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I noticed an article in the paper recently about a company in Texas that sells an unusual, yet practical product (given the locale and the laws). Its products range from BedBunkers to CouchBunkers to ClosetBunkers and they are pieces of furniture or parts of houses built to store firearms. And it gets better. An Arizona company, Ballistic Furniture Systems, makes bullet-resistant couches, beds for double the price of regular ones. But, I guess when you’re being attacked by a machine gun, any port in a storm. The idea is, I believe, that the cushions come with handles and are light enough to lift, so theoretically you could hold one in front of you and save yourself from attack.

Really? What is the world coming to?

I realize there are certain neighborhoods  where such items might come in handy (usually in parts of Chicago or Detroit), but when I told Gill of these products, she was livid. “What? I knew America had gone crazy with its guns and battle over Second Amendment rights, but beds and sofas to save you from taking bullets? That  is truly awful.”

“Well, it would certainly give interior decorators a few problems,” I noted. “What if your bullet proof sofa doesn’t come in the color the designer wants? Do you scrub your whole color scheme or risk being shot? Quite a conundrum.”

“Well, I’m glad you live in Canada where guns aren’t a problem. I don’t like to think of my family sitting on a sofa in front of the window and being mowed down while binge-watching House of Cards!” she added confidently.

“Funny you should mention that,” I said. “I was at my hairdresser’s today and we had quite an interesting conversation. It seems that there was a drive-by shooting near the neighborhood where she lives and she’s quite nervous now.”

“Poor C.C.! That’s awful! I didn’t think anything much ever happened there.”

“Well, it does occasionally. But C.C. is all ready — she has her own hunting rifle, big truck, and a horse if she needs to hunker down.”

“Really? She sounds like she’d be more at home with the hillbillies in the Ozarks than urban Southern Ontario.”

“Well, she did confess that, when her relatives from up north come for a visit, she takes them around to see the sights.”

“What does that have to do with the hillbillies?”

“Well, not the hillbillies per se, it’s just that they don’t enjoy the pretty rural countryside, the Mennonite buggies, the theatre, clubs. They want to see the hookers down near Cedar St., the divey bars and, oddly enough, this neighborhood where the shooting was. Maybe it reminds them of home. I don’t know.”

“OMG. Couldn’t you just go to a normal hairdresser? I know you love C.C. and you’ve been a regular customer for years, but I’m beginning to worry about the company you keep, Ma.”

“Oh, you really shouldn’t. I know that, if I needed help or somebody to fight off the bad guys, C.C. would be here in a flash — possibly on her horse or in her gargantuan truck, rifle blazing.”

“Ma, have you been watching too much television again? Your life (and your fantasies) are sounding like a cross between a cowboy show and Quantico.”

“Oh, I’ve seen Quantico advertised…it looks rather good. I might have to look it up…”

“Please, Ma, don’t! I think we might have to restrict your t.v. watching from now on.”

 

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