Guns and Butter

Once upon a time there was a man named Sivic who needed butter. He had plenty of bread, but nothing to spread on it. But, alas, there was no money in the house with which to buy butter. He sat down and thought about it.

Sivic owned a gun, and it struck him midway through his cogitation that he could go out and hold up a butter store, but he quickly dismissed the idea from his mind. For this was a man with morals, and holding up a butter store was not among them.

Then it hit him. Sivic would sell the gun! He had taken the weapon months ago from a man who had tried to rob him and had kept it around the house for lack of anything better to do with it.

Selling it would not only rid him of the terrible weapon, but would also get him enough money to buy butter for every slice of bread in his humble house! The very thought made his mouth water.

So off he went into the streets of his village to sell the gun. But, wouldn’t you know it, the only one with cash enough to purchase the gun was the man who had tried to rob him before!

Sivic hesitated not at all. This had nothing to do with morality, he reasoned. This had to do with butter. He needed the money. So Sivic sold the gun to his former nemesis.

He had no more put the cash in his pocket than the robber said, “Hands up!” He demanded his money back and, just after poor Sivic, shaking in his boots, gave it to him, the robber shot him dead.

And so the robber ended up not only with the gun, but with the money and with every slice of bread in Sivic’s house. Getting butter would be easy.

I mention the ancient Fable of Guns & Butter because it fits into a situation current in Greater Los Angeles.

The cities of Inglewood and Compton, which have never won praise as the most peaceful places in America, are selling guns confiscated on the streets in order to pay their bills.

These are not just any guns, they tell us in defense, but “collectibles” which are simply not suitable for everyday street killings, and therefore not desired by gangbangers and independent thugs.

Unfortunately, not everyone agrees on just what a collectible is. As a result, a certain number of plain old handguns, rifles and shotguns slip through that are not, in the classic sense, collectibles.

Guns involved in “sensational” murders are destroyed, we are assured, because it is well known that weapons in high-profile cases are more likely to kill again, in contrast to those of lesser notoriety.

We are further assured that the guns are sold only to dealers, and everyone knows that dealers would rather shoot off their own toes than make money, lots of it, by selling a weapon to someone who might, God help us, use it for violent purposes.

A gun, after all, is a beautiful thing, much as an infant’s smile is a beautiful thing, and should not be in the hands of someone who does not appreciate it.

Finally, think of the selling of confiscated weapons for cash as a form of environmental nobility. We’re not selling guns. We’re recycling them.

Ah, guns. Gats. Pieces. Equalizers. Zips. Heaters. Irons.

We are a society awash in guns, in love with guns, obsessed with guns. Guns dance like animated ballerinas through our national psyche. We won independence with guns, preserved the union with guns, conquered the frontier with guns and saved the world with guns.

Order is maintained with guns, as long as our guns are better than their guns, and households are protected with guns, as long as the children don’t find them and shoot each other first. You know how kids are . . . or were.

God, we are told, rules heaven and earth and all the universe, and if guns were not proper, why would He have created them? Guns, we must assume, are God’s ultimate tool of survival. He so loved his children he gave us Uzis.

Ever since it was revealed that cities sell confiscated guns to raise cash, I have heard every pro-gun argument one could imagine by those attempting to preempt any notion I might have that guns are, well, undesirable.

Despite everything, despite the growing violence, despite the blood that runs like storm water in our gutters, there still exist on this planet those who argue the goodness of guns.

They’re fools, and those who sell guns to pay bills are fools just as Sivic, in the end, was a fool. But at least they have a champion. In 1936, that champion said guns make us powerful, butter only makes us fat.

His name was Hermann Goering. He was Hitler’s No. 1 pal.

Bang, you’re dead.