A message to the people of Texas:
Five of your Dallas police officers were shot down. Boo hoo. Crocodile tears.
Who the hell cares? Certainly, not you.
People began bringing flowers to the Dallas police department the same night of the attack, and on Friday some came out in support for the slain officers, placing bouquets on top of two squad cars that had been set up as a memorial.
Wah, wah. Are you among the grieving phonies who voted to allow every fool in Texas to carry a gun, and now you display your pretend sadness that one of those guns actually was used?
Are you among the shocked! — shocked! — people who parrot the gun lobby’s mouthpiece, the National Rifle Association, when it pronounces the idiocy that, “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”
But wait. Wasn’t Micah Johnson, the Dallas shooter, a “good guy”?
He was a soldier who served his country in Afghanistan and worked with special needs children. He could have been your neighbor.
Johnson grew up in Mesquite, a middle-class suburb of Dallas, living with his mother Delphene in a four-bedroom, $220,000 detached house next to a large field.
It was an All-American neighborhood with pick-up trucks and basketball hoops in the drives. The white family next door would sell cookies for the Girl Scouts and Johnson would pop round to buy them.
Johnson’s stepmother appeared proud of his decision to join the Army, posting pictures of him in uniform on her Facebook page.
She and Johnson’s father were part of the local neighborhood watch group and well liked by neighbors.
As a child at John Horn High School in Mesquite, the gunman had been an enthusiastic member of the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps and loved basketball.
Friends described him as “fun-loving and goofy” and “a sweet-hearted joker”.
Johnson was just a regular guy, a “good guy.” He legally could have bought any gun he wanted in Texas.
And that’s the point, isn’t it.
When it comes to guns, every “good guy” suddenly can become a “bad guy.”
Like when he gets drunk.
Or you cut him off on the road.
Or if you give him a bad grade in school.
Or you ticket him for speeding.
Or you talk to his girlfriend.
Or you call “Ball!” when he thinks it’s a strike.
Like when he doesn’t like his wife’s smart mouth.
Like when he hates her nagging about drinking with the guys.
And now, you put flowers on police cars to show how oh-so-sad you are about your police officers, when you were the one who killed them.
Yes, you killed those police just a surely as if you had shot them yourself.
You put the gun into the killer’s hands. In fact, you’ve put a lot of guns into a lot of killers’ hands.
And still you whine, “Don’t take my gun. Not my gun. I want my gun. I need my gun. I’m John Wayne. “Wah, wah, wah.”
And more phony “wah, wah, wah” for the dead policemen, whom you killed with your vote against gun control.
Go ahead, pile on the flowers. It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last time. Nothing will change because you won’t change.
You want every damn fool in Texas to carry a gun, and you believe all those damn fools are “good guys” and will remain “good guys” throughout their lives, and never will get angry.
Oh, you need your gun for protection? Will you shoot first and go to jail, or will you shoot second, and die? What about your wife?
Will your children carry guns to protect themselves at school or on the way?
Really? Are you really that stupid? No.
So is it that you just don’t give a damn as long as you can have your gun?
Is it that you don’t give a damn that you are putting yourself and your loved ones in danger by giving guns to all your neighbors and all the strangers around you.
You don’t really trust that all the people in all the stores where your spouse shops are forever “good guys,” do you?
You don’t really trust that all the people your kids pass, on the way to school, are “good guys,” do you?
You don’t really trust that the driver of the car behind you — the guy who just flipped you the bird — is a good guy, do you?
No, you really aren’t that stupid. It’s just that you don’t give a damn, so long as you can pack your heat.
So cry your crocodile tears. Demonstrate your phony grief. Vote to allow everyone to carry a death machine, then mourn when they use it.
And make sure you have a good supply of flowers and phony tears for the innocent people you will kill.
You’ll need them.
Or, maybe the “good guy” who kills your family can use them.
Rodger Malcolm Mitchell