Advocating for an American citizen...what I meant last time

There is a pharmacist out in Oklahoma by the name of Ersland. I’ll get his first name correctly on the next follow-up to this theme you’ve heard before; I don’t take written notes on the news. Mr. Ersland sells aspirins to grumpy old ladies, condoms to embarrassed teenagers, and life-supporting drugs to those who under-appreciate the true work of pharmacists.

Mr. Ersland is now charged with murder. A while back, a couple of thugs entered his store. One of them cocked a semi-automatic pistol, shoved it in his face, and demanded booty from him—either drugs or money; whatever.

Mr. Ersland drew a revolver from a hidey-hole, and shot the punk wielding the pistol. He chased the other bandit from the store.

There are some legal issues involved in what happened next. The bad-ass “alleged suspect” was shot five more times. The videotape allegedly shows Mr. Ersland retrieving a second handgun from a hidey-hole, and calmly giving the downed robber what we socially deviant types refer to as “good-bye shots”.

Not that anyone of great import reads this blog, but I want to give Mr. Ersland the best chance, so I’ll just flash back to a few life experiences while I pray he has the best possible lawyer. We will be following this one. Now, for the personal point of view:

I am a big fan of those real-life cop programs—I call them “dash-cam-video shows”—that feature surveillance camera footage and, yes, tapes from cops that are involved with chasing down suspects. The footage is grainy, and the language is censored, but us grownups get the gist of it. The alleged suspects in these tapes strike me as dumber than mud. Don’t pull a gun on a cop, don’t run from a cop, and don’t curse at a cop. Cops have bigger guns, faster cars, and they can out-cuss you on your best day. (Respect is a dead concept today, so we’ll leave it there.)

In 1970, I worked the counter at an Arby’s restaurant like many kids in those days. One night, following a pre-closing bonanza of four buses of hungry kids coming in from the homecoming game at the high school across the four-lane, two gentlemen of color strolled in with a shotgun and a handgun. They demanded money; we gave it to them. The following morning, I was fired for “not being an Arby’s type of person” because I didn’t grab the manager’s .38 from under the counter and take on the 2–to-1 odds against superior firepower.

In 1975, I sat on a grand jury and heard a case involving a stake-out cop who shot an armed robbery suspect in a convenience store. The cop had his version of what happened, and the clerk had his version. The “alleged suspect” had a surprised look on his face, and was not available to testify in court, due to his appointment with the coroner. The diverse versions of what had happened, from the cop and the employee, caused everyone in the courtroom—including the judge—to laugh themselves silly. File that behavior by the perpetrator under “buy the ticket, take the ride”.

In 1979 some miscreant hopped off a big-city bus bench and attempted to hijack a step-van I was driving with the doors open for fresh air on a hot night. The van contained thousands of dollars worth of electronic equipment. I put a .20–gauge shotgun in his face and told him “Sure! Hop in!” End of incident. He caught the bus.

In 1985, my father was murdered in the driveway of our family home. This crime remains unprosecuted, although the cops and I know who did it. The first shot of four took Dad in the shoulder, knocking a 78-year-old veteran down to wait for his killer, maybe knowing what was coming. The other three were in the head.

The following year, in 1986, one of my best friends was killed in an attempted street robbery. A companion was also killed. The robbers—aged 13 and 15—got nothing of value. I am godfather to “Leprechaun’s” child.

Personally, I have been shot, stabbed, severely burned, and blown up. There is no drama in this statement of past facts, but it is germane to the point I want to make.

I have zero tolerance for people who think power grows out of the point of a gun. When I taught combat shooting, I cut my instruction off at “Shoot until the assailant goes down. Don’t try to shoot the gun out of his hand; that’s a one-in-a-million shot.”

What I didn’t tell my students—because it would be inappropriate—is that once the attacker is down, you reload PDQ, walk up, and give them a good-bye shot or two in the head.

In Oklahoma, they have an enhancement to the “Make my day” law called the “Stand your ground” law. Simply put, if there is a threat to loved ones or property, you do what has to be done until that threat is removed.

“Make my day” laws exist in a number of states. If someone is across the threshold of my home, especially if it’s the middle of the night, I own them. I don’t have to turn on the lights, say “Boo!”, “Stick ‘em up!” or anything. Gun control is hitting what you aim at, and the addendum is target certainty before firing.

Watching the much-publicized videotape of the incident in Mr. Ersland’s pharmacy brought back a number of unpleasant memories. No one wants to do what he did. He had co-workers in that store, and he was the “front man” responsible for them.

I won’t try his case here, and I trust a jury will see truth from any notion of political correctness when it comes to—hopefully—dismissing these charges.

I was going to mention a Baton Rouge, Louisiana case from the 1980s here, involving a man whose 13-year-old son was kidnapped and raped by a trusted teacher. The man responded by blowing the “alleged suspect’s” head off on national TV. (Dan Rather led the CBS news with it that night.)

That might be a bit extreme. It is definitely not a role model. That man, and his family, deserves the time to heal, and they deserve their privacy after all these years.

The punks who killed my pal Leprechaun got the benefit of the justice system. They got “life”, which in most states is about seven years unless you murder a celebrity.

The cops have never been able to make a sustainable case in my father’s murder. It remains a case of justice undone. The cops gave me names, and some vaguely satisfying details that there is a God, because the shooter fell under a large truck some years subsequent to 1985.

Truth be told, if some creep had run into my store as they did with Mr. Ersland, and I dropped one with an initial barrage of return fire, I would’ve shoved a fresh magazine into the Browning .40, and given the scary little shit five more in the head, too.

I seem to recall a righteous citizen named Bernhard Goetz who had zero tolerance for nonsense on the New York subways about the time my daddy got killed.

Don’t try this at home, kids. We’re trained professionals. Uncle Obama will take care of you’uns, and us old dinosaurs will shuffle quietly offstage. Remember, call 911, assume the passive surrender posture—head down, ass up on the floor, like you’re worshipping Mecca—and the government will take care of you.

For those of you who question the validity of my previous statement: sorry, I don’t teach shooting any longer, I don’t know anyone to call who might sell you black market ammunition or automatic weapons when the federal “gun grab” comes, and you’re on your own when it comes to dealing with this socialist demon you chose to run things.

I’m old, tired, and in the way. All I have to look forward to is thumbing my nose and yelling “I told ya so!”