I love guns. I love the way they look, the way they feel, the way they blow up things. I especially love the way the blow up things. There is nothing more satisfying after a bombed test than to take out the 12 gauge pump-action shotgun and blow up a jug of gasoline. Better yet, find some innocent woodland creature and watch their bodies explode into a red mist. After that, I find inner peace with my soul or some crap like that.
Every now and then I hear some bleeding-heart liberal cry about the inhumanity of guns and hunting. Killing Bambi ... blah, blah, blah ... the baby seal never hurt you ... blah, blah, blah ... hey that's our new mascot ... blah, blah, blah. In truth nothing could be more humane.
When an animal is shot it is usually just sitting there minding its own business, and its head suddenly explodes. The true suffering and degradation occurs in the hands of the liberals; poor Goldy has to swim round and round her little glass bowl until one day her owner drives his VW Bus off to Woodstock without changing the water, and Goldy suffocates on her own excrement. Give me a slug to the head any day over that.
I started shooting when I was about 12 years old when my father took me out on one of those father-son testosterone trips. We got out into the North Carolina woods where I was inducted into the world of rednecks, militia men and Charlton Heston fans. I strapped on my first 12-gauge shotgun, slowly squeezed the trigger and was blown backwards three feet. Lying on the ground, covered in mud, I caught my first whiff of gun smoke. My head started spinning, my heart was pounding and my legs quivered. I knew it was love.
Since then I have purchased my own guns and have developed into an avid sportsman. Contrary to what I said above (and on a more serious note), I only shoot animals that are overpopulated, and I never blow up gas tanks. I have a deep respect for the environment and the animals that I shoot.
There is no thrill to making a kill, and there is no bloodlust quenched. Rather, it is an indescribable mental connection between the animal and me. Its eyes just stare at mine while a squeeze the trigger and unleash its death. The animal falls, twitches and slowly lets out its last breath. I watch and wait, imagining what the animal is experiencing and what we will all experience someday. I walk away without joy or remorse.
Besides hunting, I love guns for the sense of control they give me. It is a control over my life and the life of my loved ones. I am a 6'4" male, and walking through the streets of New York scares me.
I look at all the freaks (especially the mimes) and wonder who wants to rob me, beat me or worse. If I were carrying a gun (which I cannot since I am not 21 and do not have a concealed firearm permit), I would gain the security that I have the upper hand in any situation. Although I never want to use a weapon against a human being, guns allow me to protect myself and the loved ones around me.
Despite my first few paragraphs, I take guns very seriously. I love the right to bear arms, to use them responsibly and to enjoy the benefits of them.
