I like guns. I like shooting them; I like owning them; I like looking at them at gun shows.
This does not mean there is a confederate flag hanging on the back window of my pickup truck, nor does it mean I enjoy hunting. Unless by confederate flag on my pickup, you mean dog rescue sticker on my RAV4; and by hunting, you mean eating the deer meat my cousins provide to me. Bambi tastes good.
I am not a member of the NRA, and am a firm believer that Wayne LaPierre is bat-shit crazy. I do, however, believe in the right to bear arms. But I have no problem with a background check. If I can wait a week to buy something, so can you. And if you are unallowed to buy a gun, that is your punishment for doing something stupid earlier in life. I don’t need a lady who has gone to jail because she punched out her husband standing next to me at the shooting range. What if I accidentally bump into her and she pops a cap in my ass? No one’s pleasure. Side note: does anyone still say pops a cap?
Since my dad wanted me to be a boy and we are huge raging rednecks, I was not surprised that I received my first gun for my tenth birthday. It was a nice companion to my Tonka trucks and other pansexual gifts I had received in the past. (Take that, Miley Cyrus; you’re not the only one who can use the pansexual word.) The idea was that I would go squirrel hunting with my dad, but he soon learned that I talk way too much to hunt. And I am not really interested in killing anything except paper targets. I very much enjoyed walking in the woods with my gun and kicking up the leaves and chatting up a storm, but again, not really conducive to luring a squirrel my way.
But I learned that I loved to shoot, and I wasn’t half bad at it. Not good enough to ever have the best job on earth, Marine Corps Sniper, but good enough to best the old man on occasion. However, I never cared for the kick of the rifle on my shoulder. Because Daddy’s Little Snowball is a delicate flower (read: pussy), I tended to anticipate the kick and flinch right before pulling the trigger. Ungood. Then my dad bought a handgun. Problem solved.
So now I pretty much stick to handguns. Since I’m still a pussy, I prefer a .22 since I can actually aim and shoot without the flinch. But a Glock 9mm is an awfully sweet machine. I would feel a little better if the Glock I shoot had a safety on it, although probably not nearly as much better as the people surrounding me when I’m using it. Well, and I did enjoy shooting a machine gun when I was in Vegas. I am not very accurate with it, so I only limped the crazy clown with a hatchet by shooting him in the leg, but who cares; I was shooting a machine gun! It was awesome!
This is the part where I need to mention my total bad ass husband (PTST), so I will share that our first date was to go shooting. Well, technically, first date was to buy bullets, but that’s a different story. Although everyone and their brother in WV shoots, it is not so common in the NoVa area. So I credit our shared love of shooting with helping to initiate our love story. (Hold my hair; I need to vomit.) Of course, he swears I lured him in with the bowl of candy I kept on my desk. Either way, he now enjoys shooting as much as, if not more than, I do. And is a better shot, which pisses me off. And has taken to making his own bullets. He claims it’s for the ZomPoc, but I am pretty certain it’s just because he’s cheap.
So ridicule, chastise, proselytize, or whatever you like. We are a family of shooters. Well, except for the dog; he doesn’t have thumbs. Bet we could make him a little sling, though, that would hold the gun up, and he could push the trigger with his nose. Then he’d be a gunslinger like the rest of us. I better add that item on Mike’s To Do list before I forget…
Note: It’s hard to be funny when your heart is broken, but humor is all I got. This one’s for Phil, who shared the joy of shooting.