Oh, bless her heart—the urban progressive lesbian who keeps her gun double-locked in a coffee table like it’s a forbidden family heirloom, complete with no ammo in the house, hidden keys, and an utter inability to use it for anything but a paper weight. Christina Cauterucci, the gender and sexuality columnist from Slate Magazine, claims she forgot she even owned it until a toddler’s spilled seltzer outing turned her living room into an impromptu gun reveal party. Classic.
Picture the scene: mimosa-drunk brunch parents prying open the table to mop up liquid, only to stare in polite horror at her “protection” gathering dust next to the West Elm catalog. She stammers out the safety spiel—locked case, trigger lock, no bullets, keys in a secret spot only she knows (probably taped under a drawer like every paranoid first-timer)—and everyone nods awkwardly before going back to watching the kids destroy the sofa. Because nothing says “I’m prepared for the coming fascist apocalypse” like a firearm that’s about as ready for action as a museum piece.
This isn’t self-defense; it’s performance art. Buying a gun because the vibes feel “off” under Trump 2.0, then treating it like a magic talisman that wards off bad juju just by existing in the house—while ignoring the actual daily risks of city life, like carjackings, muggings, or gang violence and related crossfire a few blocks over. But sure, let’s clutch pearls over hypothetical federal death squads raiding queer brunch parties, while the real stats show real-world urban violent crime (gangs and criminal illegals) hitting closer to home for most folks.
And the pièce de résistance? Citing the tragic shooting of Renée Nicole Good—a 37-year-old poet, mother of three, and U.S. citizen killed by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on January 7, 2026—as Exhibit A for why every lesbian needs a bedside Glock.
Never mind that the incident happened during an immigration enforcement encounter, not some targeted queer purge. It’s awful, it’s polarizing, it sparked massive protests—but using it to justify stockpiling unloaded, forgotten handguns in coffee tables? That’s peak misplaced hysteria. But if it makes her feel better… and feelings and emotions drive a lot of gun-hating folks.
She’s not prepared to use that gun any more than she’s “prepared” to change a flat tire on her car. She’s virtue-signaling preparedness to her group chat (in this case, in Slate) while the gun sits useless, gathering seltzer stains. It’s like buying a fire extinguisher, locking it in a safe, hiding the key, and never checking if it works—then bragging about how safe your home is from imaginary arsonists.
No doubt she mocked gun owners as paranoid rednecks in her past. Now she’s one of them, just with better interior design and worse risk assessment. Fear is a hell of a drug, but turning it into a decorative accessory instead of actual competence? That’s next-level delusion. If the revolution comes knocking, she’ll be fumbling for keys while the bad guys (real or imagined) help themselves her and her wife. Stay scared, stay symbolic—it’s the progressive way.
Here’s the first couple of paragraphs from her piece in Slate:
In January 2024, my wife and I agreed to host a birthday party for our friends’ 2-year-old in our child-free home. The scene was chaotic and joyful, with several young kids running around and scattering croissant crumbs on our sofa while their parents attempted adult conversation over mimosas.
Inevitably, the moment arrived when a child knocked over a drink on our coffee table. It was an old West Elm design with a panel on top and a storage area underneath. The spilled beverage was dripping into the seams, so a crowd of parents rushed to open the table and mop up the liquid pooling within. The first thing they saw when they lifted the panel was a padlocked gun case, helpfully identified by the Smith & Wesson user pamphlet sitting on top, which was now soaked in seltzer.
To be perfectly honest, I’d forgotten I had the gun. Ever since my wife and I moved into a place with more closet space, we rarely used the storage capacity of the coffee table. I was reminded of the firearm in my living room only when someone brought up the topic of recreational gun use—which, in our queer, left-leaning urban social circles, was next to never.But there I was, facing a crowd of these wide-eyed friends, who were politely dabbing the seltzer off my gun. They were clearly shocked. I choked out some nervous laughter and assured them that the case was locked, the gun inside had another padlock, both keys were hidden, and I had no ammunition in the house.