There has always been a belief that you should not speak ill of the dead. The time to piss and moan about what a person did during their life, no matter how that might have hurt you, is not when their body is still cooling. Dancing on someone’s grave is the kind of hateful activity we see in people who have what we in the south call “no home training.”

Yet Bob Owens death had barely been announced before the “gunsense” fools began to gloat about it on line. One wrote “guns don’t kill people, assholes that own them do.” To suggest that the pain that drove Owens to take his own life was in any way related to the tool he may have used (because we do not know) is irresponsible in the extreme.

We can have disagreements about guns. We don’t have to hate each other. If Shannon Watts were to be found dead from terminal cranial rectitis tomorrow, I might smile to myself, but I wouldn’t take to twitter and say “ding dong the wicked witch is dead.” I might think it, but I have more class than to say it.

Suicide, whether by pills, or guns, or carbon monoxide is a response to pain that essentially seems refractory to remedy. The only remedy is to take their own life. When that happens we should be sad for them, and we should pray for the family. But we should never dance in that end zone. Because there but for the Grace of God go you and I.

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