There's a trite title reference for you. I don't need Bob to tell me why. I have no interest in seeing into the mind of this killer. I doubt that there's all that much to see. If you're going to repeatedly propel lead into the bodies of screaming six year olds, then you may as well be a derailed train, a flood, a collapsing building. Your thought processes have become an act of God and as we all must surely be aware by now, God is a terrible cunt. But we build trains to run true and endeavour to keep their tracks clear. We construct flood defenses and evacuate the homes of the threatened. We do not sink our foundations in quicksand.
I was a troubled teen. All teens are, to some extent, troubled, but I like to think that I was way up there with those Tribbles, albeit considerably less cute. For deeply uncute instance, I gave that old self-killing bit a whirl. It was a half-hearted attempt, foiled, I assume, by some safety mechanism inherent in extension leads. Hair dryers don't kill people, electric outlets in bathrooms do.
And the why on this one? Dunno. I remember hating myself, and with a burning intensity. But I also remember hating others, with much the same fervour. Teachers and students alike, some of whom didn't have the slightest connection to the Senior Cup Rugby team. I don't know for sure that given easy access to a high powered rifle I would necessarily have embarked on a Columbinian massacre but then again I wouldn't have been remotely fucking surprised. What is not in doubt in my mind is that if my mother kept firearms in the house I would not be here entertaining you with hilarious anecdotes from my idyllic childhood. If I my drunken, egocentric 1990 self could toss a hairdryer into a bath he could surely have squeezed a trigger.
Guns, if you are inexplicably failing to get my gist, are the problem here. Guns for the dead and Twitter for me. Because before Twitter I might have been satisfied with just being nauseous and weepy and briefly nicer to my children. And my rage could have been pointlessly directed at the unconcerned gunman. But Twitter. Twitter with its hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people whose primary concern after this senseless slaughter is the highly unlikely possibility that they mightn't be able to go down to their local range and shoot the crap out of some shit whenever they fucking want. These are real people. You can talk to them. They can tell you to "BURN IN HELL DEMON". And they, not the zombie who walked into that school, no, nor the seventeen year old Gimme, they are the reason that twenty-six families now lie in ruins, never to be rebuilt.
I understand a passion for a past time. I have been moved in profound ways by my time spent astride my various bicycles. But if taking away all my Monts Ventoux, all my Alpes d'Huez, even my Sallies Gap were to prevent the horror visited on so many people on every day of the year I would not hesitate. Take the Focus. Mercilessly smash its carbon frame, sever its cables, warp its pretty wheels. Leave it mangled, mutilated in my daughter's school playground. This no sacrifice. This makes me no hero. You would do the same, with your football or your train sets or your Farm Frenzy 2. As would anyone with a shred of fucking decency.
But not those cunts. Those stupid fucking selfish cunts.