One of the benefits of living in Arizona is this otherworldly yahoo mentality that rears its head from time to time. The fact that the yahoo mentality is often mine is beside the point. What can I say, sometimes going into the desert to fire off a seven foot potato cannon while drinking beer is just what the doctor ordered, assuming that doctor is drunk and huffing ether of course. But a drunk doctor huffing ether would barely crack the weirdness meter down here, not with kids doing beer bongs with their assholes.
It’s something in the water, I think. Something that takes a rational mind and makes it think that soaking tampons in vodka is a good idea, or flying to Milwaukee to have sex with a couple of stab-o-rific Satanist babes. Or linking a cherished childhood character such as Santa Claus to automatic weapons. I give you the Scottsdale Gun Club which is offering kids a chance to “Get your holiday picture with Santa & his machine guns”. Fuck, and yes!
I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m necessarily opposed to guns, mind you. I think that the freedom to bear arms was crucial in the founding of this country, and I think a sane approach to that idea still makes sense. But I question the need for kids to think Santa is packing a fucking Uzi. What is the unspoken message there? “Remember, Bobby, Santa is watching you! And if you’re not good he will blow your motherfucking head off!” (Actually, if that got better behavior out of my kids, I might use it.)
Of course, as rational adults, we all know that Santa is packing heat. You don’t work around that many elves without having a weapon handy. Those randy little fuckers would have Santa pinned down in no time, viciously corn-holing him until his lifeless corpse froze in the snow, and then who would bring me a 5.45 millimeter AK-47 with noise suppressor and 60 round banana clip? The Easter Bunny is way too much of a pussy to bring me hardware like that (although he does have good drugs).
But you don’t tell the kids Santa is packing. That’s gonna fuck them up in the head and make them think all sorts of crazy shit. Kids already think crazy shit is real, like a fat man flying through the air and squeezing down a chimney once a year to eat cookies and leave daddy potato cannons and handguns. They don’t need to think he’s liable to freak out and wipe out a family of five in the process. It’s hard enough to get my kids to sleep on Christmas Eve, I don’t need to add changing piss-soaked sheets to the mix.