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Guns and liquor

Discussion in 'The Lighter Side' started by Liberty Ship, Jan 19, 2003.

  1. Liberty Ship

    Liberty Ship

    Likes Received:
    Jun 29, 2001
    Someone posted this on Free Republic and I almost died laughing. Thought I would share. I have no idea who really wrote it, niether did the guy who posted it.

    Guns and liquor go together like peanut butter and chocolate. (For
    Johnny Shear | 1-14-02 | I don't remember

    Posted on 1/14/02 4:07 PM Eastern by Johnny Shear

    Guns and liquor go together like peanut butter and chocolate.
    Shooting a gun is an exhilarating experience, and anybody who says
    otherwise is either lying or has never actually pulled a trigger. And
    drinking can add a lot to the experience. Ted Nugent aside, lots of
    gun owners enjoy a cold foamer along with their pump-action Mossberg.
    Playing with guns adds structure to any bender. Sometimes a game of
    Beer Pong or Hungry, Thirsty Hippos just doesn't generate the level
    of excitement and sense of purpose that many hard-core partiers
    crave. Guns do. When you shoot a gun drunk, you get results. Large,
    gaping results. Whether you are blasting gin bottles off the roof of
    a junked Camaro or simply getting the cat out of the tree, squeezing
    the trigger is a wonderful way to cut loose. It is the ultimate in
    instant gratification. It is American expressionism.

    People do stupid things while drunk. We all know that. The advantage
    of guns is that they throw wide the doors of opportunity for stupid
    drunken behavior. A drunk staggering down the street is comical. A
    drunk staggering down the street with a gun is alarming. Oh, the
    places he might go!

    Having access to a weapon while tossing back beers allows drinkers to
    come up with bold new solutions to problems. Two friends of mine once
    shared a rat-infested house in Baton Rouge because the rent was
    cheap. They saved money on an exterminator by simply picking off any
    rats that wandered into range with a .22-caliber rifle. They'd kick
    back on the sofa, drink beer, and snuff rodents. It was like living
    inside a big video game. Instead of just a boring evening at home on
    the sofa, suddenly the night had purpose. Drinking games arose from
    the situation, and points and penalties were awarded for hits and
    misses. But on top of just plain having fun, they got a sense of
    accomplishment out of it as well. Guns allowed them to take a
    proactive role with their vermin issues.

    One night I was over at my friend Haim's apartment in New Orleans,
    slamming Jägermeister, a drink that lends itself to certain abuses.
    This viscous treat is a shortcut to The Zone, and six or eight shots
    of it will airlift you to a place it might otherwise take a whole
    long night of methodical drinking to reach. Haim and I were trying to
    think of something to do, and we ended up deciding to build a
    homemade silencer for a beat-up old AR-7 rifle he had bought at a
    pawnshop a few weeks earlier. The gun was only worth about $60 and
    was ripe for experimentation, and the Germanic liquor added a sense
    of urgency to the occasion. Silencers are illegal, but Haim had found
    step-by-step instructions on how to make one in some paramilitary
    magazine he had bought at a gun show. The magazine was full of neat
    home projects like that; I imagine that if Martha Stewart lived in a
    trailer with an abusive husband, this would be the kind of stuff
    she'd write. And the world would be a better place for it.

    The first stop was at a metal shop Haim had access to, where he used
    the drill press to vent the barrel in several locations. We then
    brought the gun back to his apartment to finish the job. We slid 10
    large washers down along the barrel at even intervals and stuffed the
    spaces in between with alternating layers of steel wool and cotton
    wadding. Then we cut a length of PVC pipe and fitted it over the
    barrel like a sleeve, so that it sat atop the washers. We iced the
    whole package with duct tape, loaded the magazine with .22-caliber
    high-velocity LRs, and were good to go.

    Haim's place was in a quiet residential neighborhood, an ideal
    proving ground. If the silencer worked here, it would work anywhere.
    The first thing I plugged was a jar of cocktail onions I carefully
    placed atop the mantle in the living room. I put it in a Ziploc
    baggie, thinking that would be sufficient to contain the breakage. I
    was wrong. When I popped it, the bottle exploded, scattering shrapnel
    and cocktail onions indiscriminately throughout the room. But the
    silencer actually worked. You could hear the action of the rifle
    kickback and a heavily muffled pop, but that was all. Our experiment
    was a success! It felt great, and all it took was a little
    Jägermeister, a survivalist pulp magazine, and some good old Yankee
    know-how. We celebrated with impromptu ballistics tests on ordinary
    household items throughout the night.

    A drunk with a gun and a mission is a happy drunk. One of the best
    times I ever had potting with firearms was when a group of friends
    and I decided to rub out a beaver who had proved himself to be a
    nuisance. He had dammed a creek on my friend Stuart's farm and
    flooded the road, and for this he was to die. About eight of us
    staggered out into the backwoods of Mississippi that night, twisted
    on rye whisky and horribly armed. We had shotguns, assault rifles,
    and high-tech pistols. The only things missing were a pitchfork and
    some burning torches. Memories of what happened down at the creek
    that night are hazy, but I do remember it began with Dave jumping up
    and down atop the lodge screaming for the beaver to "show himself,"
    then shoving his 12-gauge into the pile of sticks and mud and pulling
    the trigger. He backed off, and we emptied everything we had into the
    dam. Thumps, staccato cracks, whoops, pops, and rebel yells followed.
    Warren's laser sight swept crazily through the smoke filled air,
    adding an ominous sense of the surreal to the dark Mississippi night.
    Finally it was over. Off in the distance an owl hooted. The beaver
    remains at large.

    A gun can make a night of ordinary drinking far more interesting.
    Nobody is talking to you at the party? Bring a gun! That'll get their
    attention. Want to kick that guy's *** at the bar but can't? Bring a
    gun! He might have spent a lifetime mastering the subtleties of
    aikido, but he's no match for your Glock. Why work out if you can own
    a gun? As Chris Rock said, "You got pecs? I got Tecs." A bottle will
    give you the liquid courage to follow your dreams, and your gun will
    make sure nobody gets in your way.
  2. rlfjr

    rlfjr NRA Life Member

    Likes Received:
    Jan 21, 2002
    Geez .... Freakin' wacko's idea of fun.