Why are we even talking about what’s in Feinstein’s stupid bill? She doesn’t have the votes to get it out of the Senate alive. Not a hope in hell to get it through Congress. Everybody’s just flapping gums.
So, what’s going on here? I can think of a couple of good political reasons to promote a pointlessly doomed bill.
One, if it really were very popular with the electorate. If We the Pooples really wanted this thing and the legislature shot it down, she could score some points headed toward the mid-Term. But we don’t. Every single article about gun control these days calls it the “powerful gun lobby” — that’s another way of saying “popular gun lobby.” And everybody knows it.
Two, she hopes to bring it to a vote so the vulnerable Democrats from gun-loving states can score points by voting it down. But, damn, that’s a dangerous game — remind everyone that the Democrat Party is the party of thur commin’ fur ar guns.
I’ve got a feeling, none of the above. It’s just political puppet theater, like a grinning Nancy Pelosi strolling through an enraged crowd with a giant clown-hammer after passing Obamacare. It’s like they hate Red State America so much, they can’t help giving us the middle finger every chance they get. Even if it costs them dearly.
So, an assist for the good guys, I guess. Thanks, Dianne. Roll on, 2014!
January 24, 2013 — 9:31 pm
Dear Gun Grabbers;
I won’t lie to you. We’re really pissed off about these new gun control proposals.
We’re pissed off because all of the proposed regulations are stupid, meaningless hurdles we’ll have to jump through. They’ll barely slow us down. They seem designed to piss us off and nothing more. They make absolutely NO meaningful change in the American gun trade. And it looks like most of it won’t even pass into law.
Take that “assault weapon” ban. Real, military-style assault weapons are already off-limits to ordinary citizens. Honest. So, last time, Congress had to come up with a list of characteristic that make a civilian weapon an “assault weapon.” Nearly all of them (like the example above from New York’s new, hastily slung together law) are purely cosmetic. They make guns look scary, but they don’t actually make guns deadlier.
I know. It’s hard to believe Congress would make such a big effing deal over stuff this idiotic, but I swear it’s true. You can look it up.
Or that thing with the high-capacity magazines. Some other time, we can discuss whether they’re dangerous. But, for now, did you know the “ban” only covered making new ones? All the old ones were still out there, still legal to own, still legal to sell, still on the shelves. We have gazillions of the things lying around. So anyone who wanted one could get one, no probs. Oh, and the same applied to “assault weapons.”
It wasn’t so much a ban as a making-things-somewhat-more-expensive-and-desirable.
So the upshot is, simply because we had this little national conversation about gun control this month,
tens of thousands millions of new guns (and the ammunition to go with) have been bought and stockpiled. The NRA picked up a quarter of a million new members so far. Gun owners feel insulted and picked on. We’re madder and less willing to negotiate than ever, because we’re convinced that the whole idea of gun control has devolved into a bunch of petty bullshit reindeer games. We will put NOTHING on the table willingly in future.
And, in return, all you’re likely to get is that weak sauce executive order about CDC studies and gun lock standards.
I know why we’re mad. Why the hell aren’t you?
January 17, 2013 — 11:08 pm
No, not YOU guys. I mean, the guys weighing in on the gun control who speak in hushed tones of semi-automatics. People who ought to know better. Even people who claim to be pro-gun.
It’s such a simple, easy-to-grasp point that, I submit to you, anyone talking about the issue of gun control without demonstrating that they know what a semi-automatic is should be automatically disqualified. You’re either trying to put one over on people, or you’re too ignorant to count.
Go. Sit in the corner.
In the world of handguns, there are some strange, one-of-a-kind beasties primarily used for target shooting, but those specialist dealies aside, the following is true:
A semi-automatic handgun is most of them.
The other word for semi-automatic handgun is pistol.
A semi-automatic handgun is every handgun that is not a revolver. You know, not a wheelgun. Not a cowboy gun. If it would look stupid in a cowboy movie (but not a spy movie), it’s a semi-automatic.
In fact, technically, a double-action revolver is a semi-automatic. Because after you pull the trigger, it gets the next round ready to go. Which is all that semi-automatic means: it gets the next round ready to go. You still have to pull the trigger again. You pull the trigger once for every round fired, m’kay? You just don’t have to cock it every time.
That’s what semi-automatic means: you don’t have to cock it again by hand after you fire the first shot.
A semi-automatic is not an automatic. It is not a machine gun. You don’t mash the trigger and a bunch of bullets fly out. It doesn’t fire bigger bullets. It doesn’t fire more powerful bullets. It doesn’t hold more bullets.
A semi-auto is dangerous. That’s its job. But if you’re talking about banning them, you’re talking about a nation-wide gun confiscation.
January 16, 2013 — 12:13 am
I joined the NRA in 1999, after the Columbine massacre. As usual, the press did a hatchet job on them after the atrocity and, as usual, it caused an unprecedented rise in NRA membership. And, with it, an unprecedented jump in the NRA’s money, power and influence. If I were a paranoid weasel, that would smell all hmmmmm.
Still, on planet reality, the NRA is about as sinister an organization as your Uncle Fred’s bowling league.
Anyway, the best benefit of the NRA: merchandise with the NRA logo on it. They sell especially good t-shirts — high quality Fruit of the Loom shirts, good designs, sturdy silk-screening. Wear an NRA shirt with a pair of grubby jeans and sneakers, and you can wander around Whole Foods for ages before somebody actually reads your shirt and get the rage-face. You can actually see the moment the NRA shirt registers on the liberal brain. It almost makes a little sound, like poink.
And you get these awesome mailings a couple of times a year, with their gun giveaway sweepstakes. Its their main fundraising gimmick. It’s like the Publisher’s Clearing House thing, with the little stickers where you get to pick your prizes. Uncle B and I spent a merry time playing, “okay, you can have the Glock if I can have the S&W.” I loved those mailings; they’re refreshingly unashamed. They have colorful pictures of guns all over the envelope, with text like “GUNS GUNS GUNS GUNS GUNS AND MORE GUNS!!!’lebenty!!!”
The downside is, at least once a week, Wayne LaPierre’s hair catches fire, and then you get these mailings that go, “oh my god! They’re coming! They’re coming for our guns! No, seriously! Right now! Give me ten bucks RIGHT THIS MINUTE!” Way too many fundraising letters.
Also, there are many who think the NRA is insufficiently protective of gun rights (I know. Try explaining this to a lefty. It’s like trying to explain that George Bush wasn’t a conservative). Me, I think the name recognition alone makes them worth belonging to, but if you don’t agree, there’s always Gun Owners of America.
Or my most favoritest — Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership. Now, these guys are serious. They’re the ones that got in trouble for trying to buy “trigger locks — rapist approved” billboards. Their newsletter is a hoot.
The very name Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership is a tidy ’nuff said argument against gun control. It’s kind of an argument-ender all by itself. Without firing a shot, as it were.
I’ve let all those memberships lapse. I was hoping to make enough on the sale of my house to buy a lifetime membership in the NRA on my way out, but the housing market collapsed (you may recall, ahem) and I barely got away with pocket money.
Anyway, I think the mailings were making my postman uncomfortable.
January 14, 2013 — 11:57 pm
Well! Who would ever have thought? The American Hunters and Shooters Association has endorsed Barack Obama.
Who they? you may ask. Ignoring your appalling grammar for the moment, the AHSA is a flakey-fakey “gun-rights” organization set up solely to endorse far left entities like Barack Obama so all you beery gun-humping rednecks will think he’s a bit of okay.
It was founded in 2005 by Ray Schoenke, a Kos diarist who, in fairness, really does shoot ducks, apparently. At least, most of his conversations seem to take place in a duck blind. Schoenke has pissed away thousands on Handgun Control, Inc., Americans Coming Together and a dozen of the sleazeballingest Democrats ever to run for public office. So when Schoenke says “nonpartisan” you can be sure he’s just said a word that has four syllables.
The AHSA domain was originally registered to DCS, a Democrat new media operation, but they must have realized that didn’t look good.
Also not looking so good? Having John Rosenthal, once Chairman of the Massachusetts gun-grabbers Stop Handgun Violence, on the board. Under the bus with you, sir! Or, as they put it, “we acknowledge that his active involvement with certain gun control organizations made it very difficult for Mr. Rosenthal to subscribe to and support our policies that at times could be inconsistent with those of a pro-gun hunting and shooting organization.” I haven’t diagrammed a sentence in a real long time, but I’m pretty sure that one is accidentally WAY closer to the truth than they intended.
Their web site reads like somebody sat down of an afternoon and thought, “okay, but what if I really did like guns? What would that sound like?” Or as David Petzel of Field and Stream put it, “Mostly, their position statements are vapid, along the lines of ‘Don’t push old ladies into moving traffic. Don’t set stray dogs on fire.’”
In fact, the web site appears to be all there is to the AHSA. That, and press releases. And it’s working…kind of. US Snooze briefly reported the endorsement with a straight face. The Washington Post did a bit on them, too. I loved this part:
As proof of his gun-toting credentials, Schoenke says he likes nothing better than heading to Maryland’s Eastern Shore and shooting a duck, then cleaning it, cooking it and eating it. “I own guns,” he boasts. “I have guns everywhere.”
I have guns sticking out all over my body. When I open my mouth, guns fall out. On hot Summer days, guns ooze out of my pores. I shit guns, I swear to god. It’s hard to say which part of murdering a small fluffy animal I like best: the warm, slippery lifeblood pouring over my fingers, or the part where my teeth meet in its throat and the terrified thrashing and kicking get slower…slower…slower.
I love when lefties play pretend ‘winger: they’re so delightfully tone deaf.
Schoenke hopes this macho, carnivorous image will make pro-gun voters more open to accepting “common sense” limits on gun buying. Such changes can’t be so bad, he wants gunners to say, if fellow enthusiasts also support them.
Ch’mere! Ch’mere, rednecks! Gun! Pretty gun! No, no…lookit the gun! No, don’t look at the legislation, lookit the gun!
I’ve heard of these guys before, through the NRA (Schoenke has a massive hate-on for the NRA). Then Jonn of This Ain’t Hell posted about the Obama endorsement a couple of days ago. I went from there to Confederate Yankee to Say Uncle. Lots of stuff out there about them; there’s nothing new here. But it’s important to pile on. The AHSA exists solely to give pro-gun cred to anti-gunners.
That dog won’t hunt.
April 21, 2008 — 5:46 am
HEL-LO! People! We have GOT to stop turning these jerkwads into rock stars.
This useless punk walked into a mall and murdered eight of his betters because he got a little taste of adulthood and he wasn’t up to it. He wasn’t man enough to live with it, either. So he took the one snap-your-fingers path to instant tabloid celebrity. Why, even a loser like him can do it!
He left a note that COULD NOT HAVE BEEN more explicit: “I’m going out in style” — “I’m going to be famous.” It worked, too. Congrats, d00d, you’re the snootch-flashing Paris Hilton of underachievers.
If you’re tired of this shit, we’re collectively going to need a lot less COMPASSION and a lot more RIDICULE. They aren’t troubled into it. Or bullied into it. Nothing “drives them” to do these things but an awareness of their own inadequacy and a desire to get a badass headshot at the top of the Drudge Report.
Losers, not monsters. This is a twenty year old man who couldn’t keep a fast food job or a girl friend. Monster is a huge promotion for this ass. Monsters are scary and powerful. They make movies about monsters. Pimply ex-fry-cooks…not so much.
It doesn’t matter for this dweeb — he did the future McDonald’s customers and mall cops of Omaha a favor and took himself out, too. Do it for the other losers. You know they’re out there. Show them your contempt for what this moron chose to do. We can’t keep making mass murder an attractive exit strategy for weenies.
And use simple language. Remember, they’re losers.
December 6, 2007 — 10:13 am
This is my bedside cannon. My “holy shit, lady, you aren’t kidding!” piece. It is very big and shiny. It makes an extremely loud bang. I suspect it would make exceedingly large holes in bad guys, but happily I’ve never had to test this theory.
When I moved to Rhode Island, I arrived unarmed and stayed that way for twenty years. I knew the rules were more restrictive up here in Yanquiland and I figured buying a gun wasn’t worth the trouble.
But then I bought a house on a corner lot. Sound travels funny here. Somebody slams a car door, it sounds like bad guys moving around in the basement. One night, I found myself creeping down the stairs clutching a tack hammer like Conan the Ovarian, and I thought, “this is too stupid.”
Turns out, while it’s nearly impossible to get a concealed carry permit in Rhode Island, all you need is a “blue card” to buy a gun and keep it in your home. To earn your blue card, you need to pass a background check and a written exam.
I am now going to tell you how to pass the written exam. Ready? Here’s the secret: there is no condition under which any gun can ever be considered unloaded. None whatever. Just fired six rounds out of a six shooter? Still loaded. Just completely disassembled your pistol into its umpty-ump constituent parts? Still loaded. Crushed it flat with a backhoe? Loaded. Aliens blew our lovely blue earth to smithereens and just as your lungs collapse in the cold nothingness of outer space a molten glob of metal that might possibly once have been your favorite revolver sails past your ear into the void? Count on it, it’s loaded.
Yup. See, they took the old common-sense recommendation that it’s safest to regard every gun as loaded and morphed it into a nonsensical declaration that every gun really is loaded all the time. Put your hand on your heart and say something stupid, and we’ll give you that blue card.
I wonder how many rosy-necked sons of the soil were too proud to say something that dumb to earn their papers?
November 29, 2007 — 5:45 pm
Going moonbat all over my own comments section reminded me of one glorious Walt Disney Summer on the farm. I guess I was 15, stuck by myself out in the middle of nowhere, bored silly.
We kept a small flock of Araucana chickens for the eggs. Well, probably not genuine Auraucanas, which are quite rare, but a mongrel breed more properly called Easter Egg Chickens. Ours were white and laid blue and green eggs. I wonder why they’re called Easter Egg Chickens.
At some point, my mother decided we needed a rooster. Being a good hippie, Mother believed all animals had to have lots of sex to be happy, so she bought our hens a little Rhode Island Red rooster. He was half the size of the hens. Mother called him a “banty rooster” — which I suppose is a corruption of “bantam.” She called obnoxious little men “banty roosters” too.
And he sure was an obnoxious little fucker. He screwed those hens halfway to perdition. After a month, not a one of them had any feathers on her back. They sure didn’t look happy to me — whenever a chicken saw him strutting nearby, she plopped down in the grass in a frantic effort to deny him snootch. When he took his afternoon constitutional, you could see them pop up and down like fluffy white mushrooms all over the lawn.
He had a crap sense of timing, too. Used to crow at three in the morning. My room was actually a little trailer on the opposite side of the chicken house from the main house (a trailer! Let the banjo jokes commence!), so I bore the brunt of all that cocka-doodle-doo shit. God, I hated that bird.
Once, I leaned out my back door and pitched an entire box of miniature Gideon New Testaments at him, one by one, trying to shut him up. The question is, what was I doing with an entire box of miniature Gideon New Testaments? This I do not know.
But one morning, it wasn’t crowing, but a weak, fluttery cackling that woke me. I found him lying in the hen yard, disemboweled. If the hens were just a leeetle bit brighter, I might’ve suspected them, but this had possum written all over it. Possums chew out the soft bits and leave the rest.
Oh, dear god. He was still breathing.
I went back in and got a .22 target pistol. The chicken yard was fenced in, overhead and all (another reason not to blame a dog, but something sneaky like a possum). The only access was through a window in the henhouse, so I couldn’t get all that close to him. It was a crap pistol and I was (quite frankly) a pretty crap shot. I steadied the barrel against the chicken wire and squeezed the trigger.
He hopped up like Lazarus and ran, trailing extremely important parts of himself. Shit. Now I’ve got a running target. Every time he slowed down, I took a shot, which didn’t give him much but a renewed vigor. All hail the mighty chicken torturer! I finally ran out of ‘mo, and he fell over, whether dead or exhausted, I don’t know. I was too rattled to check for sure. Anyway, he’d be better off dying his way than having me continue to shoot bits off him.
Sure enough, I was walking across the yard a few days (and another disemboweled chicken) later and saw a possum bumbling through the grass. He did the standard thing when I walked over. Have you ever seen one play possum? It’s eerie. Even if you know they’re faking, you don’t quite believe it. I kicked him over with my toe and then went in for a gun. He was gone by the time I got back. My stepfather was furious with me, but what was I going to do? Crush his ickle skull?
Mother let the chickens roam free after that, thinking they’d be safer roosting in the trees. They really do come home to roost, you know. But still they kept disappearing, one every few days. Now it probably was a neighbor’s dog; now there was nothing left but a dusting of white feathers.
I wanted to redeem myself. I took a flashlight and taped it to the barrel of my grandfather’s old .22 rifle. As tactical assault weapons go, it was better than fluffy knuckles or ninja throwing kittens.
And finally, late one night — I think we were down to our last chicken — I woke to a squawk. It was a nasty damp, hot August night, like being snuggled in Satan’s armpit, and I burst out the back door in nothing but my underpants and plinking rifle. Shoes would’ve been so sweet right about then.
My flashlight picked up a clump of white feathers. Too late? No, no…it was a trail. I followed dollops of white across the front yard and around the side. It was black as india ink and all I could see was a bouncing ring of grass under the flashlight and that eerie white dotted line disappearing into the black. When I got out onto the long, sloping field out back, the thing stopped and turned to face me, and this is exactly what I saw:
My stepfather was positive it was the neighbor’s german shepherd. Me, I’m pretty sure that there is the Devil’s slavering flame-eyed sulphurous spectral soul-sucking weasel hound from hell. Whatever. With my marksmanship, I sure wasn’t taking a shot at it.
What if I missed?
What if I didn’t?
March 21, 2007 — 5:57 pm
This was Bill Paying Weekend, a monthly trauma I endure under the soothing alfluence of incohol. I have the money to settle my accounts these days, but I still dread this ordeal…sorting through a month’s worth of special offers from credit card companies cleverly designed to look like overdue notices so I’ll open them for sure (thus pissing me off so thoroughly they’d have to be Pretty Damn Special offers before I’d take a second look) and all the other irritations and stupidities that fall through my mail slot in thirty days.
Like this thing. This is a thirty page questionnaire from the Census Bureau. Why am I getting a questionnaire from the Census Bureau in 2007? Presumably because I blew them off in 2000.
I know, I know…I’m a Constitution-humping ‘winger and the Constitution says the government must do a census every ten years. I wouldn’t mind being a part of a head count. But I got the long form in 2000, too. Remember that? Some people got the usual few questions, and a random selection got a thirty page beast that asks nosey junque about years of schooling and income and how long my commute is and a bunch of other nunya bidness stuff. Oh, and about twenty different precise choices for race, of course. I’m an Eskimo princess, fuck off.
I wouldn’t, perhaps, be quite so set against it, if it weren’t marked “YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW.” And inside there’s this “title blah-blah-blah of the US Code, section blah-blah-blah, imposes a penalty for not responding.” Without, of course, mentioning what that penalty is.
OH! Threaten me? They can smooch silky weasel ass. I ain’t doing it. I assume the penalty is a fine, but you guys’ll visit me in the pen if I guess wrong, mmm?
Then I get four more pages of nosiness from Blue Cross. Do I smoke? Did my doctor tell me that’s bad? Naw, I gave up cigarettes so I could afford more heroin. Jesus.
So it was like a breath of warm Spring sunshine to get this in the mail. It’s NRA sweepstakes time again. I love the cheerful, breathless way the NRA flat-out fails to comprehend it’s supposed to be ashamed of itself. Guns, guns and more guns! Get one for grandma!
Though I prefer the one where they give you a page of stickers with photos of guns, and you have to peel off ten of your favorites and stick them on the Grand Prize page so they know what to send you when you win. I can spend a happy hour working out the logistics of that, maximizing the flexibility of my arsenal but minimizing the different kinds of ammo I’d have to keep in stock. Plus, colorful stickers!
Ooo! Mustn’t forget a shotgun for Grandma!
March 12, 2007 — 7:12 am