I Am a Responsible Gun Owner
I am sick and tired of the ongoing attack on guns. After having lived alongside them for a few thousand years, I think that mankind’s votes are in and the overwhelming consensus is that guns are pretty fucking awesome!
Of course, owning a gun comes with its own unique set of responsibilities, and I count myself as one of those proud and responsible gun owners who abides by strict standards of gun safety.
First and foremost, in order to count yourself a responsible gun owner, it is imperative that you keep your firearms in a secure location, especially if you live with small children. I often say that if I were looking to keep my gun away from my wife, I would keep it in the oven since she hasn’t had occasion to cook a decent meal since at least Bush 43’s first term, and she would never think to look for it there.
See, the thing is to think like the people you’re trying to keep the gun away from, and so when it comes to my children, I elect to hide my gun in the last place they would ever think to look—namely, the back of the hall closet near the cleaning supplies.
Incidentally, this has the added effect of also keeping it out of reach of my wife, since she seems to have forgotten how to use a mop and bleach but not how to open and thereafter polish off a box of Hostess Ding Dongs, so there you go: killing two birds with one stone. Or gun, in this case. Because guns are way better and cooler than some lame-ass stones.
Additionally, the brilliance of my own secure location location makes one of those pussified lock boxes totally unnecessary. Quite frankly, I’ve never been a fan of those in the first place.
When it comes to defending your life and home, you can’t expect to have time to be fumbling with a goddamn key to unlock a small safe, to say nothing of needing easy access to your firearm when proving a point to either your wife or kids when either gets a little too mouthy around the house. There’s nothing like waving a gun in the air and firing off a few warning shots into the drywall to win an argument and garner the sort of respect to which the man of the house is entitled.
That is why I favor a clear Ziploc sandwich bag for my Glock 17 when storing it. Semiautomatics are a bit more tricky, and so I tend to prop those up alongside the umbrellas and drape them with a beach towel. It was sort of rough-going there for awhile there when my youngest boy was into Dora the Explorer–nothing is more demeaning than reaching for your AR-15 and having to remove a colorful beach towel containing a poorly drawn Mexican child with a monkey on her shoulder first. Fortunately, I broke him of that shit and now he’s into a more healthy interest in the form of brawny men in tight-fitting military wear a la G.I. Joe.
Knowing how to properly handle your gun is important as well, especially when using it to pry open a can of tuna. I don’t know about you, but I can never seem to find a fork when I need one, and since I often like to walk around the house with my .38 snub nose revolver tucked into the waistband of my Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs, I always have a multi-use tool handy for such occasions.
Now it should go without saying that you should always point the nozzle of that sucker away from you as you wedge it between the lid and the lip of that can of chunk light Bumble Bee. Graze your thigh once while doing this after putting a little too much pressure on that trigger and you’ll never forget that valuable tip again. I was lucky that the bullet only caught the outer edge of my left thigh, but I can’t say as much for our cat Mittens. I never liked cats much anyways, though, so I just tossed it into the neighbor’s yard and told the kids that the little bugger ran off.
Additionally, I am well-versed in holding my gun in that cool, sideways fashion that you often see in movies. I find this very effective when teasing my wife about not doing the dishes, and it helps to lend an air of authority when reprimanding my kids for talking too loudly on mornings when I’m trying to concentrate on my lottery scratch tickets after having polished off a 15-pack of Strogh’s the night before.
Lastly, proper care and maintenance of bullets is imperative. When I’m carefully filing the heads of my bullets so that they will better pierce the armor of any charging rhinoceros or nosy officer of the law, I am careful to do so only at the kitchen counter, and most of the time I take care to ensure that the gas range is off, too.
In sum: I am the sort of responsible gun owner who should be regarded as an important juxtaposition to all those reckless and irresponsible gun owners who give gun owners everywhere a bad name. And I’ll be goddamned if I should be made the subject of some neo-liberal left wing socialist attempts to restrict my right to own as many guns and handle them in as responsible a manner as I do.
Because there are a lot of nuts out there, and it’s people like myself who provide a protective barrier between them and the rest of civil society.