The Sweetheart of Cellblock 'C'
The reason we have "stand your ground" laws is so white guys will not be anally violated in prison.
If you're one of those guys who wears camouflage pants to the mall, or even if you're a slightly less nuts-o upholder of the American Dream, you are damn well prepared for the day when a gang of cracked-out, hoodie-wearing thugs breaks into your house to rape your wife. I use that example because, if you listen to talk radio discussions of stand-your-ground laws, the callers always spin out a scenario of attempted wife rape.
And you, who have bought a 9mm handgun made by calm-eyed German factory workers, you have become fully skilled at shooting in a variety of "combat situations." You have fired thousands of rounds (you never say '"bullet," you say "round," like the cops do), and you have fired these thousands of rounds at a shooting range located in a mini-mall between Sensei Ray's Dojo and a sub shop.
A gang of drug-emboldened, rape-minded black men has no chance against you.
Admit it. You've practiced in front of the mirror.
"I don't want to put a round in you," you say to the mirror. "But I will if I have to."
The problem is, things being what they are, what with everyone wearing a hoodie, some blindingly white sneakers and a big mess of diamonds in their teeth, there is a worrisome possibility that you will shoot the wrong black guy.
A pizza delivery guy, for instance. Or some rap-looking kid whose car broke down in your neighborhood.
You do that, you end up on trial for murder. Even if you live in one of the "good" states that has a death penalty, you're going to do at least a dime in jail before they flip the switch.
Because of your willingness to sling the iron, your wife will indeed go un-raped.
You, on the other hand, will not go un-raped, and if you're tuned into the popular horror story, you know damn well that the raping is going to be done by Shakwan, Andre and the rest of the guys in Cellblock C.
You hear the talk. Some scumbag goes to the can for robbing an old lady at knifepoint, and you and your friends all say the same thing.
"He'll get what's coming to him in prison," your buddies say. "That guy is going to be Big Bubba's wife."
None of your buddies has to specify the color of "Big Bubba's" skin. Goes without saying.
Tough thing to think about, doing the colon rumba with Big Bubba.
I mean, you're no CRIMINAL. You live in a house you own, not some stinking piece of rental property. You have credit cards. Your kids play soccer.
So, it doesn't seem fair that one mistake with your weapon (you never say "gun," you say "weapon," like the Navy SEALs do) will get you anally raped in prison by the very kind of black men who, when out of jail, have nothing on their minds but your wife.
That's where the stand-your-ground law becomes a useful thing. You pop the wrong guy with your weapon, the stand-your-ground law gives you some chance to explain, to make clear to a judge that you are not some murdering drug dealer who does his killing with a gun he never polishes, a gun he's never, ever fired at a paper target. You own a "weapon," and it doesn't "shoot bullets," it "fires rounds." See the difference?
No judge, hearing that defense, can possibly send you off to be the Sweetheart of Cellblock C.
So don't think of stand-your-ground laws as a redneck "license to kill." Rather think of them as a necessary tool for preserving the virginity of Second Amendment-loving white guys who put a round in the wrong guy.
They're waiting for you. In Cellblock C. And, without your weapon and your rounds, how you gonna stand your ground?
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com
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