For God’s sake, come for my guns. Come get ‘em. Someone…anyone. I’m begging you. Come for my guns. I can’t let a decade’s worth of hiding and booby trapping my totally bitchen arsenal go down the tubes.
Hey, Obama bin Laden! You may be windsurfing with Richard Branson these days instead of plotting to unleash Marshall Law to declare yourself American Emperor, but just you take a break from your highfalutin’ retirement and try me. Please try me. Yo, Shillary! You may have lost the election a year ago already and say you’re done with politics, but that doesn’t mean this deplorable doesn’t have a basket of surprises for ya’ if one of your cathartic nature hikes leads you to my patriot hut. Walk my way if it’s not too much trouble. Snowflakes? I got a cocked and loaded macchiato you can sniff. Come sniff. I’m asking nicely.
Hello. Anyone hear me? Please…PLEASE! COME FOR MY GODDAMN GUNS!
I can’t even begin to count how many late nights I dedicated to hiding my stockpile. My wife left me three years ago. “We haven’t made love in seven months because you’re too busy installing thermographic cameras in every nook and cranny of all 11 acres of the property,” she would say, so, so many times. I told her she’d be sorry when the East Coast came to call, eventually, at some yet-to-be-determined point in the future. I just want one chance to show her I done the fore fathers proud. I also kinda’ need her extra leverage to help pry apart the lead-insulated crate where I hid my cache of WWI-era Smith & Wesson handguns.
I spent many a long weekend setting intricate traps to utterly pulverize anyone stupid enough to dare infringe on my Second Amendment rights. I ain’t ashamed to admit that I missed my own daughter’s wedding on account of being extremely busy digging leaf-covered spike holes all about the mountaintop subterranean capsule where I keep the flamethrowers. Sorry Pumpkin, but Daddy has a Satan-led hippie militia to sabotage. If only they’d try.
Try, damn it, try. I’m practically on my knees here.
I’m losing hope. I just can’t live with the heartbreaking, yet seemingly inevitable, conclusion that no suicidal globalists will ever try to barge into my home and snatch my freedom, as the prophetic AM airwaves foretold. This patriot can’t sleep at night thinking he may have wasted so much of his life hallowing out oak trees inside which are strategically placed Heckler and Koch HK417 sniper rifles. He is haunted by the notion he may have pissed away so much precious time securing every possible entrance of his suburban fortified Cape Cod compound with motion-activated lasers that the Infowars website said would instantly vaporize any leftie dickflap who comes to take what ain’t his. Oh, how I long to come to a pile of steaming liberal flesh on my welcome mat.
But without you jerks coming for my guns, what’s the point? Of anything? Of life itself?
You gotta’ come for my guns. Pretty, pretty please.
I gotta’ be frank. I’m afraid I’ll forget where I hid most of my shit if the secret takeover plot doesn’t go down soon, like, in the next few weeks. I should’ve written down where I stashed all my shit. Thinking about it now, I basically screwed myself and myself only. I found a Glock 29 in a pickle jar back of the Lazy Susan yesterday. Sumbitch was hiding behind a big bag of jasmine rice. I musta’ figured it would be handy to fire off a few quick shots if the bastards came through the kitchen window. Instead…just reeks of decomposed produce now. I damn near blew half my ass off when I sat on the chaise lounge in the four season room. Who da thunk I had the keen forethought to stuff the lil’ peacemaker in the ass cushion in case some wily lib tried the backdoor? Hell, just this morning I damn near took a poison-tipped dart to the Adam’s apple when I snagged a trip wire behind the woodshed. Flat out forgot it was there. Makes me wonder what other death traps are lying in wait to booger me up but good. But hey, I’m damn good at hidin’ shit, for what it’s worth. So that’s the good news. If I can’t see it, they can’t either.
I’m asking with desperation in my heart, from one human being to another, you gotta’ come for my guns ASAP before I accidently kill myself dead five times over. I have a kind soul. I got grandkids…maybe. I’m pretty sure I do. But we’ll never know. I gave up talkin’ to my daughter when I decided to go off the grid completely.
I’m practically begging you millennial commies. Come while I’m still alive.
Wait a minute. Something just occurred to me. Why would I hide all my guns if the one time I figured to actually need them is when the traitors comes for ‘em? Christ, I really just hid ‘em from myself didn’t I? Goddammit! I finally need my Glock for real and it’s soaking in fuckin’ pickle brine god knows where.
Come to think of it, if they ever do come for my guns, they’ll probably have Howitzers and Apache attach choppers anyway. I can’t compete with that! What was I thinking? While they’re blowing a hole in my shit with a laser-guided missile, I’d be digging like hell to the bottom of my mulch pile praying I find my piece-of-shit pea shooter.
And why the heck have I been calling you guys snowflakes when I’m the one who feels the need to stuff a pistol in my buckaroos just to swing by Denny’s for a Moons Over My Hammy? You’d think I’d be tough enough to order a breakfast sandwich without packin’ heat.
God, I need to rethink this whole Second Amendment shit.
Come for my guns. Do a true patriot a solid. I’ll even open up the front door for you if you promise not blow it off its hinges. Peruse about the place at your leisure. Don’t mind me. I’ll just tend to my hounds. Find a gun, keep a gun. That’s what I always say. Pry them from the cold, hard icebox. I’m pretty sure I jammed a few AKs behind the broccoli spears and pan seared tilapia fillets. Let’s find out together!
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