This is a great read...Especially if you like big weapons and a bit of humor....It is about a pro-gun guy from Manhattan who travels to the Knob Creek Gun Range in Kentucky to shoot exotic and complex weapons and mingle with the pro-gun crowd.
It is too long to post the entire thing, but here is the url and a few chosen paragraphs - DON'T MISS THIS READ!
http://www.nypress.com/frame.cfm?content_id=480&now=10/26/99&content_section=1
.....as he tells it, his scrotal sac clenched and retracted when he looked up from his beer and saw me holding a fully loaded Thompson submachine gun....
I remained a pacifist until Nov. 11, 1981, when I was stomped into a severe concussion and very nearly killed by a band of juvenile delinquents of the Irish persuasion who were operating under the delusion that I was a homosexual. At that point I acquired a .22-caliber Ruger automatic and parted company with Gandhi, et al., once and for all.
As I debarked the black Escort I encountered two men and a boy unloading a monstrous weapon from a Georgia-tagged vehicle. This thing looked like a short, fat bazooka. The boy was arguing strenuously for the privilege of handling the weapon. I inquired about its nature, and was informed that it was a PI-AT.
I saw men, women and teenagers, black and white, hammering away at dead cars and appliances with firearms of every shape, size and description, and I felt a weird sort of hope rise in my gut. This is America, love it or leave it.
Contrary to the "boys with toys" stereotype advanced by the antigun fanatics, there was quite a fair number of women in attendance. You have to have a certain amount of money to indulge in this activity, and the majority of the participants I met were professionals. Jesse Cole of Butte, MT, is a good example. Jesse's a radiologist with an interest in flamethrowers. I caught up with him at a booth he and his friends had set up by the side of the firing line. For $45, they'll suit you up in a flameproof silver safety suit and allow you to fire off a full-scale military flamethrower.
He instructed me in the proper insertion of the clip into the weapon, and suggested that I lean into it somewhat more. I was anticipating a substantial kick, like a shotgun. The Thompson machine gun is actually very fluid, although it weighs quite a bit by contemporary standards. I actually prefer heavy guns; the weight tends to work for the shooter. I managed to knock down five out of eight bowling pins at a respectable distance on my first time out. I'd waited 40 years to fire that weapon.
I didn't really want to leave. The car, the guns, the sense of space and freedom had
gotten to some part of me that wants to be truly wild again. When I got to the interstate I pulled over onto the shoulder and seriously pondered heading west instead of east.........I emerged from the men's room somewhat weak in the knees and searched the counter area for some Imodium. No such luck. I went outside to smoke a cigarette. A cowboy-looking kind of guy was hanging out with a girl in pajamas who must have been all of 13. She gave me a funny look and they went inside. I finished my smoke and went in to get a coffee. The little girl was at a payphone with her back to me. I overheard her saying, "...and he looks just like that guy that killed those girls, the one y'all are looking for. He's right outside..." Then she turned and saw me. She blanched and cupped her hand over the receiver, turning her back toward me. I looked up at the bulletin board above the phones and, sure enough, there was a sketch of some unidentified white male in his late 30s who looked just like me.
Read this article if you like a great bit of reading...It won't take too long.
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To own firearms is to affirm that freedom and liberty are not gifts from the state.
[This message has been edited by Elker_43 (edited October 26, 1999).]
It is too long to post the entire thing, but here is the url and a few chosen paragraphs - DON'T MISS THIS READ!
http://www.nypress.com/frame.cfm?content_id=480&now=10/26/99&content_section=1
.....as he tells it, his scrotal sac clenched and retracted when he looked up from his beer and saw me holding a fully loaded Thompson submachine gun....
I remained a pacifist until Nov. 11, 1981, when I was stomped into a severe concussion and very nearly killed by a band of juvenile delinquents of the Irish persuasion who were operating under the delusion that I was a homosexual. At that point I acquired a .22-caliber Ruger automatic and parted company with Gandhi, et al., once and for all.
As I debarked the black Escort I encountered two men and a boy unloading a monstrous weapon from a Georgia-tagged vehicle. This thing looked like a short, fat bazooka. The boy was arguing strenuously for the privilege of handling the weapon. I inquired about its nature, and was informed that it was a PI-AT.
I saw men, women and teenagers, black and white, hammering away at dead cars and appliances with firearms of every shape, size and description, and I felt a weird sort of hope rise in my gut. This is America, love it or leave it.
Contrary to the "boys with toys" stereotype advanced by the antigun fanatics, there was quite a fair number of women in attendance. You have to have a certain amount of money to indulge in this activity, and the majority of the participants I met were professionals. Jesse Cole of Butte, MT, is a good example. Jesse's a radiologist with an interest in flamethrowers. I caught up with him at a booth he and his friends had set up by the side of the firing line. For $45, they'll suit you up in a flameproof silver safety suit and allow you to fire off a full-scale military flamethrower.
He instructed me in the proper insertion of the clip into the weapon, and suggested that I lean into it somewhat more. I was anticipating a substantial kick, like a shotgun. The Thompson machine gun is actually very fluid, although it weighs quite a bit by contemporary standards. I actually prefer heavy guns; the weight tends to work for the shooter. I managed to knock down five out of eight bowling pins at a respectable distance on my first time out. I'd waited 40 years to fire that weapon.
I didn't really want to leave. The car, the guns, the sense of space and freedom had
gotten to some part of me that wants to be truly wild again. When I got to the interstate I pulled over onto the shoulder and seriously pondered heading west instead of east.........I emerged from the men's room somewhat weak in the knees and searched the counter area for some Imodium. No such luck. I went outside to smoke a cigarette. A cowboy-looking kind of guy was hanging out with a girl in pajamas who must have been all of 13. She gave me a funny look and they went inside. I finished my smoke and went in to get a coffee. The little girl was at a payphone with her back to me. I overheard her saying, "...and he looks just like that guy that killed those girls, the one y'all are looking for. He's right outside..." Then she turned and saw me. She blanched and cupped her hand over the receiver, turning her back toward me. I looked up at the bulletin board above the phones and, sure enough, there was a sketch of some unidentified white male in his late 30s who looked just like me.
Read this article if you like a great bit of reading...It won't take too long.
------------------
To own firearms is to affirm that freedom and liberty are not gifts from the state.
[This message has been edited by Elker_43 (edited October 26, 1999).]