Royal Tea

Last week was historically craptastic. In 1968 we lost Martin Luther King. In 1994 we lost Kurt Cobain. They were both silenced with a gun.

It could be argued a gunman shot Martin as opposed to Kurt who took his own life. But the argument is for emotional invalids and I’m done fighting with children about their toys. If playing bang bang shoot shoot is more important to you than addressing the epidemic of mass shootings, you’re a child. Run along, child. The grown ups need to talk.

Listen.

We let down Martin. We let down Kurt.

It’s too easy getting guns and no good comes from guns. But we don’t do anything about it. We move effortlessly from mass shootings to mass marches to masturbation. How many people do we have to lose before we decide to finally do something about it?

I don’t know the answer. I’m asking you.

I’d like to hear Martin give a new speech. I wish he’d been around to see Barack sworn in as president…twice (it was even better the second time, knowing how infuriating it was to white supremacists who have nothing better to do with their lives than play with their white pee-pees beating off to Birther Porn and playing duck duck racist goose on Breitbart).

I’d like to hear Kurt sing a song by The Foo Fighters.

I know Dexter, Bernice and Martin wish their dad had been around when they were growing up. I know Frances Bean feels the same way. They didn’t ask to be here. They were brought into this world by their parents and it’s hard to pull yourself up by your bootstraps when your bootstraps are covered in your dad’s brains. Sorry to be so graphic but it’s time for us to face the ugliness instead of changing the channel to watch fucking golf.

We shouldn’t make it so easy for kids to walk around haunted by dead parents. And vice versa.

Listen to Kurt sing “Pennyroyal Tea.” Listen to the emotion. You can hear he’s troubled. You can see it on his face. He needed a hug. Do you really think he needed a gun?

I don’t know the answer. I’m asking you.

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