Monday, August 17, 2009


They tell me we’re in a depression. Apparently the housing market is in the dumps, your 401(k) is headed downstairs (if it’s not there already) and chances are good you might die soon; or at least if you haven’t – the likelihood that you will increases every day.

The country might not be completely depressed yet, but I know I am.

I didn’t pay much attention to what’s been going on in the economy until I started hearing a lot of talk about nationwide ammunition shortages; suddenly the entire country is up-in-arms about not being able to buy bullets and, generally, I’m on-board. I consider it my God-given right as an American to buy ammunition pretty much anytime or anywhere I please. I also expect to be able to buy bullets at variety locations like large gas stations and Target, and I'm always furious to find out that you can't. It really bothers me because I really can't "one-stop-shop"...ever.

I guess finding out you can't buy bulk bullets in the same place you buy bulk tampons probably shouldn't bum me out, but regardless; I DO empathize with the consensus that a shortage is a bad thing.

Naturally, the shortage hasn't affected me at all because I make it my business to NEVER, EVER be short on ammunition. Period. If I shoot one bullet over the weekend I’ll feel panicky until I have time to buy two more to replace it. I’ve been stocked up since 1989 and let me tell you: I was one very un-picked-on 9-year-old.

It upsets me a bit to know that you can find more .22 caliber ammunition in my dryer’s lint screen than in the average homeowner’s sock drawer (where bullets should always be), but at the same time I’m sort-of glad for that too - it means I have guns and you don’t.

The NRA really wants everybody to have guns....Not me! I don’t want you to have guns. In fact: don’t buy them - I’ll protect you! Or at least I’ll protect me from you when the zombies get to you first.

For these, and other reasons, the shortage didn’t really sink in until I went to Wal-Mart for critical survival supplies a few weeks ago, but it definitely came home to roost after that bleak experience.

Let me put it to you simply: Wal-Mart, last bastion of freedom, didn’t have ammunition. I mean: they had ZERO bullets. The ammo counter looked like a post-apocalyptic scene from Dawn of the Dead. If a tumbleweed had blown down the aisle next to me as I stared, slack-jawed, at the empty metal shelving; I wouldn’t have been more surprised. It was eerie. If you can’t understand why: go watch “Red Dawn” and see how you feel.

As I stood there, dumbfounded to the point of drooling, I noticed what looked to be a blood trail and drag marks headed towards a suspiciously full-looking duffel bag on the sporting goods aisle, but I didn’t investigate. Nope, I walked straight back out to the truck and checked for my double-secret-probationary stash of .22 rifle shells, then drove off.

I don’t want to spend weeks of my life waiting to testify over something like an Alpharetta zombie killing at Wal-Mart. I really just don't have time.

Dirty zombies.

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