I have always eschewed the notion of gun ownership. I know myself. I know my temper. I know my neighbor's affinity for running power tools at 3 in the morning while his (now deceased dog) would bark as if invading vengeful Venezuelans were marching through Culver City.
But this holiday season brought me not one but two guns. One from my daughters who know of my continuing battle with sciatica. And another, almost the exact same model, from the daughter and daughter-in-law of Ms. Muse, who were made aware of my periodic geriatric affliction.
If you or anyone you know has nagging nerve issues, you know what kind of relief these guns can provide. If I were to be using the gun on maximum pounding and vibration while penning this post, you might see something like thissssssssssssssssssss.
In any case, I thought my new gun deserved the same ode as the one written for the Marines upon receipt of their life-saving rifle.
To wit:
This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My gun is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life and my hunger for Gabapenton.
My gun is human, even as I am human, because it is my life and because going to the local Massage Envy store can be quite expensive.
I will learn my gun as a brother. I will learn its strength, its part, its accessories, including the large Dampener Nub attachment for sensitive areas.
I will guard my gun against the ravages of weather and damage and the possibility that my dog Lucy might be tempted to chew on the rubber tip.
I will keep my gun clean. We will become part of each other. And I will bring my gun into the car and keep it charged and jacked into the auxiliary port on my Mustang should I get stuck in traffic and the sciatica flares up while driving through the Yucaipa Pass.
This is my gun.
And there can be no other.
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