Wasting my life one day at a time...

So my parents and I had "the talk" again this weekend and I haven't been the same since. Just talking about it filled me with all sorts of unnatural cravings, the kind I haven't felt since puberty when I first became enamored with the sleek, curvy beauties men spend their whole lives trying to obtain. Back then, my dreams were affected too, and my dad had to constantly tell me that although they looked like fun, they were dangerous and made you lose every last shred of self-control. Every social problem in America, he often told me, was somehow related to the objects I lusted after. Since I tried, but failed, to get my pervy teenage hands on one, I had to settle for magazines. I'd sneak them into my bedroom, into the bathroom, hide them under my mattress, savoring those sweet moments where I could pull them out for swift, ecstatic perusals under the covers. The pictures were gorgeous, airbrushed and digitally-altered, but still more satisfying than anything I'd ever experienced. How I longed to caress one of them, hold one in my hands! After a while, the magazines were damaged from misuse, torn and shredded from lusty page turning, and I had to throw them away, choking back tears. But I'll always have the memories. Despite the inborn yearning I felt, I heeded my father's warnings and I've managed to stay away from them so far, but now, the allure is growing too strong, and I'm afraid I might do something stupid, something I'll probably regret, like pay for one.

I'm talking about guns, obviously, something every normal man craves. Every so often, I have the gun talk with my parents, begging them to let me get one, but the answer is always the same.

There's a time in every male's life when he becomes obsessed with guns and for me, the fever hit when I was fourteen and hasn't faded much since. My parents always told me that when I bought my own house, I could fill it with as many guns and animals (I like animals too) as I wanted, but under their roof, guns and pets weren't allowed. The “no pets” rule was enforced out of necessity. My parents hate messes, and animals are inherently messy. Fair enough. But guns? They’re not messy. They don’t pee on the carpet. You can stow them away and go months without even seeing them, all the while maintaining that cozy sense of security gun-owners feel, knowing that in any emergency, they’re ready to respond, guns blazing. Contrary to the wisdom of a popular bumper sticker, guns are the answer.

When my mom was in her late teens, her father died from a mysterious gunshot wound. I never knew my grandfather and won’t get into the conspiracy theories surrounding his death (there are several, although it was eventually and questionably ruled a suicide), but this tragic event understandably left my mom with a lifelong fear of guns, and that’s why there’s never been a firearm in our home.

I could move out, I guess, and get enough guns to fully compensate for my undersized genitalia, but the amount of money I save living at home precludes even the gun lust I feel. I obviously value cheapness over accidental death, which might not be a bad thing, even though I lose a lot of women because of my extreme frugality.

But how many more chicks could I score if I had a gun? I can picture it now. I’m in a public place, the mall or a movie theater, and I spy two attractive young ladies giggling near the ladies’ room. I walk over to them and the following conversation ensues:

Me: Hi there ladies. I think I have something you might be interested in (and I’d adjust my pants a little, making reference to the large bulge down there).

Girl #1 (with an obvious tone of disgust in her voice): I doubt it, creep.

Girl #2: Yeah, beat it you loser.

Me: Loser, huh…would a loser have one of these??!! (And I’d reach into my pants and pull out a large handgun. The girls would gasp collectively and exchange smiles.)

Girl #1: Mmm, what a big gun you have (and she’d rub my arm flirtatiously).

Girl #2: Guys with guns are so dangerous, and since women are stupid, we crave senseless danger. It turns us on for some reason.

Girl #1: It sure does…I’d love to watch that baby in action. Think we could go outside and shoot some hobos?

Girl #2: No, we’re going to my place. I have a neighbor I’ve wanted to threaten for years, and now I finally can (and with that, she grabs my non-gun-holding hand.)

Then they’d begin to fight over me, and I’d stand casually with my blue-steel beauty gripped dangerously in my palm, enjoying the show. Finally, I’d put an end to it with a loud gunshot into the ceiling (BANG!!!). Those passing by would immediately respect me.

Me: Ladies, please! There’s enough of me for both of you. And I have plenty more guns back at my bachelor pad, along with a puppy, two kittens, a parakeet, and an adopted raccoon I found in my garage who always tries to eat the parakeet.

Girl #1: Let’s go there right now then. I’ve always dreamed of a man who carries a gun and adores baby animals.

Girl #2: Yeah, and if there’s something else in your pants the size of that gun, it’ll be a long night.

And I’ll walk away with my arms around the two sexy women, my firearm gleaming coolly under my belt.

As you can see, owning a gun would give me the freedom to do whatever I want and earn me the respect of casual strangers. It would be like a jolting shot of self-esteem, feeling much like the sting of the inevitable, yet accidental, gunshot wound.