Of course we're happier. We own guns. And everyone knows that happiness is a warm gun.
What's funny is that there is a large demographic slice who will read the preceding and shake their head like I'm nuts, and I'd be lying if I said I never uttered stuff like it for the shock value alone, but it bears closer examination.
There are folks out there who are absolutely convinced that claiming to enjoy ownership of a gun; to use the word "love", however metaphorically, in relation to an inanimate object is a sign of mental illness, and yet will then prattle on about their new iPod, cell phone, chain saw or whatever. You have to admire them for being utterly guileless in their irony.
These same people are convinced that owning a gun must be a sign of anger, and it's only a matter of time before it gets used in that state. I find that an especially interesting insight into their minds. For what it's worth, most workdays between 1993 and 2007, I spent in the presence of coworkers with loaded guns on their hips. These were normal workplaces, with normal workplace dramas; rivalries, office gossip, disagreements... I have witnessed more than one red-faced, in-your-face, shouting match, and both participants were gunned down where they stood, along with me and everyone else in the room... no, wait, that's not how it happened. The argument ended, and both parties walked off, and everybody was buddy-buddy again the next day. You know, the way sane people do it in offices full of letter openers and blunt objects every day.
Why, you'd have to be crazy to even think of solving personal disputes with violence. Some people's kids, I swear...