In a world of targets, pity the rage holstered

When my Texan pal Eve decided to hold her 27th birthday party at a firing range, at which each guest would become certified to own and operate a handgun, she was overwhelmed by the response. RSVPs in the affirmative peppered her online invitation site like so much shot eviscerating a sluggish jackrabbit or low-flying duck.

We were alarmingly eager to celebrate Eve’s birthday by honoring the Founding Fathers and the 2nd Amendment. Afterward, the party was to continue at a nearby bar with beer and birthday cake.

“I will be so ready to shoot something or someone,” Ryanne responded. “Can we take the guns to the bar afterward?”

“I can’t wait to awaken my deeply terrifying blood thirst,” Carolyn remarked.

Eve had no such eager responses to her bowling, roller-skating and miniature golf parties of birthdays past (although Vince Vaughn did share mango mousse birthday cake with us at the bowling party).

“Who knew there was so much female frustration in this city?” Eve asked. “If we could harness it, it could power the lights at Dodger Stadium.”

Behind the docile demeanor of your average modern female is a seething mass of frustration, bitterness, anger and angst.

What is this rage all about? I took an informal survey among my gal pals:

“No matter how brilliant, witty and talented you are, all that matters to men is your cup size” rage.

“After you pass a certain age mark, men stop looking at you” rage.

“Asian fetishes and exotic black woman fetishes and white girl fetishes and body part fetishes” rage.

“Men who ‘love women’ ” rage.

“Boyfriends who would rather smoke pot than work” rage.

“I can’t believe I let that man in my bed” rage.

“Mashers who strike up conversations with at you at work, at the gym, in the market” rage.

“Chubby thighs” rage.

“Lack of diamonds” rage.

“Botox” rage.

“Rent” rage.

“Failure to write brilliant novel” rage.

“There is no laugh track” rage.

“Late fee” rage.

“The mean stupid people still rule the world” rage.

“I should be driving a better car” rage.

“My apartment is a mess again” rage.

“My guinea pig’s $350 vet bill” rage.

“What do you mean my life isn’t a movie?” rage.

“No one appreciates my brilliance” rage.

“Can’t find marshmallow fluff in L.A.” rage.

Rage against the men, rage against The Man.

The question is, can bullets assuage the rage? Eve’s posse was convinced the answer was yes.

At the appointed time on the appointed day we met at the firing range. But it was gone. We stared in stunned disbelief at the empty shell of the former gunslingers’ hangout, which still listed its gun-toting classes online. “Argh! I need a license before I can buy my baby Glock!” Eve fumed.

We were all fired up with nowhere to go. So we went out for pizza and nursed our rage with cheap Chianti, our secret seething still simmering beneath the surface.

With the lack of targets and weaponry, it appeared Eve’s birthday was destined to end not with a bang, but with a whimper. However, after the triple berry cream cake appeared, the group rage slowly dissipated.

While it remained unclear to us whether the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune could be countered with bullets, it was reaffirmed that butter cream is balm for the wounded soul.

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Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha.bonar@latimes.com.