Pistol offers emotional support
Like many citizens of the post
modern world, 1 too feel a sense of
loss and alienation, as if there were
something missing from my life.
Last week, while watching the CBS
Evening News, I finally discovered
what it was I lacked.
Firearms.
There, right before my eyes, a
beefy, middle-aged man with a hairy
tattoo let me in on The Big Secret.
As a Texan, he said he would
soon have the right to carry con
cealed weapons. While other, more
wimpy left-wing liberal states
expressed concern over increased
crime rates resulting from enacting
such a law, this Texan let me know
that carrying a concealed weapon
had two main benefits:
1. It made him feel safer.
2. It gave him a sense of self
confidence and power
I couldn’t agree more.
People who know me as a
pacifist, bleeding heart liberal may
be surprised to find out that I have a
little pearl-handled pistol. I polish it
every night to protect me from my
next door neighbor, who polishes
her little pearl-handled pistol to
protect herself from me. We both
fear that the other will break into
our respective homes and steal our
used books and Goodwill furniture.
However, simply keeping a gun
in your home is obviously not
enough, as the Texan pointed out.
While I may feel safe at home,
thanks to my pearl-hand led pistol,
it’s a mean world out there.
Unfortunately, it’s an especially
mean world for insecure, angry
young white men, the primary
activists for concealed guns.
Attacked by feminists and affirma
tive action groupies, insecure young
white men seem to turn to firearms
for emotional support.
Unlike bleeding heart liberals,
who are concerned with enforcing
such trivial issues as health care,
education, and the environment,
young white male Texans know that
the right to carry concealed weapons
is one of the most important — and
most overlooked — issues in the
Debra Cumberland
‘7polish it every night to
protect me from my next
door neighbor, who
polishes her little pearl
handled pistol to protect
herself from me. ”
nation.
I’m proud to know that Texas is
leading the way in looking out for
the rights of wimpy men.
However, I wasn’t satisfied just
taking the Texan’s word for it. I
wanted to experience the thrill of
carrying a concealed weapon for
myself.
Because I couldn’t take my pearl
handled pistol with me — Nebraska
isn’t as enlightened as Texas — I
opted for my water pistol. Although
it wasn’t the same, the adrenaline
rush still overwhelmed me as I left
my apartment.
My face lost its pale, pasty
graduate-student look. I carried my
shoulders back instead of hunching
them over. My eyes glittered with a
strange, almost radioactive gleam.
People scurried by me as I
headed to campus, taking strong,
powerful strides. I smiled inscruta
bly. I had gotten a letter from the
library, threatening to withdraw my
library privileges if I didn’t pay up.
I decided to try my new-found
power on the innocent workers
behind the circulation desk.
I swaggered into sleek and sterile
Love Library , fondling the water
pistol nestled in my pocket.
“I’d like to check out this book,”
I said, slapping it on the desk with a
careless flick of my wrist.
“I’m afraid you can’t,” gulped
the circulation worker, in a thin,
high voice. His hands trembled, and
his bony body quivered in fear. It
was obvious that my new, water
pistol toting demeanor overwhelmed
the boy.
I laughed a low, menacing laugh
deep in my throat.
“I’m afraid you don’t under
stand,” I growled, my new, powerful
gaze boring deep into his thin,
watery blue eyes. “I want the book,
and I won’t take no for an answer.”
He handed it over, his hands
shaking. Moments later, he fainted.
I never looked back.
But it didn’t stop there. Restau
rants offered me free tabs. Financial
Aid sent me a letter informing me
that I could ignore my student loans.
The shuttle bus driver handed me a
steaming cup of coffee and a box of
chocolates every time I boarded.
I headed home that evening, a
happy, satisfied smile on my face,
and sat polishing my pistol, watch
ing old John Wayne movies on my
VCR and dreaming of the time that
Nebraska enacted such a law.
But it wasn’t enough just to sit
there bonding with my pearl
handled pistol: I needed to make a
commitment.
I called my friend Dirk, and
asked him what he thought. Should I
make the commitment? Should I put
my beliefs on the line? He told me
that I couldn’t stay in the closet
about firearms any longer. While I
might be in support of concealed
weapons, I shouldn’t conceal my
beliefs.
And so I made the move.
With trembling hands, I called
the National Rifle Association and
became a member.
Firearms. They could change
your life.
Cumberland Is a graduate stHdent of
English and a Dally Nebraskan columnist
Farmer’s plight needs thanks
If tonight brings the season’s first
freeze, like the forecasters are
predicting, it would be the perfect
end to an absolutely terrible year for
the fanner.
And once again, it will be the
farmer who comes up on the losing
end.
Some might say he asked for it.
After all, it does take an odd sort of
fellow to put most of his life’s
earnings in the ground every spring,
not knowing if it’s going to rain too
much or not enough; if the bugs will
be bad; if one storm is going to wipe
out his entire yearly income.
And come harvest, if the farmer’s
crop does survive, he’s stuck with a
product that won’t last long. So he
must sell it soon, for a price that he
has no say about.
And on top of all his hardships,
the farmer has outsiders constantly
working against him.
As consumers, we put pressure
on farm prices by demanding lower
prices at the supermarket. And even
though he gets only 4 cents for the
grain in a $4 box of cereal, the
farmer gets blamed whenever food
prices go up.
Then there are the well-fed
environmentalists, most of whose
Birkenstocks have never set foot on
a farm. They complain that the
farmer uses too much fertilizer, too
many chemicals, and too much
water, then they scarf down their
low-priced veggie burger.
There are the bankers who charge
high interest rates, coupled with
their politician pals who allow
foreign countries to flood our
market with cheaper foods.
And then there are the bureau
crats who demand that agricultural
subsidies be cut, while the govern
ment is the only thing that keeps
them employed.
All and all, it is an uphill battle.
The farmer, who makes up less
Jamie Karl
"Our ability to grow
food is America’s
greatest asset. While the
farmer may not be the
brains of the nation, he
certainly is the
backbone.”
than 2 percent of the work force,
provides food and Fiber for himself
—and the other 98 percent of us.
Yet rarely, even in an agricul
tural-based state such as ours, do we
urbanites think about how we get
our food? Few of us seem to care
about agriculture, or how it works,
or what takes place in those Fields
right outside of town.
We tend to take it all for granted.
We go on believing that the
farmer will forever be there, that he
will forever provide for us.
But the truth is, he won’t—not
if those outside forces continue to
bring him down.
Last year, $7 billion were lost on
farm loans. Fewer and fewer farmers
can afford to keep their land, and do
the work they love.
America’s agricultural exports
made her a record $58 billion. That
is what the fat-cat politicians should
be hailing as national security.
Instead, Congress is currently
cutting billions from programs
uesigned to help the hurting
farmer. And in their effort to trim
the budget proposal by Friday,
further cuts have been recom
mended, by Democrats and
Republicans alike.
Meanwhile, spending on unwed
mothers, food stamps and other
social programs of no investment
goes unscathed.
It’s time we—the consumers,
the bankers, the politicians —
realize that if the farmer goes out of
business, so do the rest of us.
Before we are Republicans or
Democrats, before we are liberals or
traditionalists, we are humans. We
need the. farmer and his service
simply to exist.
Our ability to grow food is
America’s greatest asset. While the
farmer may not be the brains of the
nation, he certainly is the backbone.
So even though he has shrunk in
numbers, and has wrongly lost his
political influence, it is the Ameri
can farmer who fills the world’s
food basket and keeps his country
on top.
It’s time we no longer take him
for granted.
Indeed, this year has been
particularly difficult for the farmer
— bad weather, continued bad
prices.
The last thing he needs is some
ingrate condemning him and his
livelihood, or some legislator trying
to run him off his land.
Why he does what he does, and
puts up with the rest of us, is beyond
me. But the farmer probably doesn’t
want our understanding anyway.
I’m sure a simple “thank you”
would suffice.
Karl Is a senior news-editorial major
and a Dally Nebraskan coinmnlst
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