Shoot Out

One of the big books I completed last week was Duel, by James Fleming: the history behind the infamous duel between then Vice President Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, in 1804, in which Burr killed Hamilton with a single shot. Wow, politics was rough back then, and duels were a common way of settling the score (though few died) and figuring out who the "real men" were. One thing's for sure, the politics of the early 1800s was already almost irretrievably corrupt, and George Washington had even noted that political parties would be the destruction of the nation if leaders adhered to ideology and partisanship over the public good. Funny, the more things change, the more they've stayed the same in the domes of power.

Of course, there are many reasons why one politician might want to shoot another one, but Burr killed Hamilton because he had called him a name. (Namby Pamby Little Runt, or something like that.)

When I think of all the names I've been called over the years, I wonder why I haven't been given permisson to shoot someone.

In second grade, Billy Stephens gave me the evil eye and called me a "funny boy". I shot him with a rubber band and had to stay inside at recess and write "I will not shoot Billy" on the blackboard a hundred times. In cursive.

And when I was in eighth grade, Tammy Danner called me a "zit face". Yes, it was true, but believe me, she was no prize. I didn't bother firing a snappy comeback. I just goosed her. Principal's office that time.

Good thing I didn't carry a derringer in grade school. The thing could have gone off.