Now's just the time to take a pop at Rednecks, tailgaters and anyone who gets in the way, writes Killian Doyle.
IT SEEMS not everyone was chuffed at Barack Obama's victory.
Take Mark Muller, the owner of Max's Motors in Missouri, who was handing out free guns to everyone who buys one of his cars. Not because he's inciting assassination, but because Obama "offended" him with remarks about Midwesterners clinging on to their bibles and guns.
"We're not clinging to nothing," said he, a man evidently unversed in the mysterious ways of the double negative. "We're just damn glad to live in a free country where you can have a gun if you want."
Smart man, Mark.
His publicity stunt quadrupled sales. Only two people have turned down the weapon and opted instead for the alternative freebie - a $250 gasoline voucher (Presumably the rest have twigged you can get all the free petrol you want when you have a gun).
Frankly, I'm not surprised. Rednecks love guns.
I remember marvelling many moons ago at the pick-up trucks with fully-stocked rifle racks parked outside a remote West Virginian mountain bar (Word of advice: if you ever get into a bar brawl in Appalachia, decline your foe's offer to "take it outside". He will shoot you).
I thought I should ring Mark and ask him a few questions. But one thing stopped me: the budget for this column doesn't even stretch to a roof on my sty, never mind long-distance phone calls. So the glories of my imagination, here's how I suspect it would have gone:
"How's business Mark?"
- Shooting through the roof.
"Oh dear, I'm very sad to hear that. Did you call the police?"
- Huh? Why would I do that? Things ain't never been better.
"Oh, I evidently misunderstood. I thought customers were coming back with their guns and robbing you."
- Hold on a minute. What are you saying?
"Well, have you ever seen that film Bowling for Columbine by Michael Moore?"
- That fat Commie? You one of them, boy?
"Err, no. Anyway, Moore goes into a bank that's handing out free guns to anyone who opens an account, and questions the safety of such a move. The same thought occurred to me when I heard of your promotion."
- Ain't nobody fool enough to rob me. I got a gun in my pants right now.
"I bet you do. So I take it you are 100 per cent sure of the quality of every car?"
- Sure am, boy. Why?
"Because I know what I'd do with the free gun if you sold me a lemon. I'd think of it as an unlimited warranty."
- You sure you ain't a Commie?
Thus ended our imaginary conversation.
You get the point. Guns and cars. Not a good mix.
Especially in Ireland, where most motorists have shorter fuses than piranhas with migraines.
Have to confess, the whole scenario gave me a hankering for twin rear-mounted machineguns to deter tailgaters.
I thought I'd ask Noel Dempsey for a special dispensation. Recent media reports show a profusion of handguns in the country.
So why not me? I sauntered into the lobby of the Department of Transport, tipped my hat to the cohort of eunuchs guarding the joint, and demanded an audience with the man himself. No problem, said the terrified receptionist (I was carrying a prototype at the time).
" Minister, I'll get straight to the point. Will you bite the bullet and let me have machineguns on my car? I promise to write nice things about you if you do."
"Arra Doyle, willya goway an' bury your stupid head an' stop annoyin' me," said he, before blowing away my kneecaps with the sawn-off shotgun nestled in his lap.
Which took me very much by surprise. I would've thought he'd have a bit of an aversion to guns, having shot himself in the foot so often.
Ah well, nothing ventured. . .