Friday, October 06, 2006

GDQ welcomes's new commentator

Evidently the guys over at have a new "hired gun" writing their editorials. Unfortunately, though, from the looks of the writing, it sounds like he/she has yet to graduate from junior high---which takes alot of the fun out of writing for this blog. Sort of like "hunting" for noisy little cockatiels....with your sawed off 12 ga....five feet from the cage.

"Are we afraid of guns?" they ask, like some spastic little megaphone-wielding cheerleader. "A lot of gun guys seem to think so. But we're not. If we were afraid of firearms, we'd wear bulletproof armor all the time, and hesistate to step outside into open areas. If we were afraid of guns, we wouldn't be fighting against them-- we'd be running."

Seriously---it's verbatim.

Of course, just because they choose to hire children to write their editorials, that doesn't necessarily mean their fundamental ideology is awhack. So they make damn sure that we know that, Yes, their fundamentals are indeed awhack, and severly so. After a few words about the recent tragedies at our local schools, and nary a word of condolences to the families crushed by these horrible event, they propose that, obviously, the only possible way of dealing with this problem is to disarm everyone; which, as we all know, actually means disarm everyone except, alas, the crazies who really want to do harm to us and our children.

I really can't do this stuff justice; it speaks for itself. So let's just them dismantle their own argument.

"And yet one pro-gun legislator in Wisconsin has come up with a solution, crazy as it is: arm the teachers.
Sorry? We hire teachers to make our children better people, not shoot them."

Hey, ASSa9 guys, yoo hoo! Over here. Yeah, well, the concept behind arming teachers, or principles, or security guards, is to 1) create a deterrent, and 2) shoot the crazies, not the children.

But wait! There's more. The discombobulated rant stumbles forward:

"They" (btw: that would be you and I, Joe and Jenny Sixpack) "think the feds are out to get their guns, or the UN, or the ATF, or local sheriffs, or anyone else just around the corner!"

You know, ASSa9 guys, there is an argument to be made that all of the above (the possible exception being your local non-big-city sheriff) seem to be doing their utmost to disarm the population: 20,000 fed, state, local (unconstitutional) gun laws; the UN's relentless campaign to ban "small arms" for all non-govt personnel; certain ATF agent's harrassement of law-abiding gun-show attendees; and the list goes on, eternally.

"And don't even get them started on criminals-- the NRA has them thinking that it's a guaranteed that they're going to be raped and murdered in America-- unless they buy a gun and pay their NRA membership."

Wrongo! Again. Never mind the fact that the NRA has proven itself all-too willing to bargain with those who would take away our 2nd Amendment rights, tossing around those rights like so many poker chips in a game of gun-monopoly. (They do appear to be on the mend, however.) If the NRA has anyone convinced they'll be "raped and murdered in America," it must be the ASSa9 guys; I don't know anyone who lives with such fear---especially if they own a gun, practice with it on at least a semi-regular basis, and keep it handy.

Hold on, friends, because this is where it gets really good, and, frankly, where it becomes so painfully apparent that the only person who could've written this is junior-higher (or an elementary school student).

"And so they don't see the real solutions to gun violence. Create laws that keep guns out of the hands of criminals."

Of course! Why the heck didn't anyone think of that before?! Laws! Just like the laws that keep drugs off the streets; laws that keep gangs from congealing in the inner cities, like so much effluent clogging the sewers; laws that keep people from witholding as many of their precious hard-earned dollars out the government's greedy little sticky fingers; laws that keep illegal immigrants on their side of the our (seemingly non-existent) borders; and so on an so forth.

He/She wraps it up with a few words of encouragement to their sheeple, and one last bit of not-so sage advice: "Don't cower in the corner thinking your .45 is the only thing between you and a horrible death."................ahhh, well.......unless you actually are cowering in a corner, staring through tears at that precious .45 in your trembling hand, praying to God that you won't have to use it to prevent your and your little daughter's "horrible death." (at which time, please, feel free to point it in the direction of the attacker and pull the trigger, over and over, until the attacker is lying in a pool of his own foul blood....dead....with our blessings)

Peace be on you, brothers, sisters and friends.
Keep your powder dry and your gun loaded,


Sunday, October 01, 2006

An open letter to

After receiving today's "WEEKEND UPDATE" re. the wonderful governor of Indiana's push to allow firearms in state parks, and hearing yet another idiot screaming about how it'll be the old west, shoot 'em up bang bang, all over again, well, I just really felt a calling to try and help them pull their pointy little heads out of their dumb asses.

To wit:

Dear ASSa9 Guys,

The "dangerous" people (i.e. law-abiding citizens with firearms) in the state parks are not the ones who belong to NRA and GOA; they are the gang-bangers, drunks, and speed-freaks; people who, regardless of how many stupid rules and regulations you post up on a sign, will bring their guns into the park anyway, leaving those of you unarmed fools at a substantial disadvantage, when the shootin' starts, that is. Are you all too incredibly myopic to understand that the only people you'll ever succeed in disarming are the law-abiding citizens---and that a law-abiding, armed "gun guy" will likely be the only one who will come to your aid when that crackhead/terrorist/ex-husband-or-wife/disgruntled postal worker shoots your dumb asses, grabs your daughter and tries to rape her right in front of your pathetically helpless, unarmed face. (Well, actually, if I knew it was you who was getting shot up, I'd probably hand 'em a few more mags to make sure they got the job done. However, I would do my damnedest to save your daughter; it's not her fault she was born to a slave.)

A Free American

once again

He wakes up in his comfortable bed, next to his comfortable wife, in his comfortable home tucked into the comfortable little neighborhood over on the comfortable side of town. And he wonders….
…..what have I done?

And he thinks….and he dozes….and he wakes….and he thinks….

He gets up and pulls on a bathing suit and walks outside to the edge of the pool. He puts his feet together and leans forward with his hands on his knees and catches his reflection in the water.

“We haven’t done a fucking thing,” it says, shaking its head in disgust.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” he shrugs.

“It’s been three years since we woke up to what’s happening in this country,” it says, “and what have we done?”

“We bought some guns, and we stored up 6 months worth of supplies.”

“Wow. That oughta scare the bejezus out of Washington.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do? Start our own war?”

“Why not?”

“That oughta do a helluva lotta good. I can just see the headlines now, ‘Constitutionalist sentenced to 300 years-and-a-day for plotting overthrow of government and stockpiling weapons…’”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. What’s the point? Might as well throw in the towel. I mean, you can’t shoot the bastards, yet.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No, no, I know what you meant. You meant that you’re not about to join one of those mid-life-crisis whacko Idaho militias—they’ll all be spanked and sent home with their collective tail between their legs anyway—and you’re not about to go around like some loose cannon taking meaningless potshots at whatever target-of-opportunity happens to cross your reticle.”

“Exactly! I mean what’s a guy supposed to do, short of selling everything and cashing it in on for gold coins and millet and heading off to four-corners to wait for Civil War II?”



“…………………well, I guess that’d be…..”

“…………a start?”

“Yeah. But it sounds a little too much like a replay of the Mormon invasion.”

“Well, so what, so they were a century-and-a-half ahead of their time. So maybe it takes a philandering megalomaniac to bring things to a boil, to bring the insidiously grasping aspect of democracy to the surface where it can be dealt with.”


“The David Koreshes.”

“The Randy Weavers.”

“I see your point. But, do we really want to be lumped into that ball of dough?”

“Do you really want to hand down to your grandchildren the broken mess we’ve created, which, by the way, we are just as responsible for as George Bush and Hilary Clinton?”

“Do we have any choice? I mean, it’s like global warming, even if we knew for sure where to start, who knows if even our great grandchildren would see any change in their lifetimes. I mean, without completely razing the whole bureaucratically entrenched clusterfuck in Washington, what difference will it make whether or not a few million people are ‘allowed’ to own guns?”

“Or whether or not they take 57% or 63% of the fruits of our labor?”


“Maybe Ayn Rand was right.”

“Just let ‘em have the reins?”


“Let ‘em run it into the ground.”

“Full speed ahead.”

“So you think there’s no turning the ship around?”

“Actually, I think the more apropos metaphor is a train, and the tracks are laid.”

“Not even possible to turn it around?”


“All hope is lost.”

“Hope is never lost. We can always destroy the tracks.”

He stands up and shakes his head, casts a sidelong glance toward the bedroom window, wondering if he was only hearing this inner dialogue, or if he was actually talking to himself. Behind the bedroom window his wife snoozes happily. The thought of losing all he’s worked for these last 22 years feels like a ships anchor chained to his neck and sucked firmly into the muddy ocean bottom.

He stretches, and twists his torso. He bobs up and down on his tip-toes, stretching the night's rigor mortis out of his calves, and he breathes in a lungful of the early morning chill, anticipating the deliciously summer-warm crystal-clear pool water flowing across his skin. He leans over and grabs his knees once more, shaking off the frustrating dialogue from his shoulders a the day’s more immediate needs and wants begin to flood in, demanding his attention. His muscles tense and he launches, his arms reaching out toward an unsure future, and dives into yet another day.

Once again.

Ute Studenberg