American Obscenity

First and foremost, I'm an idealist. Well, not in the generally accepted usage of that word. Really, I'm more into the idea of something over the reality of it, especially if I find it funny. Because of this characteristic, I will do many a strange thing (eg. Act like a gun-wielding psychopathic self-help instructor/kidnapper to an adolescent boy; break out the Vanilla Ice Super-dance in a crowded bar or, better yet, debutante party; walk across the country; join the Army; etc.). Seeing as how I've already been on this marble for twenty-six years, I doubt that this is going to change.

While I'd had my latest humdinger of an idea stuck in my head for quite some time, when I was in Iraq I finally promised myself that I was going to do it when I got back . Today I finally followed through and did it. I bought into the "American Dream".

Now, when I say the "American Dream" I don't mean to say the ideal of the Norman Rockwell/John Steinbeck American Dream but, rather, the 21 ^stcentury reality of it. Thus, I'm not talking of the farm out in the countryside. I mean the American Dream in all of its amazing excess and unnecessity. I mean the American Dream in all it's blazing garishness. I mean the American Dream in all it's, frankly, obscenity.

You know what I'm talking about. Trust me, you do. It's the American Dream that made John Walker Lindh go scruffy and Afghani. It's theAmerican Dream that sends well-meaning kids off to European universities (or ones in California ) where they bitch about the way the country used to be. But you see, I'm not taking the traditional stance AGAINST this real American Dream. Oh, no. I'm mocking it by embracing it.

"How did Andre buy in?" one might ask. Well, I had to find the perfect example, first of all. What exemplifies the real American Dream, then? The King-sized value meal with a half-pound of French-fries, half-gallon of syrup, and chemical concoction masquerading as a sandwich? The two and a half ton behemoth Sport Utility Vehicle driven by the bored housewife so that she can fit in the groceries, the kids, platoon of Infantry, and still run over hapless commuters while talking on her cell phone and never once straying from asphalt?

Nope, I bought a Desert Eagle. That's a Desert Eagle .50. That's a Desert Eagle .50 hand gun. I mean, really, is there any greater symbol of America than a handgun? The Desert Eagle is so monstrous and impractical it can't help but be perfect (.50 means that the bullet is half of an inch in diameter). The fact that it's made by Isrealis is icing on the cake. The ultimate American Dream, delivered by foreigners.

How can I be sure that it's the ultimate symbol of American Obscenity? Easy. Look at movies. When a director needs to make sure that he's being cutting edge in films, everyone is blithely spitting lead from a Desert Eagle. The best part is, it's not even just the American movies. For example, the British gangster film Snatch (not a blue movie despite the title) prominently features a Desert Eagle and the awe that it inspires. The baddies from The Matrix? They're blazing away with them too. I could go on, but just trust me. When movies want to be ultra- Americanly extravagant, they do one of two things. Either, they destroy unbelievably expensive things (Notre Dame's Rose Window in Van Helsing, Paris and New York in Armageddon, a dozen Lamborghinis and Ferraris in Bad Boys 2 ) or they shoot Desert Eagle .50s.

I'd done all the research necessary for such a momentous purchase on the internet. Yes, the money it takes to buy a used car was a bit daunting to let go of, but I'd promised myself and thus was willing to jump in. After ascertaining which shop had my beauty I made a bolt for it, dragging cousin Elizabeth along in tow.

We got there and there were three different models of the Desert Eagle. Now, one might think that, in order to achieve my little joke, I would have bought the chrome or the golden tiger-striped titanium model, but that would be wrong. The American Dream isn't simply tacky. It's tacky masquerading as indispensable. Thus, I got the matte-black, "refined" finish.

Now, for those that haven't handled one, the gun is damn huge. Besides weighing in at well over four pounds, empty, the grip is big around as a redwood sapling. I've got large hands and it still felt like I was squeezing hold of a paint can. Also, it doesn't come in a nice, little gun-case. It came in a foam lined briefcase. Undaunted, I purchased it on plastic (When I go ultra-American, I go all out), along with twenty rounds of ammo. All told, I paid $1350.

We went next door to the firing range after I'd gotten my other pistol out of the car for Elizabeth to try out. After putting on the ear plugs, head phones, and clear glasses, we got on the indoor range. I set up the target and sent it out five yards. I gave Elizabeth a hand-gun firing 101 and she let rip with three shots from the 9mm. The target, I'm sorry to say, lost both kidneys and at least one testicle.

Then she stood aside and I unsheathed my new symbol of phallic inadequacy. I took the bullets and gingerly tried to load them into the magazine. That didn't work, so I huffed and puffed and banged and contorted and managed to get all seven of the rounds in there five minutes, and several bruised fingers, later. I then set my feet and pulled the slide back to chamber the first round. Actually, that's what I tried to do, but the slide was so hard to draw back that I had to do some crazy looking maneuver that looked an awful lot like trying to pull Odysseus' bow string. At any rate, I managed to get a round chambered.

I took sight and BOOOOOOOOM! I missed the silhouette by two inches off to the left. BOOOOOOOOOOOM! I hit the same spot. I readjusted my stance. BOOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOM! I'd coated his heart with $6 of good ole lead.

Firing the pistol wasn't nearly as difficult as I'd thought it would be. The kick wasn't hard to deal with. In fact, it felt like catching a high-schooler's fastball with a catcher's mitt. After setting the gun down, I turned to look at Elizabeth. She was bleach- white and there was a trickle of blood on her thumb where she'd squeezed herself so tightly with fright. "It was so loud! I thought it was a cannon! And the worst part was the flame that shot out of it!"

After I fired off a few more rounds, we packed up and headed off. I was so thoroughly pleased with my success that I had to share it with someone. I called a friend and delightedly told him all about it. As I was waxing orgasmically, Elizabeth mocked me by telling me to make sure that I told him that "it's so macho, when you fire it, your chest hair grows."

So, there. I've accomplished the first part of what I must. To finish my personal little joke I merely need get a concealed weapon permit for it. God Bless America.