Let’s consider states assessing a tax on military-style weapons with automatic or semi-automatic settings. If we can’t get the neutered, NRA-owned Congress to do the right thing and ban them, let’s pressure states to tax them based on the costs of medical needs for victims of mass shootings.
Sure, you could buy an AR-15 for $400, but you would also pay an ANNUAL tax of $10,000 to cover medical bills for victims.
See? Nobody is banning your precious. Nobody is infringing your right to own your precious. You just have to pay for the cleanup, like a responsible gun owner should.
Problem solved. Next problem.
American Evangelicals have outed themselves as cold hard opportunists who ignore their own teachings and morals, and support any skeevy candidate (e.g., former Supreme Court Justices who preyed on adolescent girls) if they think it will gain them some power.
Let’s say that my hobby is gardening. My family has been gardening for generations. I’ve been gardening since I was a young kid. I’ve won some trophies, grown some record-setting produce, and I really enjoy my time in nature.
Now let’s say that gardening kills people. All across the country, dozens of people die from gardening each day. In fact, some people are drawn to gardening specifically because it kills people.
As a result, some well-meaning people are suggesting common-sense restrictions on gardening. Naturally I’m upset. I’m a good gardener, I tell them, and the only thing that will stop a bad gardener is a good gardener.
Nonetheless, people young and old continue to die from gardening at an alarming rate. Garden stores and farmers’ markets are setting sales records. Many people say it’s just to feed their families, but it’s obvious that there’s more to it. They even tell me: I’ll give them my pitchfork when they pry it from my cold dead hands.
Now people walk by, see my garden, and think: I’m going to start gardening too. They aren’t very responsible, though, and people get killed; sometimes in their own back yards.
Yeah, I have a right to a garden. But I also have a sense of right and wrong. No matter how careful I may be, others who look to me are reckless and dangerous. I don’t want that on my conscience.
There are other hobbies.
He’s a treasonous, disloyal, philandering, irresponsible, uncouth, racist, uncaring, egocentric, narcissistic sociopath with a stool specimen where his brain should be.
What part of that reminds you of Jesus?
I try to keep it light and humorous, because god knows there’s a lot to be humorous about and god knows that if we don’t laugh we’ll cry,
Today is different. Things have gotten fucked up in this country to a degree that they may never be un-fucked up again.
A mixture of right wingers, Nazis, and Klansman are rallying in Virginia. A group of counter-protesters are also there. A knuckle-dragger drove his Dodge Challenger straight into the group of counter-protesters, killing one and injuring many others. Later the craven coward ditched his vehicle and is currently at large.
But we can’t call them deplorable, because gosh darn it, that would just be impolite.
There will come a day, probably very soon, when we all have to pick sides. I don’t see any other way this will work out. But I also don’t see much reason for optimism.
Once upon a time there was a young monk named Sam. He belonged to an order that was renowned for beautiful choral singing. They trained, hours every day, refining their voices and their art. Their song echoed down the mountainside, enriching the lives and souls of the townspeople below.
The order spoked regularly about an octave of rumored Magical Notes. Musicians had only theorized that these notes must exist, yet no one had ever reached one.
But Sam was particularly gifted, and on his 19th birthday, in mid-song, he hit upon a beautifully intricate note of pure magic. Everyone within miles just froze in mid action, stirred to the very core of their souls by the pure bliss of the tone. And they all realized, instantly, that Sam was the first person in history to hit one of the Magical Notes.
On Sam’s 20th birthday it happened again. This time no one in the town moved, spoke, or even blinked for several minutes after. As the golden sound finally tapered off and ceased, they knew that Sam had found the Second Note.
The next year on Sam’s 21st birthday, a pattern had emerged. This time all the townspeople were present, listening in awe as Sam hit the glorious Third Note. Words could not do justice to the experience. People cried out in pure joy as the sound grew to a glorious crescendo.
And on it went for the next few years, the Magical Notes growing sweeter and sweeter, year after year… that is until Sam’s 25th birthday. At first all seemed normal until Sam hit the next Magical Note. But this new sound was not beautiful; it was jarring and discordant. Sam was visibly uncomfortable, but doubled his resolve to get to the sweet part of the next Magical Note.
Suddenly, to the horror of all, Sam spontaneously combusted! The two closest monks on stage were burned by the flames coming off of his body, and he ignited the stage curtains. Soon the entire monastery was aflame. By a miracle everyone made it out, except for poor Sam.
The townsfolk were left staring at the burning monastery in sad, stunned disbelief. The mayor approached the lead monk. “What happened?” he asked.
The old monk shook his head sadly. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said.
“Sam sung Note 7.”
What if there really is a guy named John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
And he’s terrified to leave his home, because whenever he goes out, people yell at him?