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Liberty Ship
01-19-2003, 20:46
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
HUMOR ONLY!)
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 ass 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.

rlfjr
01-19-2003, 21:41
Geez .... Freakin' wacko's idea of fun.

:(