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Please Mr. Congressman,
Don’t Take My Assault Weapons Away

By Mike Walsh

Published in 1994 in the Philadelphia Welcomat.

Dear Mr. Congressman, there is one law in America that must be repealed, a law so unjust that it could not stand constitutional muster. It is the law that bans assault weapons. It doesn't require that assault weapons be taken away from those of us who currently own them, but we all know that this is just the first step. I can see the day when paramilitary units roam the streets confiscating all guns, and law-abiding citizens won’t be able to protect themselves from predatory, fully-armed criminals. That’s how the Nazis got started, good friends, and I for one don’t plan to succumb to any Nazi-like regulations without putting up one helluva fight.

There were thousands of homicides in America last year, and that makes military-style semi-automatic assault weapons all the more necessary. Some of the banned assault weapons on the list are capable of shooting up to 150 rounds without reloading, and you want to take these glorious examples of destructive capability away from me? Let’s see one of you try. Please, my trigger finger is feeling a little itchy.

Most people have the misconception that assault weapons are good for nothing but killing large numbers of humans quickly and efficiently. While this is certainly a legitimate reason for owning assault weapons, it is not the only reason. Semi-automatics are also very useful when dealing with troublesome household problems.

Let’s say you need to dig a hole. Maybe you have to bury something in the back yard. You could do it the old-fashioned way with a pick and shovel, but that’s not any fun. I get my AR15 with collapsible stock and enlarged clip, envision some evildoer coming through my front door to take what I got, and cut loose with a burst of hot lead faster than you can say, “Who goes there?”

There’s nothing like blasting a hole in the earth the size of a Firestone tire in about fifteen seconds to perk you up when you’re feeling down. By the way, David Koresh had 120 AR15s in his compound when he held off the FBI for six weeks. If this magnificent representation of advanced civilization and technology was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me too.

Or let’s say you hit a rock in that grave—er, I mean—hole you’re digging. Why get yourself lathered up in a sweat for several hours digging the sucker out? Don’t be a pussy. Blast the mother to kingdom come and tell me if you don’t feel a lot better. In general, if something is stuck, shoot the living hell out of it. A good ten or fifteen volleys from a decent semi-automatic will loosen just about anything—man, beast, or inanimate object.

Maybe you need to move the couch through a doorway, and it just won’t fit by about a half-inch. So what do you do? You chumps would probably spend the next hour removing the trim and then replacing it, but not me.

I take out my Tec-9—a sleek little beauty with a nasty attitude—and blow the trim back to the stone age. I’ll have my fat ass parked on the couch gently caressing a Bud, my Tec-9, and my big beautiful gal within minutes. Who needs trim anyway? Too damn fancy. I yearn for the days when you fired first and repeatedly and asked as few questions as possible later.

This brings me to one of the laws of nature. When you don’t get your way, resort to brute force. That’s where semi-automatic weapons come in. You must understand this if you’re to find any contentment.

By the way, if you need to squeeze off a dozen rounds or more (and who doesn’t find themselves in that situation many times per day?), get yourself a barrel shroud. It allows you to grasp a barrel during rapid fire without burning your hands and improves your accuracy in the process. And silencers are de rigueur if you use your assault weapon frequently in crowded urban areas, as I do. A flash suppressor is another handy accessory. It allows you to fire away at night without being seen. If you’re in a nighttime street battle, you don’t need your weapon making an easy target out of you.

Most assault weapons also come with finely-tuned breech mechanisms that enable you to fire rapidly with very slight, repeated squeezes of the trigger. With a little practice, you’ll be firing your semi-automatic nearly as fast as you could a fully automatic weapon, like a machine gun. Won’t that be nice?

Household chores aren’t the only reason for owning assault weapons. They also help you garner the respect of your fellow man, the importance of which cannot be understated. Intimidation is an ugly word, but there are some members of society who don’t understand anything else.

See, you don’t actually have to shoot anyone with your assault weapon (unless the situation calls for it). Just letting your fellow man know that you have the ability to eliminate him or her in seconds changes the way people treat you. (This is given short shrift by the press, as if it isn’t one of the guiding principles of the universe.) As Senator Joe Biden pointed out, “You pull out an Uzi in a grocery store, and no one gives you any crap.” Hell, yes, Joey-baby. That’s the kind of respect there isn’t enough of in this country.

Let’s say a gang of rapists, pederasts, mutilators, motorcyclists, and homicidal postal workers is coming at you with God-knows-what in mind. If you point an AK-47 at them—like the one Patrick Purdy used to murder several Stockton, California, school children in 1989—they’ll back off right away. If they don’t, you can easily take out most of them before they get to you. The gang members left standing may make the few remaining hours of your life a living hell, but at least you’ll have earned their respect.

Here’s another anecdote that may help illustrate this extremely obvious point. Let’s say a group of thugs is making a ruckus on a street corner near your house at about 1 a.m. They’re laughing, cursing, drinking, and what-not while you and your slightly overweight baby are in the sack trying to concentrate on what comes natural. But you can’t do what comes natural because of the racket. In a sense, your very manhood is being challenged, and you must respond forcefully.

So you climb out of bed and out of your baby’s soft, warm, fleshy arms, and you gaze longingly up at your assault rifle rack. You wonder, which one is right for the job? With a sly smile, you pull down the Street Sweeper, a semi-automatic shotgun capable of firing twelve shells of pure hell from a revolving gangster-esque cylinder.

So you walk proudly out your front door in your boxers cradling the cold, heavy, lethal, black stock, and politely ask the fellas on the corner to reconvene elsewhere. You might put it like this: “Move along, dickheads, unless you enjoy massive hemorrhaging.”

To punctuate the remark, let fly with a few rounds at the sky, hoot and holler like a jackal, and watch those ruffians skedaddle like a bunch of wounded jackals. Well, brother, you’ll march back into that bedroom a new man and give your sweet, slightly overweight baby all the love she can handle and has come to expect from a confident, well-respected man.

Here’s another story that I’m willing to share with you. (I have to be careful. The authorities might be reading this.) I was driving along a highway a few weeks ago minding my own business when a car passed me in a manner I deemed unsafe. So I drove up beside the car at a very high speed, beeped and flashed my lights, waved my arms, and ranted and raved hysterically, trying to scare the young, long-haired, male into driving safely. Unfortunately, the suspect made an obscene gesture in my direction. Bad move.

Resorting to violence is always my last option, but the silly hooligan had given me no other choice. I had to make an example of him. I pulled out a 9mm Glock from my armpit holster. This pip holds dozens of rounds of pure power and self-image. The soft, graceful pistol grip brings hot tears to my eyes and a warm tingling sensation to my lower torso. (Hey, never mind where I get a warm tingling sensation. My warm tingling sensations are my business! And whether my baby and I clean and oil assault weapons together in bed—well, that’s none of your damn business either.)

Friends, you should’ve seen his face when he got saw the Glock. In that brief instant, as he stared down the short but accurate barrel, I bet he was real sorry for every transgression he had committed against the weak and innocent in his pitiful life. He tried to get away (they always try), but it was too late. I almost felt sorry for him.

I proceeded to blast his tires with several slugs of righteous discipline. As he skidded off the highway, I riddled the front and rear panels of his expensive sports car with an exquisite line of bullet holes. He skidded into a guard rail and was promptly rear-ended by several other cars. I saw an explosion in my rearview mirror and sped off, leaving him behind to consider the consequences of his poor behavior. No doubt I had taught him a valuable lesson and made the streets safer, and I couldn’t have done it without the Glock. See what I mean?

Let’s face it, it’s not safe to patrol the streets of a big city unless you’re armed to the teeth. The more firepower you’ve got festooned prominently to your person—ammo clips, grenades, Uzis, bayonets, etc.—the less likely anyone will step out of line. The idea is to make it clear that you could and would kill anyone at the slightest provocation.

In fact, with the proper weaponry and a committed attitude, you could probably take over your entire neighborhood. Everyone in the community—store owners, bookies, numbers runners, dealers, junkies, hookers, deranged ’Nam vets, streetcorner evangelists, hucksters and hustlers of every stripe—would have to pay homage to you in whatever form you deemed suitable. Arm a few trusted underlings, and you could probably gain control of the surrounding neighborhoods as well. (A pack of well-trained, ruthless Dobermans might help keep order as well.) But with power comes responsibility, which only those with automatic weaponry are capable of handling.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: if you’ve got the hardware, you set the rules. You know it and I know it, folks. See you at the shooting range.


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