While I have not lived an entirely saintly existence -- to tell the truth, more often than not I've danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight -- I have no felonies on my record, nor do I have any misdemeanors, nor any arrests other than a slew of "going-a-skosh-faster-than-the-posted-limit" tickets. All of which have been paid cheerfully and on time.
I have been a peace officer in good standing (more or less) for the past thirteen years. I've never been targetted for any civil rights violations by the Fan Belt Inspectors and local Infernal Affairs doesn't have any more than the standard employment folder on me.
I served the United States of America for two enlistments, with no Article 15's, or courts martial; and no more than my fair share of counseling statements -- and I have the Honorable Discharge to prove it.
During my enlistments, I achieved and maintained a security clearance, as required by my assigned duties, and had said security clearance vetted fairly frequently.
I have been checked, microscoped, back-grounded, verified and polygraphed right down to my DNA not once, not twice, but several times. The Federal Government, Texas State Government and various county gov'ts have never, ever found anything in my past history, psyche, habits or sub-conscious to ever even hint that I am anything other than a fine, upstanding example of knightly virtue.
Can someone, anyone, tell me Why. The Hell. Can't I Bloody Well. Take Home A Sodding Gun THE SAME GODS-BE-DAMNED DAY I BUY IT??!
Huh? Someone? WHY?
Ever since that stupid excuse for public self-gratification called the "Brady Instant Check" got shoved down our throats by Little Sarah One-Note and her horde of syphilitic suck-ups I have had to wait five sodding days AFTER I lay my money on the counter before I am allowed to pick up my property.
Every Shiva-be-damned time. Every time.
And it's passed the "Irritation" stage, and heading well into "Pissing Me The Hell Off" country.
We were solemnly PROMISED that the Brady Check would inconvenience the Bad Guys.
Well, what in the name of buggering hell ELSE do I need to do to prove I'm a Good Guy? Huh? What? What-sodding-else do I have to do?
And just what in the name of Kali's Ten Teats are the proctologists at the Federal Bureau of Instigation going to find on a Brady Check that they missed during a security clearance investigation? Huh? What?
If a five-day Brady check is more thorough than the investigation required for a Top Secret clearance, then I am jolly well here to tell you that the nuclear weapons program for the United States is well-and-truly buggered into a cocked hat.
Now, having to wait a time or two, I can understand. I don't like it, but I'll tolerate it.
EVERY GODSDAMNED TIME???!
GIVE ME MY DAMNED PROPERTY!
IF I HAD WANTED TO PICK UP THE GUN FRIDAY, I'D HAVE JOLLY WELL PAID FOR IT ON FRIDAY!
Two-bit, four-flushing, dirt-stupid, mono-synaptic, twinkle-toed, nostril-digging, booger-chewing, gauch-eyed, disease-ridden, vermin-infested, inbred, lily-livered, sheep-shagging, arse-picking, trough-swilling, blood-sucking, butt-kissing, parasitic catamites!
I'd pimp-slap every gun-grabbing legiscritter on Capitol Hill, but I don't want to splatter cow manure over half of Virginia.
Every fecking time I see Schumer, or Kennedy or Feinstein, or any of the rest of them, I am flat awe-struck that somebody, somewhere, not only managed to stack dung that high, but also managed to get it to speak.
I'd name them as their mother's shame, but considering that some random invertebrate probably vomited them forth onto a handy rock like a handful of small, greasy, hairballs from hell, I sincerely doubt that the concept of 'mother' has ever tickled that one paltry neuron weeping all alone in the vast, bitter darkness betwixt their ear flaps.