With Trump in office, and him intent only on taking away everybody’s health insurance, the NRA is lacking a bogeyman. True, Wayne La Pierre, the NRA’s inimitable spokesman, has recently decried “violent leftists,” and suggested the only way to keep the country safe from them is to keep buying guns and ammo at a frantic pace, so when a swarm of women wearing pink pussy hats and carrying correctly spelled protest signs attacks you in your home, you’ll be ready to deal with them.
Nobody is really worried much about that, apparently, and gun enthusiasts are starting to think that the twelve AR-15’s and the full crate of ammunition for each one that they have in their basements already are enough to last them until the Apocalypse or the election of a Democratic President, whichever comes first. This is really a bitch for gun and ammo manufacturers, whose sales are falling off a cliff, and for the NRA, whose dues-paying members are maybe thinking their dues would be more wisely spent on beer.
While the people who make guns are stuck with that racket, the NRA, which only stokes gun lust, is more flexible. It is starting to sell gun insurance.
Personally, I understand that. When my writing genius fails to pay all of my bills, which is almost always, I resort to selling insurance myself. What I sell covers a wide variety of misfortunes, protecting my clients against numerous other-and-self-inflicted injuries and woes. The NRA insurance only covers you if you shoot an intruder in your home. And it’s nice coverage if you do that, paying your legal bills if you don’t put enough bullets into your intruder to kill him and he sues you, and also paying for cleaning up “biohazards and stains,” caused by someone bleeding out on your carpet. It even covers psychological counseling, in case putting a couple rounds in somebody’s liver proves to be less of a life-enhancing experience than you thought it would be.
What it doesn’t cover, though, are many of the hazards actual gun owners have experienced, such as accidentally shooting off one of your favorite toes or kneecaps, or your toddler finding one of the guns you routinely store in the sofa cushions and putting a round through your Aunt Mary. If you are in bed having a threesome with your wife and your Glock, which a police chief in South Carolina was doing a year or so back, and thereby experienced the sad but accidental plugging of his missus, and you remember your safe word (A good one is “Don’t shoot me”), but forget that you took the safety off, you’re not covered.
If you hand an Uzi to a pre-teen girl and she’s too frail to manage the recoil and she, in her adorable little-girl way, unintentionally drills you in the noggin, which also recently happened to a machine gun enthusiast, your NRA policy won’t pay your widow a dime. You’d better have life insurance.
But, what the hell. I’ll be happy to sell you some.