Wayne Lapierre is the current head of the troubled (not by morals) NRA.

His family, originally from France, moved to Canada but left for America when they realized Canadians weren’t violent enough for them.

LaPierre’s parents were devout Catholics and sent him to a parochial school where he was repeatedly traumatized by the girls consistently telling him, “No way. I don’t date out of my species.” He was further traumatized by the priests telling him, “No way. I don’t molest out of my species.”

That experience caused him to lose touch with reality. One day after having lunch with the family of unicorns living in his head, he heard God tell him that his calling was to get guns into the hands of as many violent and mentally unstable people as possible, never take responsibility for it and amass a fortune from his efforts.

After hearing Trump talk about gun control after our two latest bloodbaths, he summoned Trump to a meeting at LaPierre’s happiest place on earth, Abattoir-land. LaPierre wasted no time warning Trump.

LaPierre: Mr. President, if you back any commonsense gun control legislation, you can kiss the NRA’s support goodbye. And you can’t afford to lose it… I just saw several polls saying that suburban housewives who voted for you last time are so anxious about sending their kids to school that they’re going to vote Democratic.

Trump: Really. Crap… Damn, I’d better issue an executive order prohibiting anxiety in suburban women. Except for the Jews because they can’t help it.

LaPierre: They can’t?

Trump: Listen, Ivanka never had anxiety before she married that dainty Hebraic.

LaPierre: Dainty? Jared?

Trump: I have pictures of him menstruating.

LaPierre: Okay, enough warm-family shit… Now you’re going to do like you’re told, right?

Trump: Yeah, I guess.

LaPierre: Good. Now bend over like you always do.

Trump obeyed orders, bent over and blocked out the sun.



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