Gun owner! The word connotes danger, scorching good looks, searing wit, burning rubber, smoldering passion, barbecued pork!
And yet, despite these and other benefits, gun owners are under a great deal of pressure, both social and financial, to give them up.
Perhaps even more egregious is being asked, “Why do you own a gun?” ad tedium. People who ask this don’t really want to know. Never, as far as I can remember, has an answer been required of me. People don’t so much pose the question as smack us with it — as if the very word could send us flying into paroxysms of shame and renunciation. The answer is implied in the tone of the question: You’re weak. You’re stupid. I hate you.
Well, I hate you, too. But since you ask, I shoot guns because it’s pure inspiration packed into a handful of metal, wood, or polymer. Because it’s the pause that refreshes. Because it’s a complicated pleasure and I like them that way.
I target shoot because most buildings don’t allow pets. Because God is dead. Because I’m a sucker for a loud noise. Because living and breathing are not the same thing. Because in the event of another world war, you’ll always be able to trade bullets for soap in Oklahoma. Because it’s a good excuse to leave the table when the conversation turns to the stock market. Because parachuting is ostentatious.
I own guns because every patriarchal society needs a scapegoat. Because so many people Rollerblade with impunity. Because longevity is overrated. Because every silver lining has a cloud. Because everyone should have a hobby. Because persecution makes a tribe scrappy, resourceful and smart. Because there’s a (surprise) epiphany in every pack. Because nothing is truly worthwhile that is not worth dying for. Because I’d rather crave gunpowder than fascism.
I shoot because I adore being lectured. Because we owe it to the Indians. Because guns keep me company without getting on my nerves. Because half the point of having a vice is pissing off the virtuous.
I make my own ammo cause it makes me smarter. Because the gunpowder acts as a moat. Because everybody hates a quitter. Because efforts by the state to censure pleasure should always be regarded with extreme suspicion. Because even health has been commodified.
I own guns because it’s the only thing that separates us from animals. Because the mind of a gun addict resists colonization. Because someone has to do it.
And even if I am forced to quit, I will always think of myself as a gun owner. I will mourn my AK as if it were a lost dog.
And yet, despite these and other benefits, gun owners are under a great deal of pressure, both social and financial, to give them up.
Perhaps even more egregious is being asked, “Why do you own a gun?” ad tedium. People who ask this don’t really want to know. Never, as far as I can remember, has an answer been required of me. People don’t so much pose the question as smack us with it — as if the very word could send us flying into paroxysms of shame and renunciation. The answer is implied in the tone of the question: You’re weak. You’re stupid. I hate you.
Well, I hate you, too. But since you ask, I shoot guns because it’s pure inspiration packed into a handful of metal, wood, or polymer. Because it’s the pause that refreshes. Because it’s a complicated pleasure and I like them that way.
I target shoot because most buildings don’t allow pets. Because God is dead. Because I’m a sucker for a loud noise. Because living and breathing are not the same thing. Because in the event of another world war, you’ll always be able to trade bullets for soap in Oklahoma. Because it’s a good excuse to leave the table when the conversation turns to the stock market. Because parachuting is ostentatious.
I own guns because every patriarchal society needs a scapegoat. Because so many people Rollerblade with impunity. Because longevity is overrated. Because every silver lining has a cloud. Because everyone should have a hobby. Because persecution makes a tribe scrappy, resourceful and smart. Because there’s a (surprise) epiphany in every pack. Because nothing is truly worthwhile that is not worth dying for. Because I’d rather crave gunpowder than fascism.
I shoot because I adore being lectured. Because we owe it to the Indians. Because guns keep me company without getting on my nerves. Because half the point of having a vice is pissing off the virtuous.
I make my own ammo cause it makes me smarter. Because the gunpowder acts as a moat. Because everybody hates a quitter. Because efforts by the state to censure pleasure should always be regarded with extreme suspicion. Because even health has been commodified.
I own guns because it’s the only thing that separates us from animals. Because the mind of a gun addict resists colonization. Because someone has to do it.
And even if I am forced to quit, I will always think of myself as a gun owner. I will mourn my AK as if it were a lost dog.