Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll returns to deliberate over the advice that “Math Is Hard” while squeezing off 200 rounds. She writes:

Remember, in one of the incarnations of the Barbie Doll she was programmed to say, “Math is hard!”? And whoa! What a fuss that caused in the Perpetually Furious Grievance Quarters! (Bonus favorite t-shirt slogan: “You think it’s offensive, I think it’s funny; that’s why I’m a much happier person than you are.”)

Imagine the effect on a little girl hearing a doll say that! Why, then, all the little girls who take life-coaching advice from inanimate objects would be forced to assume that Math is hard. And rather than concluding that she would just have to work and study to succeed, the little girl would have no choice but to abandon her dream of a career in astrophysics to become a stripper. Assuming the poor little ninny can count bills in various denominations. (“Oh, fudge, I was told there would be no math involved in stripping! Cuz Math is hard!”)

So, how much ammo separates the target-shooting enthusiast from the dangerous nutjob? Let’s say that a neighbor of one Mr. John Johnson doesn’t like the cut of his jib and calls the cops to report that she thinks he has way too many guns and too much ammo in his house.

Frequently when the homes of suspected Wacko Gun Nuts are invaded, reporters put on the Look of Grave Concern they learned in Broadcast School and tell us in breathless tones that “John Wayne Harvey Bubba Johnson, suspected Tea Party member, had over TWO HUNDRED ROUNDS of live ammunition!” (which for non-shooters’ info, would be two boxes about the size of a couple Altoid tins stacked atop one another. In a word, nothing.)

They always specify that the ammunition is “live” which sounds scary, as if the bullets have a life of their own like Chucky. Invariably, Mr. Johnson turns out to be a drab, disappointing registered Democrat. His scary stash consists of his childhood .22 rifle and one legal handgun in a lockbox. Unfortunately, his door was breached with a battering ram and though Mr. Johnson was not home, SWAT fired 1,458 rounds at his cat, several of which hit it, using up all 9 of its lives.

Since Mr. Johnson did not turn out to be the elusive terrorist Tea Party member who would make Chris Mathews’ leg tingle into a source of clean energy, we never hear from Mr. Johnson again unless and until his wrongful death suit on behalf of the cat wends its way through the courts. Regretting that it was Mr. Snuggles and not Mr. Johnson who was killed, PETA files an amicus brief.

Math is hard. And 200 rounds are, I repeat, nothing, although felonious in some states. A target shooter can run through that in a pleasant half-hour at the range and that includes loading your magazines by hand. Multiply that times a summer of even once-weekly shooting, and you see the math of it. Like a certain avid golfer, it is not unusual for me to enjoy my sport three times a week, although I seldom babble blandly about beheadings before hustling to the range. Which is why standing in an ammo line is a part-time job. And one I’m very good at. If you need anything at the Post Office or the DMV, I’m your craven ravin’ hillbilly grrrll.


Books to read from Power Line