For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an unhealthy fascination with weapons. It’s one of the primary reasons that I’ve devoted myself so deeply to the martial arts. I cannot remember any point in my childhood when I didn’t have enough toy guns and swords to take over an imaginary Central American nation. I think it comes from my mom’s side.
I was about ten years old, standing in the toy gun isle of the Hills on 26th street in Erie, wanting to spend my birthday money.
“That one. I want that one,” I said. I had to have it. It was bad as hell. I never saw anything like it.
“No, you can’t buy that,” said my dad. “I won’t let you get it.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because…that is an AK-47…” said my dad, stopping for a dramatic, angry finger point. “…this is made by the Soviets, and used by the Iraqis. You want to get this one instead…” said my dad, pulling a different toy gun from the rack.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That’s an UZI. It’s made by the Israelis.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“They’re our friends,” said my dad.
You, the reader are likely saying “So what?” but Bill, my anti-Zionist communist gun-nut friend, thinks this is the funniest story ever.
