Every few months the "Crossroads of the West" gun show comes to Salt Lake City. I'd been seeing the blazing hunter orange signs advertising it along I-15 for years, but had simply shuddered and driven by. That all changed when I met Riley's family.

They are HARD CORE gun owners. If the government falls and it all goes down, I'm heading to their compound/house in Holladay, Utah and loading up the shootin' irons. Join us at your own risk. The remarkable thing is that you would never guess it by looking at them that they are avid shooters and hunters. I had no idea about the arsenal they are sitting on top of until the day Riley showed me the walk-in gun safe in the basement. As soon as she said the phrase "walk-in gun safe" I knew that these were no ordinary gun owners. As we dated, I went shooting with them several times. To my surprise and my dear mother's consternation, I discovered that I not only enjoyed firearms, but that I actually had a bit of a knack for them. I could bust up clay pigeons and hit the "10" ring with the best of them. Riley's proud father presented me with my first handgun as a college graduation present. My mother took him off her Christmas card list.

One of your responsibilities as a gun owner is to attend the aforementioned gun show as often as possible. I duly accompanied Riley's dad and brothers to a show a couple of years ago, and I've been back several times since. I recently introduced my brother to the dangers and delights of the gun show. As I watched his cherubic face light up at the sight of all the varieties of plaid flannel and facial hair, a thought occurred to me. Something happens to you when you get your hand stamped and enter into that cavernous expo center. Some sort of reality distortion field alters your thinking and makes you do things that would make no sense on the outside. Allow me to explain.

I'm sure you've heard the term "beer goggles". This refers to the fact that under the stupor of alcohol, things (and by things I mean women) that you would find horrifying and grotesque when sober are suddenly appealing and attractive. The LDS world has a similar aphorism: "mission goggles". I submit to you, dear reader, that once you cross the invisible line just behind the NRA table, you have donned a set of gun show goggles (GSG) and should be considered a danger to yourself and those around you.

The pile of gun show detritus in the back of my closet testifies to the fact that I am not immune to the effects of GSG. "I've never had a blowgun," I once thought to myself while under the nefarious fog of GSG. "I can't imagine a future without a blowgun in my life." Shortly thereafter I found myself wondering if I'd made a mistake purchasing a 14" blowgun instead of the 20" like the nice booth man recommended. GSG actually gave me blowgun regret.

"You know what I really need: throwing knives." This is a perfectly normal thought that GSG will sweetly whisper in your ear. "A real man has a Chinese-made, lead-infused, metal airsoft gun," GSG will tell your fevered mind with cool, inescapable logic. You are helpless to resist.

GSG is a cruel mistress. The second you exit the expo center, you will look into the generic yellow plastic bag you're clutching and wonder what in the world just happened. You will look around and make sure nobody you know sees what you are holding. You will lie awake at night thinking about the all the money you just wasted on absolute crap, and swear that it will never happen again. And then, a few months later, there's a bright orange billboard on the freeway...