Wal-Marts ammunition limit is making headlines right now, and the mere words Wal-Mart ammunition limit are enough to set basically everyone south of the Mason-Dixon lines hair on fire which is sort of an indication to where the feverish and unreasonable extremes our national gun debate has gone.

A Wal-Mart ammunition limit combines some of Americas most shining bits of pathos into one predictable hissy fit Wal-Mart, which we cant get enough of despite its deleterious effect on our manufacturing sector and wages, ammunition, which we cling to in times of stress like a molten lead teddy bear, and limits, because America is Eric Cartman and we do what we want.

But the handwringing over a Wal-Mart ammunition limit due to high demand puts me in mind of something that, at my age, I had not and never believed I would see as it was out of my personal frame of reference. (I am not yet 35, but older than 30.)

Late last year, the island on which I live (Long) was decimated by Sandy, my town in particular badly hit. But islandwide, the larger story was a crippling lack of gas. For neither love nor money could any be had, gas stations pumped dry as soon as they were replenished, lines at the few with any to purchase stretching into five hours or more of waiting. One night as the gas shortage kicked off, I (nearing empty despite filling my tank as Sandy began to hit) spotted a full but lineless station, ten cars at the ready and no fighting queues.

As I pulled in and prepared to gas up, another patron rolled down his window and told me all the pumps were dry. I gestured around to the waiting 12 or more vehicles and asked what they were doing, and he said everyone was waiting in case the gas truck came.