A report from a semi-annual machine gun festival, held just this side of Fort Knox.
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Many years ago, at a back-to-school night for one of my kids, there was a display of crayon drawings by second-graders taped to the hallway walls. The assignment had clearly been for the students to create their own variations on the children’s book Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, in which weather consists of hamburgers, pancakes, soup, and other foods raining from the sky. The girls’ drawings showed flowers or dolls or pretty gowns descending from the clouds. I have always remembered a picture by one of the boys, titled “Cloudy with a Chance of Weapons and Gold.” In vibrant colors, he depicted a perfect hailstorm of shimmering swords, guns, shields, coins, knives, golden bracelets, and rings falling from the sky. Something deeply ingrained in the male basal ganglia, I suppose.
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, I climbed into the truck for the long drive home. Passing Fort Knox, I recalled that it was the leftist regime of Franklin Roosevelt that declared private ownership of gold coins and bullion to be illegal, and required American citizens to hand over their gold to the government in exchange for pieces of paper called dollar bills. Those melted-down coins and bars extorted from the citizenry still form a significant part of the hoard at Fort Knox. We can own gold coins again now, and the feds haven’t yet tried to actually confiscate our private firearms (though there are plenty of people aggressively, continuously scheming to disarm us).
But on that sunny October Sunday, I pushed all worries aside. My plan was to drop by the Jim Beam distillery in Clermont, where dedicated men and women labor to produce the admirable Knob Creek whiskey for the delectation of their fellow citizens. As a private enterprise, devoted to the happiness of their customers, they are pleased to serve free samples of their products to all who stop to visit. I was equally pleased to accept their hospitable offer. Winding through the green hills, I reflected that at that singular, fine, extraordinary moment, the forecast was no clouds, with an excellent chance of weapons, gold, and old Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?
H/T to National Review Online