Guns: The Retardation of Californians

If I wanted to persuade you to agree with me concerning gun control, I would attempt to do so with threaded parallels of gun control to Hitler and Nazi Germany (thanks for the tip, James!!!!). For example, I would tell you that one of the first laws the Nazi party passed in early-1900s Germany was forbidding and controlling the ownership of all handguns/rifles by any German prior to their other invasive population control policies (concentration camps, anyone?). But I don't care about persuading you, nor do I care to incite emotion by tempestuously referring to events that happened in Europe over 100 years ago. I want to tell you a very, very stupid and personal story.

A gun is a mechanical device, much like a pen and paper. It is stupid, as is this. I learned this very early on in my youth. When I was 12 years old my dad and my grandfather bought me a spring-loaded Red Ryder BB-gun and told me the following: "What you do with this cannot be erased. Once you pull the trigger, you're going to live with the consequences of everything that happens after that." This was a warning, but more importantly, it was a truthful story. I have lived with the consequences of each and every single trigger pull since that moment. One of my proudest moments was tracking two moving pigs I shot off the cuff at >275 yards, using my pocket knife to skin and gut them, then cooking the fresh bacon and pork sausage as a meal for the next two weeks. It was the feast of a harvest.

It took me just a few years to learn that what my father and grandfather were trying to teach me was not a warning, was not a promise, was not fear; they taught me, right then and there, that I was living a life of choice, choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of my life choices, and that loop was permanent. They stood by me after giving me the BB-gun by immediately taking me to a remote section of Utah during winter for a two-week tented hunting trip. Their targets were deer and elk. My targets were soda cans, chucker birds, and gray tree squirrels. Whether or not we killed our targets was a moot point. Our goal was a direct interaction with the natural world, of choice and responsibility and consequence for life. I starved and froze my ass off for two-weeks, despite two layers of thermal underwear, many thick coats and gloves, a constant spring of soup and crackers, a space blanket, a toilet seat built from a used walker, and dirt and leaves that I buried myself in as a daily ritual for warmth. Today, as I am writing this on February 21 2011, I would give anything, anything at all, any part of my life experience since or any vital organ of my body now, to relive those two weeks all over again.

So I have an advantage over most people in that my first experience with a gun was not one of fear, but of permission. "You CAN do this, but do you WANT to do this?" It was a choice of mechanical utility, of command decision. You decide and you act and the thing responds. The modern theory that your "pseudo-choice" resulted in "pseudo-consequences," was for me a given undeniable and literal fact. If you triggered a cause, then you did its effects, no excuses for not seeing this fact before and after. A gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Let me give you an example.

The most shockingly shameful moment of my life occurred when I was 15 years old. I made a choice, by myself responsible, and the consequences were dire ("IS THAT REASONING EVEN POSSIBLE?!" - Simon Says, PhD., Humanitarian College Professor). Yes, a gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Deja vu? No, you just re-read what I learned, that a choice can result in good and evil action. Literal, real, full, and fuck you undeniable. A gun did this to me. At 15 years old I nearly shot a bullet into the head of another man, and while on the same trip, I received a shot that left me partially deaf in my right ear.

At this point I believe it is necessary to alleviate your worries as the reader because responsibility necessitates the existence of danger. No offense, but it's incredibly likely that you've been brainwashed into fearing guns as weapons of violence, not mechanics of choice. You're probably either afraid of guns and/or you think guns are primarily used for an ugly sort of anger, vengeance, or upset; you might even think war is the result of a social version of these terms. Unfortunately for ignorance and congressmen, this is fucking bullshit. I know this, and I know where you're coming from, but stay with me, I was 15 years old. My dad thought it best to have me hunt squirrels with him and other hunters who were responsible to eliminate the rabies/rot carried by squirrels onto the various cattle ranches near our home. In my 18+ years of hunting experience since, this is ridiculously rare. No hunter kills an animal just to kill it. The only exception is when there is a threat of overpopulation and/or disease to the natural habitat of the wildlife. In this case, the threat was to cows and horses by a disease which was passed on via the fur of squirrels, but to which squirrels themselves were immune. This trip was an important step for me, since I had never before killed an animal without harvesting it for edible food. I had never before killed an animal for the sake of other animals, nor even for killing to limit disease, and especially not for "sport".

So me, my dad, my uncle Rod, and his friend (let's call him "Jack") were out shooting squirrels for this exact reason. Due to my 15 years of age, I carried a .22 rifle and scope, while everyone else carried much larger rifles with high-powered scopes. We had found a great spot on a cattle ranch, a rock outcropping on the edge of a ravine that looked out across an opposing hillside. The hillside range was perfect, anywhere between 100 and 400 yards, and it was crawling with scores of rabies-infested squirrels that had dug so many holes that the land looked like a broken-down golf range. You find amazingly peaceful beauty in this spot, such natural beauty and colors you cannot describe except with silence. We were having a blast, challenging each other to distance shots, giving verbal awards for "Best stick explosion" and "Most elusive dirt mounds". While we were all lined up sitting side-by-side, I made a fatal error. While tracking a running squirrel as a moving target from right to left through my scope, I had unknowingly swung my rifle barrel directly behind Jack's head. A rifle scope is mounted roughly two inches above the barrel, so despite the fact that my barrel was pointed directly at the base of Jack's skull, I couldn't see him through my scope focused on a target 200 yards away. I saw crosshairs and a running target, that is, until my rifle was ripped up from my hands, my head was bashed into a rock, and I pulled the trigger as though nothing and everything had happened at once.

My dad had no pity for tackling me unconscious. Instead I awoke with my narrowed eyes squinting at the temper of a man who was treating me as if I were an attempted assassin. If you're experience with guns, then I don't need to tell you how completely fucked up my muzzle awareness was that day, nor do I need to tell how right my dad was to knock me out at that precise moment. In you're not experience with guns (a.k.a. you gun-retarded Californian), then just know that if my 15 year old finger had pulled a further 1/8th of an inch on the trigger, a man with a wife and two children would be dead today. Gun use is choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of life choices. A gun is a mechanical device, obeying with full reverence the commands of its operator. Your fingers do this. Your mouth does this. Your car does this. A pen and paper does this. You cannot take it back.

For the rest of the day, per my dad's instruction, I was allowed to shoot only if I was "in front" (greater than 90 degree angle) past any other shooter. I was front-most, foremost, and had an additional responsibility of avoiding being shot by trusting in the awareness of those behind me and my ability to communicate with others mid-fun. Once we moved to a new location, Jack was behind me and shot at a squirrel with the end of his .300 Win. Mag. barrel right next to my ear. The concussion rapidly brushed the side of my face, nearly knocked me over, and left me dazed and confused for a good 30 seconds of my first experience of drunkenness at 15. After I rediscovered my legs, I calmly signaled to those shooters behind me of my intent to move. I picked up my rifle and walked behind the group, stumbling like a dog on rollerskates. The beginning scene in Saving Private Ryan is quite appropriate here. My ears were ringing like numbed screaming birds in chorus, as if I were wearing noise-canceling headphones at a organ orchestra. (On side note, this experience prepared me directly for combat conditions as an Army soldier).

If you've made it this far, and read all above micro-stories and notes, then you deserve to recognize and realize this fact: When I was 15 years old I learned, without even realizing it, that I was capable of shooting the President of the United States in the head from a minimal distance of 500 yards under extreme battlefield conditions. I shot a 2" by 6" target (a squirrel) at 350yds with a low-powered rifle and scope. That was me 16 years ago. Currently, using my California-purchased-legal hunting rifle, I can kill the President or any person at well over 800 yards distance. Most ignorant fucks, upon "discovering" this stupid fact of mechanical utility, respond in avocation of more gun control opinions, but I do not. I bought my rifle legally, bought my scope legally, reloaded my own ammunition legally, and made legal customizations to it merely for my own comfort. I only use this weapon to legally hunt game in California. But, surprisingly to gun-retarded Californians, I could make the President's head explode with this weapon from more than twice the Secret Service's standard cordon. Remember that ballistic glass present at President Obama's inauguration? Yup, my bullets would've penetrated those and killed him where he stood, even if I would've shot beyond the length of the pool. To be honest, I've never either thought of this fact, or even using this fact to promote awareness of guns, to anyone. Why would I? Don't people know that guns kill people from a distance? But, in order to educate you gun retarded Californians of ballistics' ethics, I guess you need to know the simple science behind mechanics.

Despite being law-enforcement personnel, both my dad and I are legally prevented from buying any weapon that is sub-par to the .308 I already own that can take off the President's head. You fucking fucktarded Californians listened to politicians that said "assault weapons" should be illegal. S, you gave money to mainstream-media so you could listen to more anti-gun rhetoric, and you now receive countless statistics and polls on "gun violence" in society. Congrats. You agreed that Columbine kids were" gun victims", so you passed laws that forbade adults from teaching their children with guns. Congrats. You gave over your rights to the state of California to own any gun you purchase by requiring registration of your name, address, phone number, social security number, psychological exam, mental and medical history, gun bolt/slide/grip serial number, and a personality test of 30 multiple-choice questions. Congrats. You told the government that you don't want anyone to ever have the freedom to buy a gun in California, without waiting for 10 days after they've paid a multi-thousand dollar bill and passed the above registration requirements. Congrats. Furthermore, you fucking fucktarded Californian ignorant asshole gun-fearing tits, any rifle that is totally "black" in color is illegal, any gun that shoots more than 8 rounds before a reload is illegal, any rifle that has a manual magazine release is illegal, any gun carried in any car is illegal, any gun manufacturer that does not go through a rigorous California government gun approval testing and procedure is banned from selling guns in California. Guess what manufacturer of guns is carried by over 90% of law-enforcement agencies in California? Answer: Glock. Guess what manufacturer is no longer allow to sell new guns in California? Answer: Glock. Why, why, why? You, you fucking fucktarded Californian, made it illegal for them to do so.

I can kill you at over 800 yards, anywhere day or night, in an instant death without you ever realizing what hit you. You'll never even hear the shot before your head explodes. I can do the same to any congresswoman, President, furniture mover, or father. This can be done by any gun owner. I'll never do this, but I am capable, because a gun is capable. A shot by gun is a life choice, a choice of consequence, consequence of responsibility, responsibility of life choice.

Who will be in charge if the Second Amendment is revoked or Martial Law is declared by your elected leaders? Me. Me, motherfuckers, me and my .308 at 800 yards. The Army, of which I am a part, in California. Cherish your guns fuckers, because the only reason your government hasn't forced upon you what they consider "in your best interest" is due to the fact that you might shoot them with your gun in revolt. I know this, because this is the only threat I would oppose if you try to do this, you fucking fucktarded Californian.