My fellow americans,

I had a good story lined up for today about an incident during karate practice in my young impressionable years, but I think something far more important out weighs this silly anecdote of my life. Today they lifted the 32 year old handgun ban in Washington D.C. or as I like to call it, home.

I have bragged and ranted over the fact that I believe I need a gun to ward off urban predators from my residence, but secretly deep inside this rugged, handsome exterior, their lies a scared little boy hiding underneath of the bed waiting for something terrible to come looking for him. I am pretty good at hide and go seek. Now its not that I think that guns are evil, or that I don’t believe in the right to bear arms. I am just scared that now there might be more guns in the hands of the ignorant.

Now there is a point to be made that now I have the right to own a weapon. If you know me this is a bad idea. Let’s just say for example that it wasn’t a bad idea for me to own a gun. What would I do with one, have a showdown in the middle of Florida Avenue with some crazy? I mean if someone pulls a gun on me, am I going to pull a gun out and say, “Sorry buddy, maybe next time”?

I guess what I am really saying is that I don’t know how safe I feel now that I know every man woman and child is going out to buy firearms, especially since I will not be a part of this whole fad. Or will I?

Now I can commence in story time.

It’s funny what you can remember. (sorry Forrest) Growing up, I played sports like most youth and I had kind support and enthusiasm from my parents. My mother would buy me the equipment and my father would take me to the games and yell the same three to five letter word depending on the sport. For example if I was playing soccer he would yell, “shoot!” over and over again. Sometimes he would yell “run!” If I was lucky he would yell back and forth between “shoot!” and “run!” This was the man that raised me. I could probably write ten stories about him, and I probably will. Getting back to the point, he would always tell me, like all good parents should, “never quit.” No matter how much I hated what I was doing, he would never let me quit. Ah yes that is until I found my sac and told him to stop running my life (I have been an asshole since 5).

I can remember the first thing I quit, karate. Ah yes, Tae Kwon Doe, the Korean sensation that swept the nation. Think early 90s. Bright colors, parachute pants, bugle boys, MC Hammer were all in style. Apparently so was karate.

There I was, stretching in a large group of young and old wearing my clean freshly bleached white gee adorned by a belt depicting my rank. I was a purple belt three belts below the sacred black belt and I could do a flying side kick. I remember looking at the instructor mid butterfly stretch and thinking, “my does he have impressive facial hair.” About a second later he was looking at me shaking his head and I knew why. I had just done the most embarrassing thing a young boy could do in a room full of silent people. Farted.

I think the sound bounced around the room a couple of times which gave me just enough time to run crying from the cafeteria in which the karate lessons were held. My mother was there and she comforted me and told me it was alright and even bought me a late night grape soda, unthinkable. Stupid Chuck Norris looking instructor ruined my career as the greatest karate champion ever.