It's four a.m. Time to buy a gun.

Well, it happened again. I was in Wal-Mart in the wee hours and overheard two sows, er, associates in requisite grody blue vests talking about "some guy in sporting goods making a scene because he can't buy a handgun." (I giddily smiled like Larry Craig in a men's room.)

I heard a similar conversation at a similar time in the same Wal-Mart in 2003. One associate said, "No good comes from buying a gun at four in the morning." Amen to that. The smartest thing a Wal-Mart hump ever said! If she'd have said, "It's not like Biggie Smalls said. Quote, 'I never thought it could happen, this rappin' stuff. I was too used to packin' gats and stuff,'" I would've barebacked her with closed eyes while feverishly burning, inhaling, and hacking on an entire pack of Marlboro Reds. I made a Taxi Driver joke—"Travis Bickle wants his insanity back"—that didn't land whatsoever and trudged away.

Why would a man suddenly need a heater at four bells? Perhaps desperate times call for gunplay.

I've puzzled over this for days and can't make heads or tails of it. I don't know if there's something in the water in Lincoln, if Wal-Mart is the honey to every bee of a wacko, if every nutter in town hits the streets under a full moon like in the "Thriller" video, or if alcohol propels these schizos to believe they're characters in any Grand Theft Auto game, craving ballistic mayhem and fantasizing about pistol-whipping streetwalkers.

(Nothing is sacred—not even inappropriate and crass fictitious dialogue about gun violence.)

"Yeah, my ex's cat puked on my favorite bedspread. Gimme a Glock. Now."

"I love the phrase 'hail of gunfire.' I'd very much like to do that. Call me crazy. So yeah, I want that gun and that box of bullets."

"Any gun will suffice. Just hand me a bullet and a gun and look the other way, friend. Please. This is such an upside-down world. How can Santa Claus not be real?"

"The six degrees of Kevin Bacon is a thought that continues to keep me up at night. Well, not any longer."

"I've had it with people abbreviating everything. Les Mis? I mean, what is that? I'll take that shiny six-shooter. Then it'll be like, Les Comatose."

"There's a man from Great Britain who likes Nebraska, and the Lincoln Journal Star figured it was worthy of a column in yesterday's paper. I'm going to put a stop to this." (The Journal Star actually wrote this column in August 2004. Blockheads.)

"I'll take that snub-nosed piece. This isn't Dirty Harry. I'm not Billy Rosewood in Beverly Hills Cop II. My gun doesn't represent or overcompensate for my phallus. It's just, you know, my in-laws are staying with us. Hey, I'd also like to practice first. Do you guys sell bowling pins?"

"Listen, I've seen weeping willows before. Did they look like they were crying to you? I'll give them something to cry about."

(Speaking like Lumbergh) "Yeah, hi. My boss wants me to come in on Sunday. If I have to come in on a Sunday, I'm coming in heavy. M'Kay?"

"I told her I'm not getting a vasectomy. She's out of her gourd! Damn her. I need a gun with stopping power. I'm gonna empty that sucker, and she'll be on Dancing with the Slugs. Oh yes, she'll be doing the dance all right."