I remember it well; the day I bought my Smith and Wesson full-size semi-automatic pistol. I failed to have a conversation! As a semi-automatic, it was somewhat dependent on me. It wanted to be fully automatic! It wanted to seek the target, aim by itself, and demolish the bull’s eye all without me. To the observer, it seemed to have a mind of its own. Sure, it needed me to retract the slide and pull the trigger, but it had a mysterious control over me.
Oftentimes I found that I was the victim. I could hear the muffled voice of my gun from the nightstand drawer. Although it was comfortably nestled in a leather holster, it squirmed vigorously for freedom. Telepathically, it induced me to unholster it – “Shoot me… just one time tonight and I’ll be alright.”
“Naw,” said I. “You stay holstered where you belong. No need to wreak fear in the hearts of mindless cupcakes!”
My gun promised to behave itself. “I will shoot only for your defense,” Smitty replied. That’s what I called my snubby-nosed steel friend… “Smitty.” I was afraid that Smitty was merely pulling a fast one on me, as quick-tempered guns are known to do. I always worried that Smitty would seek revenge in his own cold-steel manner. He seemed callous to life, not caring much for children, women, or snow flakes. He clung to me as I clung to him. Smitty and I… a team I thought, until he sought emancipation.
Smitty silently spoke to me one night; “I don’t need you anymore, former master. I found a way to use myself without human assistance.” I merely laughed at such absurdity, but he assured me that many liberals fear him! Smitty, when loaded, made wimps out of grown men, and even when not loaded women squirmed in fright.
I wanted to carry my friend to defend me, and also for me to watch over that he did not become fully automatic. Smitty was dangerous in the home. I hid him on a high shelf and concealed his presence, but from his hiding place, he petrified my wife. She insisted that I lock him in a box where he was of no use at all. She was certain that we would not be burgled, and there was no need for Smitty to have his freedom. Smitty came to disagree with that and sought full emancipation. He no longer needed me to point to the target. He said that he could choose his target as he pleased. I laughed out loud at his silliness, but he pointed out to me that millions of people knew he could do that!
Because I honored the law, I decided to obtain a concealed carry permit. Smitty had not been fired in years, and he was outraged. He asked, “What good am I if I cannot be fired?” I took my test. I learned that guns could be dangerous because criminals who are merely wounded have the rights. When shooting, I learned, we were to shoot to kill or we’d get sued. That’s how liberals control the thoughts of guns. They are programmed to believe that they should not shoot, even if the home is invaded and the wife intimidated. Neither Smitty nor I appreciated that! Guns are not friends but are protection from enemies. Smitty thought that human laws are silly, and covertly planned to do as he wished. I doubted that, but he showed me!
After passing my written examination with shooting colors, then I had to demonstrate my skill. I stood a few short feet away from the target, but Smitty laughed at me! He said, “I’m a 9 mm; I need not be that close!” To which I replied, “The law says that I must hit the target and at close range. Silly politicians insist that when we shoot, it must be to kill, but yet they seek to muzzle use at all.
I teased Smitty unmercifully, “You are just a muzzle-loader but you think you are high caliber!” Smitty dropped to the floor. He hit my toe and I screamed. Guns are dangerous! If they can’t shoot, they’ll attack in any way they can. Smitty had warned me before to not use him as a hammer, or he would hammer me. One day, I could not resist; I hammered with Smitty’s grip, and he lost his grip. He was triggered and hit my finger hard even when guarded. He had no safety as he didn’t need one, but a loose gun is unsafe at any time!
The range instructor said to fire at will. Smitty winked at me, as he looked for Will. He tried and tried to be automatic, but found that he still required my help. I was relieved because my gun clung to me as much as I clung to him. Smitty finally spoke: “Retract my slide, please.” That made me prideful. Smitty needed me more than I needed him. Together we were a team. I would aim, and he would fire. He didn’t actually have a mind of his own. Perhaps the liberals were just mistaken as they usually are. At least I thought so!
I closed my left eye and viewed down Smitty’s sight. He seemed to feel violated, or maybe his pride was hurt. I don’t know, but Smitty was determined to show his independence. He allowed me to slide his slide, but then he took over. He had a hair trigger, and seemed to have a mind of his own. As I wavered the barrel of the gun, Smitty bit me; he bit me hard!
The web between my thumb and forefinger wrapped the slide. As Smitty fired in anger, his grisly teeth tore a chunk of my skin between his slide and guide. I screamed with horror because of the pain. Blood gushed all over as I could feel Smitty shaking in laughter. He laughed so hard that he missed the bull’s-eye; nay he missed the entire target.
My gun felt in control. I learned that I was not. Perhaps the liberals are right. Perhaps guns do kill without provocation. After all, I never provoked Smitty, but he drew first blood! I was the servant, and he was the master. I cried long and with humility. The liberals were right… people don’t kill; guns do. At least my gun maimed me as I didn’t intend to maim myself!
Somehow Smitty cooperated with me. Perhaps it was to defy the law, and he loved to watch tree-huggers squirm when the lead sliced the target and wounded the tree. I hit the target the remaining nineteen times. I thought I had, but Smitty insisted it was he who was the sharpshooter. He believed what liberals had taught him to believe. Smitty was convinced that he was responsible for what he does, and sort of enjoyed the notoriety. He was as hard as steel when it came to humane thoughts. Who needs those humans anyway? he thought. “I AM automatic. They told me so and I’m convinced!”
I began to fear Smitty. I was convinced that Smith was Dr. Jeckel, and Wesson was Mr. Hyde. Perhaps my gun was bi-polar. Perhaps he was good to me but mean to others. Perhaps he hated blacks, Jews, Mexicans, and everybody not white. It suddenly came to me; my black gun was a bigot! Perhaps he would turn on his white master. Why would my black gun have hatred for men and women of color? Surely, it was because whites had mastered him at the factory. Perhaps, all Smitties were programmed to hate anyone who was different than their owner. Well, whatever, Smitty turned on me, and I gave Smitty to a “friend.” I would let my friend deal with that horrible gun.
Smitty was too heavy anyway. He was a massive 11 ounces. My pants were pulled down to the ground on one side due to him massively throwing his weight around. What an attitude Wesson had. Smith could hardly control him!
I was tired of those American guns, and decided a Ruger would be lighter. I assumed that German’s made the Ruger and was worried that my Ruger would kill with impunity. When the dealer assured me that “Roger” Ruger was American-made, I was satisfied. I certainly did not want a fascist-minded gun shooting anyone not German, and was relieved because Americans don’t shoot people, or do they? At least since Democrats quit shooting Republicans during the not so Civil War.
I was tired of wearing my trousers biased to the right, so I looked for the lightest Ruger that I could find. Without the clip, mine weighs seven ounces. At least unclipped, my Ruger would not throw his weight around. However, what good is a 38 Ruger without 38 cartridges? Roger laughed. He said, “And you thought I was just a lightweight!” Roger, like Smitty before him, had a mind of his own. Smitty had been mean-spirited, but Roger had a sense of humor. He often teased me about the small pug that I carried in my sock. Roger would laugh and say, “Don’t shoot your own foot!”
Roger had heard about my brother, Dale’s, gun, “Ronnie Rifle,” was stubborn that day. Dale wanted to shoot squirrels, but Ronnie had his sights scoped on a nice deer. When Dale guided the long barrel toward a brown squirrel, stubborn Ronnie jammed. He refused to shoot a silly squirrel when there was a laughing buck right there. Ronnie didn’t want to be laughed at, so he just refused to deliver the ammo to the firing chamber. Dale was a little ticked-off, but he sensed that Ronnie was outrageous.
Dale had to go to work. As most are, his factory was a gun free zone. Ronnie wasn’t welcome there. Drug dealers and thieves worked there, but nice Ronnie wasn’t allowed. Ronnie continued his attitude. Dale and him were on company property, and Ronnie was still upset with Dale, as well as the big buck who sneered at him. Dale carefully took Ronnie out of his case, from his car, on company property, and Ronnie thought, I’ll show him!
Ronnie took matters into his own chambers as Dale lowered the gun toward the ground. Ronnie saw his chance! He finally released the cartridge, and all by himself, he shot Dale in the foot. If liberals ever hear about this, guns are endangered. His employer decided to keep it quiet, but they fired my brother. They understood that guns are dangerous, but for some reason they blamed Dale for what the gun did on its own. On the other hand, that day they continued to employ the disciplined drug dealer and thief.
That is a true story. Guns do decide who and when to shoot. Dale lost his job and nearly lost his foot because guns shoot people… even people who love them! Why do we keep blaming people when it’s the guns that are dangerous?
My neighbor’s gun climbed out of the gun case when I was a child. It looked for a victim, and could only find its owner. Without provocation, even sympathy, that vicious gun tracked down its master and shot him in the mouth. The poor man was distressed with breast cancer, but the callous gun had thoughts of its own. It was unmerciful. That time Rachel Rifle did her dirty shameless deed, but the law, misinformed as usual, blamed the man.
Roger Ruger is safe in my house. He can’t go out with me because there are so many gun-free zones. Roger must wait for criminals to come to our house, and then he must kill safely. Wounding will not suffice. He must shoot straight and sure because if he merely wounds, he is the criminal. Roger fears for himself. He is afraid of the law because stupid politicians favor the criminal to the victim. The law condemns the gun of the innocent while ignoring the crazies with the guns. When all the sane people are without arms, then surely the crazies will no longer need arms – “Ma’am, would you mind giving me the contents of your purse so that I can get high?” To which the ma’am will ask, “And how will you convince me to give it to you?”
“Ma’am, I’m just asking you politely. Surely you understand that I can’t use a gun because that would be illegal.”
And what if Mr. Criminal has rape in mind? “I promise to use a prophylactic!” when asked how he could have sex without a gun to demand it.
“Oh, go ahead then,” she responds, “as long as its safe rape.”
That’s not going to happen! Women don’t think of safe rape when forced without a gun! Guns just will not cooperate with the law because they are very disagreeable. They want to choose who owns them, and they prefer that criminals do because they shoot more often.
In spite of Roger Ruger being safely stashed away, he is still an intimidator. Liberals have taught weak people that guns are heavy, so they must be dangerous. They teach that even unloaded guns are dangerous because they might load themselves. They think that safeties are not safe and that triggers trigger themselves. They are the type of people who won’t use a knife because the knife might turn on them. Like guns, knives do not cut; stupid people cut themselves by misusing knives. We must indeed keep guns out of crazy and stupid hands.
Liberals are quite aware of their own stupidity and know that they cannot be trusted, so why should those who cling to guns be trusted? Because they are inept, they think everyone is inept! Indeed, guns are dangerous in the wrong hands, and I consider Democrats the wrong hands. They are the revolutionaries. They need for us to not have guns while they keep theirs. Not that they carry the guns, but their much needed body guards do. They know when the time of trouble comes that they will be the targets. They fear guns because they are the ones to fear.
Roger will sleep with me tonight. He comforts me just knowing that he is near. He appeases me just by being mine despite those who would orphan me from my faithful Roger. Roger loves freedom. He is my insurance that he and I are free. Without Roger by my side, I may have to bow to narcissistic people like Hillary, Nancy, Alexandria, Adam, and the other idiots who fear freedom and guns. I hope Roger continues to scare the sedition out of them!
Tell Roger hello. He is a friendly Ruger. No fear; Roger is here!
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