NRA

I went to the NRA yesterday.

That's right, the N-R-fucking-A. I was a wee bit scared my blue might show.

Friends who knew me in my younger years might suspect some kind of disruptive, belligerent purpose, but no: this was purely for pleasure. Not mine, of course, but still.

You see, in the ground floor of the home office building of the National Rifle Association is the National Firearms Museum. We'd just finished touring the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, in which neither of the boys was interested, and Aengus insisted we see the Firearms Museum. Because weaponry is far more interesting than the havoc it wreaks.

At least he's getting something from Call of Duty, right?

(And by the way, I'm glad we stopped at the NRA. Aengus is generally a very happy child, but in those rooms full of thousands of guns? He was downright ecstatic. Apparently, a true-blue mother's compulsion to please her child goes at least as far as touring the N-R-motherfucking-A.)



And get this, gamerboyz: they had Luke's lightsaber, too: