A few shootings ago, I thought I had run out of things to say.
I’ve been writing editorials every now and again in response to mass shootings since (checks notes) 1998.
But last night, it came to me in a dream: I’ve been wrong all these years.
Scribbling proposed solutions to our national shame, rolling them up inside bottles and hurling them into the surf over two decades was a waste of your time and mine. I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
So I’ve come here today to apologize, and to share my dream with you.
I dreamed last night that Ted Cruz was freshly arrived in the afterlife. Why Ted Cruz? It could have been any lawmaker from the past 23 years who’s done nothing to stop the tide of gun violence that’s washed over America in our lifetime, Democrat or Republican. But it was Ted Cruz. Nothing against him; I don’t run Central Casting in my dreams.
Anyway, there was Ted Cruz in my dream, standing peacefully in the lobby of his afterlife, not a scratch on him at the ripe old age of 99, being welcomed by the staff, eager to move on to his eternal reward.
But first, he was told, before moving on, he’d have to wrap up some business he’d left unfinished on Earth.
There in the lobby, snaking off into the eternal distance, was a long line of folks waiting to speak with Ted Cruz. They were lined up single file.
Men, women, children. They were there to step forward, introduce themselves and thank him in person.
This was more difficult for some of them than others. Some of them, like Ted, were freshly arrived, but in much worse shape. Some of them had trouble standing up. Still others, on account of where or how many times they’d been shot, had a harder time expressing their thanks to Ted in words.
But thank him they did, one by one. Each of them had died free, and they were all eager to express their gratitude.
They were all there, all joined together at the judgment day waiting to thank Ted Cruz for everything he and others like him had done in defense of their Second Amendment rights.
All of them in that line, eternally grateful.
Even the kids.
Ted looked less grateful. It was a long line, and he had a lot of hands to shake. There was a lot of blood. Nobody thought to hand him a towel. But he was a good sport, and kept at it. In the end, it’s what he was there for.
And that was the dream. I awoke with the knowledge that I’d been wrong all these years. I awoke with the knowledge that there is no point in asking you yet again to write or call your representatives and demand legislation that might prevent the next mass shooting. There is no point. There was never a point. This is just the price of freedom. Forever. Get in line.
But if you can mail them a towel first, that might be useful.
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March 24, 2021 at 02:06PM
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Editor’s note | Freedom gets messy sometimes - Eureka Times-Standard
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