The gun activists in North Dakota are feeling the cattle prod after losing out on carrying a sidearm to “99 percent of everywhere” due to the unpatriotic nay votes in the Commie Republican Legislature.

The guy who publishes the MinuteMan Blog is really steamed. How dare a legislator vote closer than usual to their conscience or as their constituents want?

They should all become far-right libertarians and find the true Ron Paul that’s damn deep inside everyone. The MMB guy writes like a drill sergeant, which isn’t throwing shade, as Rob “Serial” Port would put it, and he’s super ticked.

Why?

Because the fact remains that criminals don’t obey laws. If someone enters one of these “public gatherings,” with the purpose of doing harm to others, current law has stripped the typical citizen of being able to defend themselves without obtaining permission from the Almighty State. Anybody that’s a pro-gun advocate knows this, which is exactly why defeat of these bills is so troubling. This is the North Dakota House — led by a supermajority of so-called Republicans. They should know better. — T. Arthur Mason, MinuteMan Blog

What’s to fear at an event in almighty Strasburg, N.D.? Seriously?

So what if an older lady with a menacing scowl points a beef stick at you in the cereal aisle? That’s no reason to empty a clip. The women rarely throw one. And even if she puts some heat on a high hard one, the meat or whatever isn’t going to make it to the plate.

Or if a guy punches you in the face. You either, get up and punch him back or lie on the dirty floor of the bar with a 5-pound bag of ice on your face, which will melt, and the plastic bag will smother you. Is that what you want? Bag face?

We don’t need to add a Part 3 that involves somebody getting winged in the chest. Hopefully, it will be Carl with the wooden leg, if it’s a low shot. They switched out his tibia and foot on account of an incident that relieved some tension last September. That’s all I can say.

Or.

So, while scanning the room, you turn your head forward to see the silhouette of an assassin that has a red dot on you just two rows down, three doors down and any other short in distance reference you can dream up. But you’re still holstered up at the expensive Corn Palace theater production of “Annie Freaks Out.” You’re screwed.

Nobody but you notice the man with the gun. It’s a long and shiny gun with a silencer. Tough to miss, really. I call BS. on your fantasy.

Never-the-less, just as the assassin begins to pull the trigger of his very cool pistol with the matching silencer, a husky teen trips on a Milk Dud that’s adhered to the carpet. He falls helplessly forward while coming down the stairs and inadvertently stabs, let’s just call him “Bob,” in the right eye with a fork, which isn’t a silly weapon or piece of silverware to carry around Mitchell, S.D.

The guy in the seat by the aisle was also wounded as was the kid, but Bob got the worst of it. The fork has put assassin Bob at a disadvantage.

You can see out of both eyes that the tables have turned. So you scramble to pull your pistol and take aim at Bob.

Just then Bob dies, probably because of the fork in the eye. Do you stop, or do you still pull the trigger?

Wait! Bob coughs and drops the gun out of weakness. What now?

I’m asking. I don’t have these kinds of mental dilemmas but think somebody who believes they need total access with their weapon must run storylines through their heads regularly that involve them taking deadly action.

Scenarios with no motive that just occur a millionth of a never, but most humans don’t think that way, so they just wear a puzzled look while staring at the back of a head if there’s no action on the stage. It’s not nearly as exhausting as being hypersensitive to the surroundings every moment.

If you really want protection, you should tote around one of those chest — CLEAR — gismos, a scalpel and a heart. Yes, a fresh human one. And you’ll have to count on a passable pump surgeon sitting within arm’s length and carrying the big retractor.

Heart failure is more likely than an assassin named Bob, who just had to shoot you in the face for no reason. It was an aggressive whim. Stupid Bob.

Or swaddle yourself in thumb-thick stainless steel bubble wrap and hire one of those helicopter moms to keep you safe.