpkin chunking. Who needs that? Lets get rid of all the extraneous stuff and focus on what's important, like putting a man on Jupiter. I don't know how we got this far without some guy waving back at us from the largest gas giant orbiting our sun.

Here's a story.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a guy named Bill. He was just out of college, and was a little down on himself. He couldn't find a job and his bedroom performance with his girl friend needed some help, so he went to his doctor. He said that he'd been blue, without energy or motivation. His doctor gave him some PROZAC. Six months later Bill returns to his doctor. He had found a job, got a new girlfriend and was now running with an out doors club doing day hikes and trails. He had stopped taking the Prozac and had no need for any medication. He wanted to take a hunter's safety course and go bow hunting with his buddies, but because he was prescribed Prozac he needed his doctor's okay.

Now in the first visit, the doctor handed him a script for meds, but now to take him off that and give him the blessing to go hunting? Bowhunting is the gateway drug to mass shooter! It's been proven. If the doctor gives the okay and Bill goes Rambo on his hunting party, the doctor will find himself sued to smithereens!

The doctor instead orders a battery of tests and follow up with a specialist.

Bill's buddy, who had confided with Bill that he too had been feeling out of sorts and was thinking of having his head shrunk learns of Bill's plight. Instead of going for brain help, Bill's buddy, concerned that he'll be labeled as being a saucer short of a tea set, does not seek help and tells no one of the dark thoughts he'd been having.

Meanwhile Bill cancels his hunting trip.

It is times like this, when I look up at the massive dome that surrounds our planet that insures we'll never have to worry about asteroids again, that I wonder why the solution for our guns and mental illness wasn't invented before.

Build gynormous apartment blocks, all wired and blue-toothed. The walls will be adorned with floor to ceiling flatscreens. We will live in our flats alone. When we want to visit someone, we ring them up and there before us they will be. We can then go on virtual adventures. Flashing through the streets of Bahstin as we stomp our feet pretending to walk. Drinking a virtual beer while eating virtual chips. We'll never get drunk or fat! We can have virtual pets! And if you adjust your settings, virtual allergies. All of our work will be virtual. We would have no need for cops as it will be physically impossible to commit a crime. We'll be safe and happy, sealed in our fancy rooms.

Safe and sound.
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