Snipers suck

Snipers suckI can’t believe that we still have a sniper picking off my neighbors while they pump gas, drive a bus, or sit on a bench.

The constant shooting of our citizenry while they go about their day is disconcerting. It doesn’t make it any better that I have as much chance of winning the lottery as I do getting shot by this fellow, but at the same time I am somehow facinated by the actions.

I watch the news, listen to the radio, reload the Post and WTOP every once in a while hoping for another attack, another clue, a missed shot, an arrest. I don’t know if it is merely an affliction of mine that I am so facinated, or if there is something strangely normal about being so thrilled in this action.

Which is certainly not to say that I like the sniper shooting people. I don’t like people dying most of the time, but somehow inside my brain I feel this car-accident curiosity taking over. It isn’t good, but it is Terrific in the most literal meaning of the word. Big. Incredible. Moving.

Stranger still is that the police can’t catch this person or people doing this. Even better – they screwed up the raid with SWAT south of here and gave away their entire plan. Like this guy doesn’t know you’re going to trace the call and raid? Are you kidding me? It astounds me that they suspect a guy that has shot 12 (could be 13 soon as of this morning) would sit in a parking lot waiting for the police pursuit to catch up.

When they stopped that white van and announced arrests, some of us were bummed out. It seemed so anti-climactic. All this for a raid on a van at a gas station with no chance, no shots fired? No suicide?

The disaster lover in me wants a big shoot-out. A gunfight. A chance of escape. I don’t know if this is my constant imprinting of how things should be according to movies, or I really genuinely feel this way.

And this constant white van nonsense. My friend Elisa says that she thinks the shooter must be in a red Miata. I think they’re also a tall woman. Brunette. Like Catherine Zeta-Jones. But she wouldn’t be caught dead in a Miata.

Then again she sleeps with that fossil of a husband of hers. So a Miata can’t be too far beneath her dignity.

Hopefully all this will end soon, the Police and FBI will get their shooter, and we’ll get to pump gas without giving a look around the parking lot and intersections. I can take my drivers side seat out of it’s white-boy gangster-lean. I can end my bounty-hunter-esque reward watch while I follow white vans a bit on the highway, right down their tags, and log them in a notebook.

It’s a great day to be alive.

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