By David de Beer
It’s longer than a ruler so if you squint a lot, it could be a bazooka. Not to mention, if you don’t expect it, it sounds like car backfiring in an underground parking lot.
One day after the Orlando massacre that used a completely different gun than the one I’ll be testing, I travelled to Philadelphia. Gun shop or gun range owners near my house were too sane to let me shoot with their guns. This might be because they saw I wanted to vilify these guns, or perhaps it was because I use words like “military-style” and “assault weapons” with no fucking clue what they mean, who knows? Let’s just say I was driving in that direction anyway.
Mostly, I just wanted to get my name out there so millions would see it.
Many gun shops turned down our request to discuss and fire the AR-15. Most likely they knew what a total spaz I am, and had the good sense to fake illness and close their shops early rather than let me near a gun. It was like high school gym glass all over again.
Finally, I found a European man selling guns in the United States. He thinks the United States should adapt their gun laws to be more like Europe. I wondered if his life wouldn’t have been easier if he’d just stayed in Europe where it was already quite a lot like Europe, and didn’t need much by the way of changing laws to make it like Europe. He spoke a lot about guns and gunny stuff, but I’m not sure if he said a person could empty a 40-round clip in less than five seconds, or if I should watch a Youtube clip of someone drinking a forty in 5 seconds. Either way, it sounds like a bad idea.
About Europe he said; “In Europe we do things like our laws say we should, we do expansive background checks, extending into your family, friends and associates. Before I left Europe, I performed a background check so thoroughly that I saved a guy’s grandfather by finding out he had testicular cancer. But you guys shouldn’t do what your laws say; you should do what European laws say, because I feel more comfortable with that. Also, Europe. Europe”
I could prattle on about the gun shop owner, but I’m getting tired of typing Europe. It hurts my fingers, my brain and my feelings. So, if you can think of anything else that’s more European in Europe than in the US, please just assume I would have said it was great in a very dramatic way. Europe.
The AR-15, or whatever this gun is that we’re supposed to be shooting, is great for cops, soldiers, hunters, target-shooters, nuns, nurses, auto mechanics, accountants, sales clerks, professional golfers and little girls. However, it’s not great in my hands. I’ve shot pistols before, those that can launch streams of water up to 30 FEET, but never anything like an AR-15. You barely apply 6 pounds of pressure to the trigger and the wrath of Thor is instantly unleashed, mere fractions of an inch from your ACTUAL FACE!! Only 6 Pounds! That’s the same weight as new-born babies, people! This trigger is directly linked to innocent little babies!
The kerfuffle unleashed by the clip doing stuff I don’t understand at all, shakes me to my very core. Even WITH the ear protection. The recoil slammed into my shoulder like a Mac truck slams into a tiny, fluffy bunny on the road, decimating it. Seriously, as soon as I’m done typing and I’ve grabbed a latte, I’ll probably need shoulder replacement surgery.
The brass shell casings flying past my face made me so unstable and nauseous, I could barely stand. It was about as bad as trying to play tennis. The unexpected smells I had to endure were atrocious! I thought it was probably sulphur from the gunpowder and some destruction too, but my videographer said it smelled more like someone crapped their pants. I don’t know who it was, but I hope their mom gets the stains out of their favourite khakis.
The explosions – loud as a balloon popping really close to you – gave me a serious case of shell-shock with a bitter PTSD chaser. I’ve written a letter to the VA demanding that I be treated for this at the government’s expense. For at least thirty years before firing this auto-gun of death and utter destruction, I was neurotic, coddled, pandered-to and carried everywhere like a little princess. My feet have never known the sweet, spiky torture that is the texture of grass. Who has to pay for that?!
Even in semi-automatic mode, it’s easy to shoot more ammo out than you thought, and a lot more than you have pocket-money to pay for. When I imagine shooting in fully-automatic mode – imagine I must because this gun can’t do it – I see dozens of bodies falling before my eyes. All of them are people who were mean to me in school.
I’m sweating as my clip is finally spent. Sweating, shaking, traumatised and exhausted. I need a cigarette.