Twilight Of The Headshrinkers

 

Excerpted from Confessions of a Rogue Psychotherapist, by Desmond Darling.

Case Study # 37 

Sitting across from me is my three o’clock, Sandra Levy, a brooding, enigmatic Jewess with raven hair, volatile green eyes and a body literally demanding some form of ungodly worship. A raging physical beauty with a seriously disturbed mind. Classic case of dissociative personality is my best guess, brought on, no doubt, by an early childhood trauma.

Psycho-therapeutic Note: When in doubt, always blame an early childhood trauma. It sounds compelling and, as few people have any actual memories of early childhood, there is little chance of being challenged on it.

As usual, Sandra is wearing next to nothing; a wispy, see-though blouse, sans-bra, a shiny, oh so short, artificial snakeskin miniskirt and, making an educated guess here, no underpants. She has her hair done up like the Bride of Frankenstein, minus the white streaks, her lips a shade of indigo reminiscent of the fluid emitted by certain species of exotic jellyfish when aroused. I’m not sure whether to hammer a stake through her heart, or make wild, lethal love to her in an giant fish tank.

  Somehow I restrain myself from doing either.

“So, Sandra,” I say. “How are we today?”

"We?"

"You, then. How are you today?"

“How do you think I am?” she wants to know, sounding annoyed. “I saw her again this morning, following me, as usual.”

“And by her you mean...?”

“Me, of course. That psycho bitch!”

Lest we lose sight of the elusive thread here, Sandra believes that whenever she leaves her apartment she is being followed by herself. Not merely someone who looks exactly like her, but she herself, following her. On rare occasions there is more than one of herself following her.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“What kind of dumb fucking question is that? How do you think it made me feel?”

“It helps to say the words, Sandra.”

“Okay," Sandra snarls, "Let's see. Upset, pissed off, stressed out, depressed, enraged, sad, murderous, ill, revolted, angry, dead inside, horny...”

Wow, that's a lot of stuff. Maybe I should be taking notes, cause all I can remember is ...

“So, horny, huh?"

“Uh, yes, one of the many emotions I was experiencing.”

“Go on.”

“She followed me into my favorite clothing shop. Everything I tried on, she tried on the same thing, only she looked better. A lot better, actually.”

"Which prompted you to ..?"

"Start screaming, naturally."

"Somewhat reasonable under the circumstances."

"Not how the security guard saw it. He threw me out of the store." 

"Well, you were screaming."

“She was screaming, too. He didn’t throw her out. If that's not a blatant of some kind of discrimination, I don't know what is.”

"What did you do next?"

"The only thing I could do. I accosted the blind guy selling pencils outside the train station, dragged him into the nearest restroom and had sex with him."

"Bet he never saw that coming."

"What?"

"Nothing.  And was she - and by she I of course mean you - there while you were ..."

"No, she never follows me when I'm having sex."
"If only you could be having sex all the time, problem solved."
"Believe me, Doctor, I am trying."

"And how did this rather sordid sexual encounter with the visually impaired pencil seller cause you to feel?"

"Again with the feelings?"

"Trust me, why don't you?"

Sandra's expression confirms that trust is not something I should be expecting anytime soon. She issues a lengthy, exasperated sigh, at the end of which ... "soiled, depraved, vaguely satisfied, nauseous, hungry, existentially challenged, promiscuous, dull, dizzy, disappointed, horny..."

"Still horny?"

"Pretty much always." 

“Okay, Sandra, let's approach this from a different angle. Contrary to all available evidence, you're not hopelessly insane. What you are is a twin. You have a long-lost, identical twin sister, of whom, for reasons embedded in your unique psychopathology, you have repressed all conscious memory. She, in an effort to reestablish a relationship with you, her sister, but wary of your reaction, and no doubt constrained by her own challenging mental typography, has no recourse but to surreptitiously follow you."

“I have a twin brother, Doctor.”

 “Your brother is a twin? Really? Any chance of triplets?” 

 “I can only hope you’re joking." 

“Hey, a little levity never hurts. In fact, I think that if you could begin to appreciate the comical

 nature of your situation, vis-a-vis yourself who follows you, you might start to feel a lot better.”

“But what’s comical about being followed by yourself?” 
“The question, Sandra, is what’s not comical about it?”

Pass the Prozac, Pray to Jesus, Pull the Damn Plug

"One is hard pressed to make the case that the world is not continuing along its plodding though seemingly ineluctable path towards the precipitous brink of ... if not outright doom, then at least a chronic state of ultra- absurdity."

Even a cursory glance at any day's 'news' suggests that the above is more than merely an exercise in glib fatalism.

*Global stupidity levels are up (way up, actually). People are also becoming fatter and uglier at an alarming rate. One respected futurist predicts that by the year 2080 it will be extremely difficult to find anyone on the planet who is not fat, dumb and bad-looking.

"There will be exceptions, of course, but these slim smart attractive people will be considered dangerous anomalies, evolutionary hybrids, and will most likely be ostracized, possibly exiled to remote polar regions."

*A photo secretly smuggled out of North Korea shows Great Leader, Kim Jung (chubby boy) Un, attending an apres mass execution party dressed as Minnie Mouse. Whether the extremely tall Donald Duck in the background is in fact Dennis Rodman cannot be independently verified.

"Kim has never made any attempt to conceal his love for all things Disney. He envisions an exotic merger between the Hermit Kingdom and the Magic Kingdom, which he has tentatively decided will be called the Maggot Kingdom."

 *Justin Dweeber, or whatever his name is, now has 40 million twitter followers.
 Not sure what that means, but imagine it describes a situation in which vast multitudes of female tweenies stare mindlessly at their cell phones all day long in breathless prepubescent anticipation of their favorite pop poodle boy tweeting something insipidly inspiring to their mostly incomprehensible lives.

#no talent but somehow keep getting away with it // eating pizza with pet monkey/a.k.a. bodyguard Bruno. Cripes! No napkins. Gonna smoke some hash tag (ha ha) later / maybe get busted in Boston. How Cool Me Is!

*Leading story on CNN:  "The growing threat of toothpaste tube terrorism."

What will these evildoers think of next?  It is apparently possible to blow up an airplane or, say, an Olympic venue with a single economy size tube. Somewhat ironically, the average terrorist rarely if ever brushes after meals.

CNN:  "So how concerned should the general public be?"

Anti-terrorist expert:  "Well, people should not necessarily begin fearing their toothpaste. We do however advise that toothpaste should not be left unattended, particularly in places where terrorist types are known to congregate."

*Mental health experts from 173 countries have convened at a secret location (these people take paranoia quite seriously) for their annual psycho-therapeutic conclave.

Reports one British psychiatrist, "It's a bloody madhouse but, the occasional delusional episode aside, we are making progress."

Perhaps the most disconcerting revelation thus far: 80% of the world's population now suffers from some form of depression.

"We are essentially a depressive planet, trapped in mindless cultural constructs, vaguely aware that the erosion of an authentic individual identity is the sine qua non for the rampant cannibalistic consumerism upon which the Capitalist paradigm thrives, but helpless to do anything about it."

More troubling, at least from the therapists' point of view, is the prospect of the worldwide depression rate hitting 100%, thereby rendering the very concept of depression as a mental disorder effectively moot. Basically, if everyone is crazy then, by definition, no one is. Not much money to be made offering treatment for a nonexistent illness.

As one therapist put it, "Shit, now I'm depressed."

*Once again - and not terribly surprising - Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana have been voted the most religious states in the good old U.S.A.  Coincidentally, these states also lead the nation in high school dropout rates, obesity and gun ownership.

What does this suggest?  That in Mississippi one is as likely to be randomly shot by a disgruntled fat person in a church as by a deranged psychopath in a shopping mall.

*And finally football / U.S. style.
At last week's supremely boring Superbowl game, the Coca Cola company ran a commercial in which the American anthem was sung by foreign people in a variety of languages.
(I've heard that the Lithuanian version was especially moving)

Completely missing the subtle message that the emerging global culture is strictly corporate in nature - so prepare yourself to be conquered and consumed - thousands of angry American morons - sorry! - patriots took to - what else? - twitter to denounce the beverage giant.

One tweet in particular not only nicely sums up this situation, but also reflects just how essential the mindless application of social media has become in our lives.

"fuck outa here you communist liquid!"

  

Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart

Yes, dear reader, the results are in and they are not particularly good. Apparently we are all aging,  at least according to the experts, many of whom have been studying the phenomenon for so long, and are as a result so old themselves, that a certain amount of skepticism regarding their data is unavoidable.

Nevertheless, the aging process, also referred to as Personal Entropy Affliction (P.E.A. for those of us generally too short of breath to actually say Personal Entropy Affliction) is by and large incontestable.

As we may recall, all systems move inexorably towards a state of maximum disorder. And while this may be fortuitous on cosmic scales, as it enables temporary pockets of life to pop into being, on the human scale there is pretty much a zero upside. The arrow of time, in other words, is the friend of no man.

Noted Gerontologist Mindy Middlemarch focuses her research on what she refers to as the 'two-pronged assault' on the human life form.

Prong one concerns the gradual, though persistent and, to be perfectly honest, irreversible breakdown of the physical body. Things start to hurt, stop working or, in some cases, simply fall off. There is also the unpleasant tendency for things to mysteriously turn into other things, for which teams of specialists are standing by to provide names.

 A normal human head, for example, can over time take on the appearance of a lumpy, discolored root vegetable.

78 year old man:  So, Doc, can you tell me what the hell's going on here?
Highly trained specialist:  The explanation is fairly complex, quite likely beyond what your current intellectual status will allow you to fully grasp.
Man:  Still, I'd like to hear it.
Specialist:  Well, if you insist. You're suffering from an aging-related phenomenon, the precise medical term for which is Potato Head Syndrome.
Man:  Oh dear God!  Can it be treated?
Specialist: Afraid not.
Man: So what's my prognosis?
Specialist: Hard to predict. You may remain a potato, or progress to the engorged turnip stage, or, in the most extreme case, you could end up resembling a rotting pumpkin.
Man: That's terrible!
Specialist:  True, but look on the bright side. You'll be a big, scary hit come Halloween.

Prong two deals with the deterioration of mental faculties, or as Dr. Middlemarch graciously  characterizes it, the metamorphosis of the mature mind. "Old people don't necessarily lose their minds," she says. "Rather they undergo a critical divergence with temporal reality, what I like to call acute memory displacement, frequently accompanied by a slipping out of sync with current cultural paradigms."

Say what?

Take, for example, the curious case of John P., an 86 year old living in the more or less exact epicenter of the memory-impaired Mid-West. John can recall in exquisite, some might say excruciating, detail the first time he kissed a girl, some 70 years earlier - the contours of her face,
her aroma, skin condition (two tiny pimples on her chin), the tensile adaptability of her lips,
the torque of her trembling hips  (T = r x F), the formulation of her tongue (reluctantly inserted into his mouth for precisely 2.7 seconds), the color of her bra (pale blue, glimpsed furtively while her eyes were closed), the sound she emitted during the kiss (a high-pitched, almost squeaky moan), etc. 

What John cannot recall is which of his five dresser drawers contain his underwear.

Even curiouser is John's apparent disdain for the laws of probability. Statistically speaking, on at least one of every five days, based entirely on random choice, John should be able to put on a clean pair of boxers.

According to Agnes, his wife of 66 years, John has now gone 137 days without the benefit of clean undergarments.  "The situation has become fairly desperate," she tells us.  "He's gotten a lot more stubborn in his old age, refusing to look in any more than one drawer per day, and of course he always gets it wrong. I pretty much have to hold my nose whenever we're in the same room."

When asked to comment on Agnes' assertion,  John says,  "I have no idea who this woman is, but I'm pretty sure she's been stealing my underwear."

*Shown a faded photo of his elementary school class, John was able to correctly name 29 of the 32 students.  However, when handed a framed photo of himself and Agnes on a recent vacation to Orlando, Florida, and given three chances to identify it correctly, his answers were ...
  a) a Biblical artifact   b) a one-way mirror   c) a piece of fruit.

I don't know about you, but I'm really starting to like this guy.


Next time:  How millions of elderly Japanese attempt to stave off dementia by driving  automobiles at unbelievably slow speeds, and the extent to which this practice is responsible for the alarming increase in depression, high blood pressure, heart palpitations and sudden brain aneurisms in the younger Japanese driving population.

Fractally Divergent Fiction From The Northern Tier

Here at the Flatulent - sorry! - Fictional Dog headquarters in - if what appears to be going on outside is any indication - I'm guessing Siberia, we're positively giddy to announce the launch of the ...

 2014 F. D. Short Fiction Contest

We've already had at least a couple of people express vaguely ambivalent interest.  One person (presumably), who claims to have chemically self-induced a comatose state in order to avoid having to deal with the "exhaustive and ultimately dehumanizing" frivolities of the holiday season, is eager to write about the experience. Although, as by presumed person's own admission, there is ... "like zero recollection" of said experience, we are somewhat dubious that the minimum 25 word requirement can be met.

Which is a pity because, if you're anything like me, you're dying to know just how dumb and/or twisted a presumed person has to be to choose a coma over spending a few hours with the family.
 Then again ...

A woman living in an area of the U.S. currently in the grim grasp of appallingly frigid weather conditions has submitted a story entitled (possibly) "The Morning My Eyeballs Froze" Unfortunately the sheer volume of blurry typos in this otherwise gripping saga renders it inappropriate for publication, even for a blog which promotes itself as alternative, radically predisposed and mostly immune to mockery.

The first sentence of the story should suffice to make the required point:  

"Duh withermam sayed oon Teebee dat tit wus 90 bellows ouchsighed, bud thuse porple allweeze exaggurrut, I onery waantud to git thr stupoid noisepooper, fur Gawd's saakee."

(Clearly, attempting to type with frozen eyeballs is not without its challenges. But a definite A for effort.

  Furthermore, we are willing to speculate that the most likely object of her quest was a newspaper, although it cannot be entirely discounted that a noisepooper is an actual thing that someone might consider risking an icy death to acquire.)

*Note:  While there are no implacable restrictions on content, it should be kept in mind that, all indications to the contrary, A Fictional Dog is a family oriented blog. Accordingly, entrants should proceed with sensitivity, bearing in mind the time-honored advisory,  sleek artistry over gross banality.

Erotic entries are, of course, welcome, sex being the topic that most of us keep reading stuff all the time in the hope of happening upon. But again, a certain amount of self-imposed discretion goes a long way.

For example:  Last year's entry,  Coitus With A Reality TV Co-Star, was a scintillating, irony-soaked romp, both a sexy, social critique and a good old fashioned screw-fest.

On the other hand, All You Bitches Is Crazy Whores, was little more than a muddled, misogynist rant, neither relevant nor sexy, about as stimulating as a speech by Michelle Bachman.

So Get Busy Writing!

All entries should be between 25 and 78 words.

Winners to be announced on the Spring Equinox.

Once again, the first place winner will find him or herself on a flight (economy class) to Pyongyang, where he or she will have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of playing a game of one-on-one basketball with none other than Kim Jung Un.

The pudgy Kim is apparently incapable of jumping, but reportedly has a killer underhand foul shot.

*A word of caution:  Last year's contest winner won the basketball game at the buzzer with a highly improbable 30 foot bank shot. He has neither been seen nor heard from since.

 

Entropy For The Entire Family

Or ... the late night ruminations of stray cats prepping for the holidays

Entropy, for those of us who opted to do drugs and carouse with crazed, exquisitely uninhibited females rather than finish our high school homework assignment on thermodynamics,  is an unassailable physical law regarding the inevitable disintegration of functioning systems in time.

All systems, in other words, from the biggest (the universe) to the smallest (the quantum fluctuations that enable the cells of our bodies to maintain the integrity required for life) are driving on a one-way street towards ultimate breakdown.   Order  t>  Disorder.   No U-turns allowed.  No refunds.  No trying to go retrograde when you think nobody's looking.

The ultimate end zone of entropy is considered achieving a state of complete equilibrium, no further heat exchange possible (much like a Japanese house in winter), the potential for generating any further useful information nil (think of the current U.S. government).

Fortunately, even entropy entertains a sense of irony  (the official term is entropic irony).

We exist (in varying degrees and to the extent we are willing to take the concept of existence at all seriously) because of entropy. Within the current state of the universe's rush towards icy oblivion are the optimal conditions to support the fragile, living ecosystem of planet Earth. We are, in a sense, tapping into chaos, harnessing the ongoing disintegration to create a tiny, albeit temporary pocket of order.  We are, in other words ...

Living On Entropy

The human mind, presumed still functional for at least a small percentage of the global population, flies directly in the face of entropy. Even the dumbest, most reactionary thoughts are anti-entropic in nature (Tea Party members take heart). Not to mention that ...

Entropy Can Be Fun

Consider insanity, by one definition essentially an amplification of  entropy within the brain.
And yet by all accounts the insane majority is having much more fun than the sane minority. The sane are often too terrified of all the insanity raging around them to even leave the house.
Therapists, those at least willing to make house calls, advise their sane patients to get over themselves, hop aboard the crazy entropy train and start enjoying life while it lasts.
Needless to say, there are numerous examples of ...

 Entropy Being Employed To Make Life More Interesting & Zany

*Many of China's cites are currently encased in an unrelenting, lethal smog. Not to worry. The spin doctors at the Ministry of Entropic Disinformation have published a list of reasons why the ongoing smog is actually good for the Chinese public. Things like ...

The deadly smog promotes solidarity
It reminds the people that everyone is equal
It is a happy sign of China's growing industrial might
It makes people funnier (remove masks to laugh only at your own risk)

*In the edgy Disneyland satire state known as North Korea, exalted chubby-boy leader Kim Jung Un has began purging senior Party functionaries, including members of his own family. The official explanation is that these "depraved" individuals have not been clapping fast enough at party events (the accepted minimum rate is 100 distinct claps per 60 seconds).

Kim's elderly uncle, whose military style hat is so large that satellite surveillance photos often mistake it for a nuclear reactor under construction, offered the excuse that the inevitable entropy of his aging body has rendered him incapable of maintaining that level of clapping. This was dismissed as yet another example of insidious "Capitalist Propaganda" and the old geezer was reportedly shot.

*An overweight newlywed in Colorado pushes her equally overweight husband off a cliff, claims ...

"Entropy Made Me Do It!"

*A fourth grader in Georgia sets his teacher on fire while she's writing the formula for the Second Law of Thermodynamics on the blackboard, claims a video game made him do it. Besides, science is boring.

A congressional sub-committee has already launched an investigation, based on the supposition that violent video games promote entropy in young children. Tea Party member asserts that teaching science breeds sociopaths.  "Video games don't maim and kill people, physics does!"

Meanwhile, the cats are howling outside the window, warming up to sing the songs of the ...

 Winter Solstice

Happy Holidays To All!

  

Ask The Dog / A Brief, Occasionally Sordid Q & A With The Mentally Challenged

Q: When is a bit not a byte?

Ans. When it's a nibble.

Not to be confused with a bite to eat.
As in:  Care for a bite?
           Maybe just a bit, you know, something to nibble.

Q: The word nibble is curiously similar to the word nipple. Is there any verifiable linguistic and/or semantic link between the two?

Ans: Aside from the fact that throughout all of recorded human time the nipple has been an irresistible object of those bent on nibbling, absolutely none.   

Q:  Why do I always feel depressed this time of year?

Ans. 1:  Hey, who doesn't?

Ans. 2:  Basically, it's all in your head. Chemistry, as they say, rules the roost.

A renowned scientist is a wheelchair once said:  'Our entire existence is electrochemically determined from birth, but as doing the math corresponding to the vastly complex neuronal interactions in the brain is beyond even my big brain, the illusion of free will is maintained.'
Of course, he was more or less compelled to say this. 

Ans. 3:  SAD.

Hardly credible, you say. By definition, a depressive is generally incapable of any emotional response, sad or happy, valid or otherwise.

Not sad, you nincompoop,  S.A.D., as in Seasonally Affected Disorder, often manifest as an irrational fear of winter.

So you're suggesting I'm not only depressed, but also some sort of fearful phobic?

Slightly redundant, but yes.  You're a fear-mongering, afraid-of-his-own-shadow, scaredy-cat, phobic depressive. You're also beginning to annoy me.

Ans. 4: Christmas music; its month-long, non-stop, all-pervasive proliferation.
Seriously, how many times can you be subjected to Bing Crosby singing White Christmas before the only thing you want to do for the holidays is strangle Santa Claus?

Q: My girlfriend and I have been going through a rough patch. What can I get her for Christmas to let her know I still care?

(Okay, talk about making the top ten list of cliches you never want to hear again as long as you live. The Rough Patch. Frequently employed in TV cop shows, after a body turns up, cops naturally suspect the boyfriend / girlfriend / spouse, always begin their interrogation by saying, "Sorry to ask, but how was your relationship with the deceased?"  The invariable response:  "I don't deny we've been going through a bit of a rough patch, but things were definitely getting better.")
 

 Unless you are referring to a minor skin irritation, Please stop using this expression.

Ans:  Give her a free pass to sleep with other guys. Your 'rough patch' is to her most likely a brain-numbing, energy-sucking, beyond all hope, existential dead end. She's looking to replace you, and this will enable her to do a bit of comparison shopping without having to be constrained by conventional feelings of guilt. The upside is that even as you become little more than a vague memory as a lover, she will continue to refer to you as a friend.

Stay tuned for  Ask The Dog / Part 2

 

Mayhem at the Mall / with Muzak

Discerning observers of American culture, or more accurately the bizarre mutation American culture is in the process of degenerating into, cannot but be aware of the recent surge in what the media calls "yet another shooting incident at the mall".  One a week, always at a different mall, seems to be the norm, and taking into account that there are like a billion malls in the U.S., this trend is likely to continue for quite some time - assuming the rules continue to apply, one attack per week, no mall can be hit more than once,  approximately 20, 000 000 years.

Meanwhile, who even knew there were rules about this? Is there perhaps an online handbook?

Procedures and Restrictions for Random Gun Violence at American Malls

At first glance it seems logical:  heavily armed psychopath with vague grudge and major Mommy/Daddy issues seeks large audience in confined space upon which to inflict his special brand of insanity. Except it's no longer particularly special. You might think that the would-be maniac murderer with even a smidgen of intelligence could figure out that the whole mall thing is already passe, that he is merely enabling at this point the perpetuation of a fairly blatant cliche.  Ho-hum.  Not much glamour in that.

Or is there perhaps more going on here....

Are Malls Natural Magnets For Monsters?

Malls burst onto the American landscape in the early 60's, at a time when, counterculture hijinks notwithstanding, Big Business was working out the details of what has been referred to as the 'commodification'  of the American psyche; basically turning all aspects of life into a product and reducing one's existential choices to the bare minimum: consume or be consumed.

"The real world - assuming such a thing ever existed - was subtly manipulated in a simulation of the real, in which all priorities were preordained, one's presumed needs could be readily met and the natural inclination to question was subsumed in a never-ending deluge of eye-catching gadgetry."

Of course, back in the good old days of blissful consumerism, the only monsters in malls were zombies, and then mostly in the movies. The modern descendants of these undead mall trawlers tend to be living, large and overweight, plodding through malls the size of small cities, with brain-cell-destroying music humming in their heads, eyes fixed on the next big, juicy sale. Instead of feeding on each other, they feast on fast food while buying all the useless (though apparently essential) junk they can carry.

Let's face it, even without lurking lunatic killers, malls are scary places.

And yet, despite the ongoing spate of 'shooting incidents' people continue flocking to the malls.

This can perhaps be explained as a function of the rapidly shrinking attention span of the general public, combined with a chronic deterioration of short and long-term memory.
  A young woman questioned outside a mall immediately after 'yet another incident' told her interviewer,    "Like I could never imagine nothing like this ever happening here."

(in case you're wondering, the interviewer did not point out the obvious no-no of the double negative)

Or it might be that people, sensing the slow-motion demise of their consumptive souls, actively seek out these danger sites, willing to risk death in a effort to feel ... something ... anything, really.


 And how long before the malls pick up on this trend, sniff out a new source of potential profit?

Today Only!

Between 10 A.M. and 12 Noon, Psycho Shooter on premises

Come early for a good hiding place

Survivors of the impending carnage entitled to a 5% discount on all subsequent purchases

Fortunately (or not) for the rest of us, the news media never tires of these events, managing each time to achieve unprecedented levels of near-hysterical fervor in their reporting. CNN apparently has a team of roving correspondents capable, in theory at least, of getting to any major mall within five minutes after the shooting starts.

At which point the interviewing begins.

CNN:  So you heard the shots.

Slightly Addled Eyewitness:  Uh, yeah, I guess.

CNN: What did you think?

S.A.E:  Like I thought it was you know like a joke. Like maybe kids playing with guns.

CNN: Is there a large law enforcement presence?

S.A.E. 2:  A what?

CNN:  How many police do you see?

S.A.E. 2:  Oh yeah, there's like a million cops. And a helicopter too, up in the air, like flying around. 

So what may be glean from all this?

1) People who frequent malls are generally not very bright.

2) More importantly, it turns out that the Mega-malls of the modern era are the near perfect venues for Americans to indulge in their two favorite pastimes:   Shopping & Shooting. 

Good morning, shoppers

Incidents of psycho-shooters terrorizing malls have reached near-epidemic proportions

Should you have to suffer the anxiety of wondering if you'll be the next random victim?

Why not purchase a handgun, shotgun or semi-automatic rifle today at one of our mall gun shops?

The first one hundred rounds are free!

You owe it to yourself and your family.

Gain some peace of mind.  Shop armed!