A Time To Mourn

We went for a ride yesterday, C.W. and I, mostly to give my wife a break from him. We've been indoors because of a high heat index, a phenomena that seems to bring out the worst in a Falloonian. After he had played his "fake dog poop" trick on her for the umpteenth time, I invited him to go for a drive. She lowered the baseball bat and nodded her approval.

Going down a side road, we passed a large Remington Arms factory located along Interstate 40 near Little Rock. As we went by, I sensed C.W. jerk around and stare at the grounds.

"Stop the car," he said, whereupon I noticed that he had assumed a shape much like that of the late Walter Brennan when he played "Grandpa Amos," on the TV show. "I want to talk to that man," he said.

I slowed to a stop and looked. A man was draping black bunting, signifying mourning, along the fence bordering the factory where they produce ammunition. Before I could speak, C.W. had exited the car and was limping toward the man. I had no choice but to follow.

When he approached, the man stopped his work and stared in disbelief, and for good reason of course.

"Hello brother," C.W. said. "Putting up mourning cloth for our servicemen who were murdered?

"Huh?" the man said, still staring in wonderment.

"Our military men."

"What military men?"

"The recruiters who got killed."

"Don't know nothing about no recruiters gettin' killed," the man said. "This is for Obama."

"Oh no," I said. "Did something happen to the President?"

"Not yet," the man said. "But we're getting ready for when he leaves office."

"Whatcha mean, son?" C.W. said.

"He leaves office after next year," the man said, "and we're in deep mourning about it."

"You mean you liked him?" C.W. sounded truly incredulous.

"We love him."

"Son," C.W. said, "you're not making a bit of sense."

"Best thing that ever happened to us," the man said. "We haven't slowed down a bit since he's been in office. Uncle Wayne seen to that."

I joined in. "Uncle Wayne?"

"Uncle Wayne LaPierre."

"Of the NRA?"

"Who else?" the man said, sounding a bit peeved.

"But," I said, "he hates President Obama. Don't you all?" I gestured at the plant.

"Are you kidding," the man said. "Best thing that ever happened to us. Don't you keep up with the stock market?"

"I do," C.W. said, lying. "What about it?"

It was as if Joseph Goebbels had
suddenly awakened to find there were no
Jews around anywhere. - C.W.

"You can't be serious," the man said. "Can't you imagine what happens to our stock every time Uncle Wayne hints that a colored feller is going to take away peoples' ammo?"

We watched as he made the motion of a rocket taking off.

"But he hasn't," I said.

The man looked at me as if I had just said the weather was hot. "And what goddam difference does that make?" He returned to his mourning bunting.

"So you'll be sorry to see him go?" C.W. wanted to make sure he understood.

"We'll be in deep mourning," the man said. He looked crestfallen. "But we have hopes. We may be tearing this stuff down after next fall's election."

C. W. leaned forward. "And why is that?"

"Are you crazy?" the man said. "Do you know how many little 'a-rab' countries there are and how many bullets it would take to whup them all?"

See also www.wattensawpress.com