Occasional politics

On the gun, and those who love it

This is what it really looks like. I decided against putting up photos of babies and children who had been shot to death. But it looks like this. Welcome to the real world.

This is what it looks like in the real world.

This is what it looks like in the real world.

And this is one of the devices that is designed, manufactured, and sold with no other purpose than to do what you see in the photo above.

Pretty little thing, ain't it.

Pretty little thing, ain’t it. I bet it gives your teeny little dick something resembling a hard-on. Come on, admit it.

There is an old saying that the bigger a man’s dog, the smaller his penis. This works in the world of gun lovers, as well. All this pseudo macho man BS — and it is almost always men who like to play dress up in their fake military garb and pretend to be warrior machines as they head out to blow a squirrel to smithereens — is probably not in their control, they are probably overdosed on testosterone and their brain chemistry has left their clocks wound a little too tightly. They probably never developed the ability to think very well.

When I was lad, all my flooding testosterone fresh and new, I had a gun. My father bought it for me on my 13th birthday — you know, the southern cult of the man on the hunt. It looked like this.

My first gun

My first gun

It held one shell. After firing it, you opened the breech, ejected the spent shell, inserted another, and you could blast away again. I killed a lot of things with this, in the typical dumbshit stupidity of youth: pretty birds, playful squirrels, lots of frogs, turtles and snakes, and uncountable signs, billboards, and an occasional mailbox. Then I killed (or rather brutally wounded) a deer (my father had to finish the job), and looking into its dead brown eyes, from somewhere arose my first feelings of adult empathy — I did not want to die, and I bet that deer did not want to die, either. Where did I get the right to kill it? Did I have any more right to kill the deer than some man has to kill me?

I think that about this time I began to transition from the uneducated, inexperienced, hormonally-struck thinking of childhood, toward growing up, learning to empathize, learning the paths of cause and effect, developing the skills of rational, creative thinking. And I stopped killing things.

The statistics that paint the pathetically sad picture of the gun fetish that too many Americans succumb to are clear and widely available. It’s a waste of time in a space like this to repeat the thoroughly known and explicitly obvious. Google will offer you thousands of pages of these terrible statistics. Americans like to kill, they like to kill at a pace tens of times more than for any other civilized peoples. For many, killing is almost an orgasmic experience. (It would be interesting to check inside the underwear of men as they leave shooting ranges with their big guns still warm and snuggly in their hands.)

These are indisputable facts (indisputable by anyone capable or reading and processing information beyond the level of a first grader):

The notorious “2nd Amendment” was conceived and written at a time of musket loaders, when it took many long minutes to reload the ball and powder after firing a single, usually inaccurate, shot. We cannot ask men dead for centuries if they might have wanted to clarify that amendment just a bit had they lived in a world of machine guns, armor piercing and exploding cartridges, “semi-automatic” assault rifles and pistols that can fire 30 plus bullets in far less time than it just took me to type the words after 30. But evidence indicate that the men who wrote the US Constitution were not gun nuts, were not overdosed on testosterone and video games, and were in most ways sensible, intelligent, and capable of logical, critical thinking. That amendment would never, never have been allowed into the Constitution written in such an ambiguous, essentially stupid, manner.

Gun freaks who interpret this ridiculous amendment in their own way, do so for their own selfish purposes. They are in love with big guns and killing things. Which does make them, regrettably, rather typical Americans. Or American males, anyway. The infamous NRA essentially exists to facilitate killing.

Any person not a member of law enforcement or the military has no use, not one single legitimate use, for owning any semi-automatic, high-powered, extended magazine weapon. These are not hunting weapons (and what is this antiquated cult for hunting and killing things for sport? Killing for fucking sport!). Nor or such weapons necessary for self-protection. Yeah, yeah, yeah … blah, blah, blah — “What are you going to do if a whole gang of thugs break into your home and all you have is a measly 6-shot revolver or a pump shotgun?” Sure, I can see it. We all need the fire power of a Marine assault platoon to keep those bad guys out.

You need bullets that can shoot through a concrete wall or into a tank? You need bullets that explode on impact? Let’s not just kill it, let’s really fuck it up, let’s plaster blood and tissue all over the place. Yippee, cowboy!

Come on. This is so stupidly unrealistic that it begs hysterical laughter, and a large dose of pity.

But here’s the problem. People with a gun fetish are not capable of thinking rationally about their problem, this mental defect. They are too blindly in love with their guns. So rational people need to protect them from themselves, and the rest of us from them.

ALL automatic, and semi-automatic riles and pistols must be banned from sale, and their manufacture limited to the needs of law enforcement and the military.

It should be illegal to own and possess such weapons by the general public. Any such weapons already in public possession should be bought back by the government and destroyed. Each time an illegally held weapon is located, it ought to be destroyed and the holder of the weapon prosecuted.

The remaining legitimate target or hunting rifles, or pistols, ought to be sold only in licensed, legitimate weapons shops, and this includes not selling weapons at Costco or Walmart places, where children run around playing. Stop all sales from these perverted “gun shows.”

And finally, we need to more carefully and thoroughly teach our citizens from the earliest age the ultimate, supreme value of each human (and animal) life. Life is singular. It’s a one of. The dead don’t come back, and there are no second chances. (There isn’t pie in the sky, either, but that’s another day.) Dead things are eternally dead. What you do today — kiss your loved one, play with your children, eat some really nice food, have a beer, laugh at something silly on the TV, take a walk, go for a drive through pretty countryside, cry with a sad song, dance a jig, pursue your fondest hopes and ambitions — all gone eternally for the dead.

For those among us whose mental defects make them incapable of seeing and understanding what is obvious to the rest of us, we need to make sure they are helped to recover from their mental illnesses, or if incapable of recovery, removed as threats to the innocent.

Do this, and we will make an America that actually deserves the “shining city on the hill” myth we have tried to believe in, but that is a pathetic joke.

Right now we aren’t shining. America has turned itself into a cesspool of a killing field, leaving the rest of the people we share this planet with shaking their heads in dismay and sadness (pity for us).

May the murdered children throughout America rest in peace. I’m sorry you will not experience the glorious pleasures of life that I have had all these decades.

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