NO TOY GUNS ALLOWED
by George Jonas
Benador Associates
February 22, 2006

In a town near Toronto municipal authorities outlawed toy guns. You might
think they meant imitation guns, realistic replicas, in the hands of bank
robbers. Please! Those had been outlawed a long time ago. No, the city
fathers outlawed TOY guns, those big red or blue plastic things that squirt
water, in the hands of children.

A person under 18 possessing such a repugnant toy in a public place within
the borders of the enlightened and pacific township of Scugog is in breach
of the new bylaw, making the infant offender, or rather the adult in charge
of him or her, liable to a fine of $150. Enforcement is in the capable
hands of the Durham Regional Police.

Showing their customary common sense and forbearance, the constabulary have
so far refrained from prosecuting children who voluntarily surrender the
prohibited objects under an informal toy gun amnesty (or gunmesty, if you
want to save a syllable.) Sooner or later, though, the gendarmes will have
to get tough. Four-year-olds who refuse to disarm are likely to be in for a
rough ride along the scenic shores of Lake Scugog.

I use phrases such as "city fathers" and "municipal authorities" to
describe the progenitors of the bylaw. This is technically correct ­ the
measure couldn't have been promulgated without the councilors going along
with it ­ but it fails to give due credit to Scugog Township's worthy
mayor, Marilyn Pierce. The anti-toy gun edict has been her brain-child and
her crusade. The rest of the council merely played chorus to her worship's
lead.

Flush with her success demilitarizing the toddlers of Scugog, no doubt
saving countless space aliens in the process, the fierce Ms. Pierce spoke
to the press about seeing the ban extended to other municipalities in the
Greater Toronto Area. She was sanguine about her chances. The initiative of
getting toy guns off the street struck her worship as uncontroversial. "It
is really about protecting children," she said, "and I don't know how
anyone can have an issue with that."

I fancy Ms. Pierce chances myself, not because "it is really about
protecting children," but because it is really about human stupidity, which
is near-invincible.

Idiocy, a fascinating condition, doesn't necessarily manifest itself all
the time in people who suffer from it. It may lie dormant until triggered
by some outside irritant, such as an idea. Should an idea strike a carrier
of the disease ­ say, the mayor of a bucolic township ­ the virus of latent
idiocy can suddenly flare up, become a fulminating epidemic, and race
through the Greater Toronto Area.

Individuals in whom the virus has not yet awakened exhibit a deceptive aura
of normalcy. Their conduct is often unremarkable. Not only can they dress
and feed themselves, but will take out the garbage, talk sensibly about the
weather, hold down a job, and raise a family. They may even run for public
office and (heaven protect us) win cabinet appointments. It's not until
they encounter an idea, such as war toys being the cause of violent
behaviour, that they will reveal the symptoms of their condition, usually
from one minute to the next, and often in the most florid manner.

A couple I knew in the 1960s came from the Netherlands. Schoolteachers
both, decent, salt-of-the-earth people, they believed the world would be a
better place without war, which was true, and that war started in people's
minds, which was true enough. They also got the idea that war was put into
children's minds by war toys, which was fatuous.

"It's all imprinting," Mrs. K. explained to me as we were sipping
Indonesian tea in her kitchen. "A son gets a toy tank from her father. For
Christmas. At an impressionable age. No wonder he'll think that tanks are
all right."

"Everything begins," intoned her husband, "with little boys playing with
guns and tanks."

"Not ours, of course," she added. "In our home there are no war toys."

It was true, as I saw for myself on my way to the washroom. The twins
romping in the basement had no war toys. All they had was a stethoscope, a
doll's house, and a few pieces of wood. The two boys were utilizing the
latter as I was crossing the playroom. They were pointing the wooden sticks
at each other, going rat-tat-tat-tat.

When you're six and have a stick of wood, you don't need a submachine gun.
I have every confidence in the children of Scugog.

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