McSweeney’s Internet Tendency The Toast Shouts & Murmurs
PREPARED REMARKS OF CYRUS J. BUXCOMBE, PRESIDENT, SOUTHWEST VIRGINIA FIREARMS & FREEDOMS FOUNDATION (AND SQUIRREL-FRY)
EMBARGOED UNTIL DELIVERY
ike every righteous soul in America, here at the Southwest Virginia Firearms & Freedom Foundation (and Squirrel-Fry) eyes went a-welling and hearts went arhythmic when we heard tell of our nation’s recent spate of gun violence. Now, contrary to how I was portrayed on the left-leanin’ Fox Network’s Gaga for Guns, where I appeared, through some fancy Eastern editing tricks, to tell a frightened Lady Gaga that shooting a man (or a woman, them being just as equal and as shootable nowadays) for giving you the skunk-eye was A-O-K in my book, violence just don’t sit well with me.
The Good Lord, you see, tells us human life is sacred and should always be protected. Although, as we’ve discussed, there are some tiny, limited exceptions for when you catch a youth transgressing ‘pon your property. Or when a duly designated jury of land owners hands down a guilty verdict. Or when a man insults your wife. Or your sister. Or your mistress. Or your other wife. Or your best coonhound. Or when you find a Papist willfully malingering inside county lines after nightfall.
As all y’all know, this organization prides itself on three things: upholding our God-given Constitutional freedoms, perfecting the recipe for fried squirrel, and illuminating the good people of this country on proper gun handling techniques. That’s why I’m always pushing and a-shoving and a-praying that folks keep their guns where kids just can’t get at ‘em. I myself keep mine either locked up in a safe or else real high up top of the closet where my little ones can’t reach. And just to be extra cautious, I lock up all the chairs and climbing implements in my house so they can’t go up there chasing after them unless they form some sort of human tower or something–but they ain’t got enough sense for that.
Plus, now, I want you to really think about this: if there’s a burglar coming at ya and you ain’t got time to do but one thing, are you gonna wanna grab your gun and shoot him (or her, women can be burglars too) or are you gonna wanna sit down and have a chat and an iced tea and a fried squirrel?
That’s what I thought.
But I’m not here to talk about taking the life of some vicious behooded teenage home invader. No, I’m here to talk about something serious.
Any minute now the Media is gonna bust in and point their soft, chubby little cherub’s fingers at our Guns/Constitutional Freedoms. But what they don’t know is that while they been sittin’ and pontificatin’ and treasonin’ in their offices in New York City or Daytona Beach or some such place, I’ve been working on a little scoop. I’m fixing to tell you the real source of violence in this country and, brother, spoiler alert: it ain’t guns that are causing the massive ballistic trauma and severe hemorrhaging to the head, torso, and abdomens of our fellow citizens. Matter of fact, it’s something you won’t even hear the Media reporting on. So I want y’all to listen up real good:
The other night I was feeling a-might peckish, but, it being the Lord’s Day, Chick-Fil-A was closed. So I went on down to a place I hadn’t been in a dog’s year–Pizza Hut. Now after I sated myself with an eighteen inch Sausage-Crust Pan Pizza and 42 ounces of RC-Cola, I got to looking about. I saw these two boys in the corner, not much older than my Kenny and Wayne, hunkered down over top of this table, under some sort of spell or trance or something from the glow emanatin’ up from it. As I edged closer, I saw that they were using an apparatus to maneuver these electronic pictograms that appeared on the table’s screen. They laughed a wild man’s laugh as they fired and volleyed a pro-jec-tile at one another at high speeds. Back and forth, back and forth it went, each of ‘em letting out hollers and whoops as they pierced the other’s defenses and snatched at their electronic lives.
I followed the pair as they moved to a neighboring machine. Here, the older boy took control of some mean, pointy little cuss who wandered about shooting into slow-moving crowds, scattering ‘em like flocks of geese, presenting him with even more fleeing targets to pick from. My heart, already low down, did lift as I heard screams of a siren coming from the machine’s voicebox. A lone brave responder dashed out across the display to stop the madness but, with one flick of his wrist, the boy turned and shot him down too–dead. As the younger boy shoved and begged for a turn, already corrupted, well, I tell you, I could barely hold down that eighteen inch pizza and RC-Cola.
But Lord knows I’m not a man to take things sitting down. So what I did is I went right home and sat down and searched the Internet for hours, collecting intelligence on the maker of those sinful, sinful machine games. They call themselves Atari. Now–you ever met an American named Atari? Neither had I. As it turns out, as some helpful Yahoo Asks! commenter informed me, Atari is a company made up solely of Japanese Death Buddhists. These are the same fellers that Nixon and Eisenhower had put a stop to in World War the Second, and again in the Vietnam War! And now these death-worshipping Orientals are flooding our pizza establishments and corrupting our youth with their violent, mind-warping, voodoo-doing computerized machine entertainment?!
Now, I don’t know about yours, but in my family we have a saying: “even if you know your cousin’s trouble, you’re probably still gonna ask her to dance.” And I wanted to have a long, sweaty slow-dance to get to know those rotten machines. So, in spite of my well-known dislike for the hostile youths and loose women of big cities, I drove up to Lynchburg, Virginia and stopped in a local den of inequity that calls itself “Damon and Busters.” The things I saw there…the things I did there…I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to outlive ‘em.
I took up the mantle of another mean, pointy little you-know-what, armed to the teeth, and I mowed down row after row of townsfolk peacefully assembled and marching towards me; I donned the overalls and the cap of some agitatin’ Italian immigrant whose constant aim was to find yet another pretty White woman in yet another pretty white castle for his drug-fueled perversions; I was a Great Golden Whore, and I chomped and I gorged on the earnings and the fruit of a prosperous people and then, when there was nothing left, I turned on them and ate them too.
When I could take no more of the filth gunking up my eyes, I sought solace in what I knew, in a game where the sights of my guns would only fall upon a few, lowly waterfowl. But as I fed quarter after quarter into that idolatrous machine, the skies did flash like Rapture and a dog did cackle like The Beast foretold and though my aim was true no ducks did fall that day. And I realized, brothers, that these machines would bring about end times.
The message I carry today is not just one for those of us gathered here in Aunt Monkey’s basement, the traditional meeting place of the Southwest Virginia Firearms & Freedom Foundation (And Squirrel-Fry), but one that I hope will echo throughout the hills and valleys of our great country and into the ears of our elected officials in Washington, DC. These things I spoke of today may seem crude and simple and even a little harmless. You might think that the government should have no right to tamper with them. But if you can cast your mind’s eye out into a black future, where advances in this evil machinery and the glue of the mass-market conspire together to allow the curdled and the feeble-minded and sometimes even the young and foolish to carry out heinous attacks with lightning-quick rapidity, then surely you must agree with me on one simple thing:
WE. MUST. BAN. PONG.