I cannot reproduce the book in its entirety here, owing to copyright laws, but if you want to see its cover, click above. Or you can take my word that it is a family portrait consisting of three individuals with gaping hypnotic blue eyes, the kind you hate to see looking at you through a gun sight if you are a mall shooter or an illegal alien. Two of them are strapping chillers. The book is told from the viewpoint of Brenna Strong, the daughter of the armed nuptial unit. One of the most touching passages is reprinted below, completely unabridged:
The air filled with the delicious smell of my mom's baloney-and-cheese-wiz-casserole getting warmed up in the microwave. As I watched, she brushed against the counter. The custom pistol grip on her Glock 9mm collided with a bowl full of cake mix and the gooey chocolate contents crashed to the floor. I blushed as my mom took the Lord's Name in vain.
"That was Bundt cake for Cliven Bundy's bake sale," she said. "It's his favorite."
"Mom, why do you wear your gun while you're baking anyway?" I asked.
"It's your father's order," she replied. "Haven't you ever heard of home invasion robberies? Statistics show that most of them start right here in the kitchen."
I was glad that my mom was open carrying then, like I am when we go shopping. My thoughts went back to the first time my parents took me out to the Walmart while they were packing their gats. "Why are you and Daddy the only people wearing guns?" I asked.
"Notice how the other shoppers avoid making eye contact with us, especially the black ones? " she replied. "That's the way we like it."
"Why don't the black people open carry, too?" I asked.
"Because the police would shoot them if they did," my mom said. That's why I love my mom—she has an answer for everything. But that afternoon she seemed upset. She took off her gun—she has eight—Dad says it's more practical than letting her buy jewelry—but the Glock is her favorite. She put it in the cupboard next to the cases of chocolate Pop Tarts and Quaker Instant Oatmeal that we keep in case we want to have a nutritious breakfast if we ever need to hide out from FEMA. "What about a home invasion robbery?" I cried. "Or what if a bunch of undocumented teenagers got across the border and broke into our yard?"
"We live in Montana," my mom replied grimly, "ten miles from the nearest paved road. The gun can stay where it is."
"But what about what Dad said?"
"He won't be back for days. He's out training with the Montana Militia. He thinks I don't know they do nothing but drink beer and go out to strip bars and try to tuck copies of the Constitution into the girl's garters."
"I'm sick of the whole Open Carry thing," she said. 'You know how tough it is to accessorize when you have to wear the same gun belt every day? And I'm tired of guys throwing me into the deep end at pool parties because they know my heater's going to drag off my bikini bottoms. Again. And no matter what your father says, camouflage is not a Christmas color!"
I was worried. "Mom. you seem really mad."
I could see was trying to keep from crying. "It's all right, dear. It's just that sometimes—well, now your dad wants me to wear the gun even when we're having—never mind."
She whirled and looked hard at me. "WHERE DID YOU LEARN ABOUT SEX? YOU'RE ONLY NINETEEN!"
"In seventh grade, Mom. Before I started home school."
"Well, as long as you already know about it. Yes, that's it. Unless I'm wearing my gun, your father can't get locked and loaded, if you catch my drift."
"Aren't you afraid the gun is going to go off when you're, you know, having loving sex in a married relationship?"
"No gun made goes off faster than your father, Brenna. Trust me on that."
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