In the old days, we made our clothes out of skins from animals that we killed our ownselves, we hunted for our own meat and if our neighbor tried to market the wheel we had invented, we clubbed him on the head our ownselves. Then one day Og called a council. We all decided that we could get a lot more done if we divvied up the responsibilities and developed specialists. Og would do all the hunting, Grog sewed all the skins, Bob did all the farming and Fred took care of the community entertainment. We'd all do trade in our own specialties for efficiency, but that didn't mean that Og's wife couldn't sew her own clothes if she felt like it.
Then the younger generation came along with their two-syllable names and fancy notions. They would have you believe that Bubba was the only one authorized to sew Mastodon skins, Cheetah alone could draw up documents, the government should intervene to fix prices and only law enforcement officers should have firearms.
Well, history went on. We developed a monetary system and organized crime and Napoleon and Donald Trump tried to conquer the world. Bubba long ago died but his ideas seemed to have lingered. People no longer live in caves but they still discuss neanderthal ideas. Lounging in their penthouses, which are patrolled by armed guards, they sip mixed drinks and propose that citizens shouldn't own guns.
So, by all means, give all your guns to the government. Then give all your tools to the local garage and all your pots and pans to Mabel's diner and all your sewing needles to Dress in Less. Then give your car to the taxi service and your gardening tools to the landscaper and all your books to the city library. And if little Johnny is having a bad time in school, take him to Shrinks'R'Us, but for heaven's sake, don't try to talk to him your ownself.
Then, if someone breaks into your house, you can't shoot him 'cause that's not your specialty. Call the police service you subscribe to or Joe Robertson's supermarket--actually it doesn't much matter who you call. 'Cause by the time they get there, the bad guy's going to be gone, as well as your grandmother's pearl necklace, all your silverware, and probably your favorite heartbeat.
Frank Leany
