Friday, November 11, 2016

Buy the Gun, Shoot the Gun

“Square” Andy, guest contributor
I want a gun. I don’t know why I want a gun, but I feel like I need one. I want to buy the gun and shoot the gun. I don’t know much about guns, but I need one. I want to grab the gun and squeeze her trigger. I want to cock the hammer back. I want to feel it pump and spring and recoil. It’s going to fire off out of my hand like intense ejaculate.

Guns aren’t for masturbation, but liberty is. Freedom isn’t free. Freedom is erotic. Like the Flags of Our Fathers photo my bridge rises to attention. Justice is my Cialis. Want the gun, need the gun, the gun is fun. Must shoot the gun. The gun is hip at my hip, concealed carry, I’ll take it everywhere I will, even Taco Bell. I’ll have Nachos Bell Grande and no snark, wage slaver. Give me your hottest sauce or I’ll draw, punk. My weapon’s on the counter.

When people see me and my big gun their mouths will drop in fear and confusion. The fight or flight response will cause their watering mouths to lubricate ready for a sweet love-making from my gun, should they question its virility, its tenacity, its self-righteous authority. I clean my gun, delicately. I stroke my gun with a micro fiber cloth. I keep her oiled and ready. My gun, my gun, what have ye done? I take her out on dates to the range. My gun is like my son. I’ll use my gun to protect my son if I ever have one, but first my gun will protect itself because she IS my son.

When Romeo said, “Juliet, you are the sun!” he should’ve said, “Gun, you are the sun!” Stroke the gun like a purring kitten in your lap, that’s where I keep it. It’s by my side at all times. It fires. Gun powder smoke smells like Mother’s cooking. It’s enticing. It draws a crowd to its smoke cloud. I don’t like drugs. But if I did, of gun powder smoke I would take hits. I inhale the gun smoke like it’s life force, like it’s the coal dust that made America grand. I would do lines of black gun powder. “What’s that on your nose?” Where it takes me, anyone knows.

I paint myself in blackface with gun powder, war paint, and the excrement of feral animals. I cologne myself with the piss of rodents and scream, “Come at me!” in an empty forest. Well, the animals are there, but they don’t dare come near. They can smell fear, and they for once smell their own body odor. I will kill the rodents and the skunk that come near me. I will skin their limp carcasses and wear horse skin on my person like a tarp. Feral animal testicles as my earrings. Severed yak ears on my necklace. My gun kills, my gun thrills.

I love the smoked barbecue of an open flesh wound. I’m ready to eat deer. I go raw. No time to cook or get hot sauce, this bloody wound is well-done. Like when I’m eating out my wife like a cannibal, providing her cunnilingus most magnificent. It causes me to spurt, pulsate, with the wisdom of God’s divinity. Eating stomach and liver and shoulder, this game animal, I may as well be making love to her. Like the first time you get your redwings, eating dead things is the sacrament of human dominion. Body of Christ, leg of lamb, this is God’s divine plan.

We’re all part of the beautiful circle of life and the herd. We’re sheep or at least in their clothing. We are beautiful red sheep with semi-automatic weapons and turgid erections waiting for someone to touch us. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Charles Bronson uses me for protection. Hang animals upsidedown. Sport the 2nd amendment and your erections proud. Stroke your gun in the face of the nearest nun. Eat bald eagle breakfast cereal. Even if you shoot me, and wound me, and I’m bleeding profusely, these colors don’t run.

Man of God.

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