Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Seems like...

... Outdoor Life gun writer Jim Zumbo really put his foot in it over the weekend...
Turns out he feels that those scary black "assault rifles" have no place in the sportsman's gun rack, even going so far as to propose they be banned as hunting weapons. Well, that's his opinion, I suppose, although it doesn't seem to be shared by many of his sponsors, which I heartily applaud.
This kind of nonsense highlights the split between the hunting community and that of the shooters, and it's an attitude that I've encountered myself. As long as their guns are safe, they could give a crap about what happens to yours, or worse, calling for restrictions or bans on the guns they do not use.
What we all need to understand is that there are no "good" guns as far as anti-gunners are concerned. They want them all banned, but are patient and willing enough to achieve their ends by small, incremental steps; first the scary black "assault rifles", then Bubba's slick wood-grained hunting rig. Gun owners of every stripe need to get this! Successfully banning one type of gun makes it easier for the next ban, and dopey writers like Zumbo are just unwitting tools.
I'm stoked that the gun-owning community jumped on this dude with both feet and fast. The guy is entitled to his opinion, this is America after all, but only a complete idiot would crap on his own doorstep like that.
Outdoor Life has been backpedaling frantically for the last couple of days, and Remington has dropped him like a hot brick. He's attempted a half-hearted apology, but the damage has been done. Maybe he can find himself a new career at the Brady Center. Seems like he'd fit right in.

1 comment:

Julie K. said...

Here's the poem I promised. I had no idea that I needed to start my own blog in order to do this! And the poem lost its original format when I cut and pasted it, so hmm...but hey, you can check out my blog now. I'll need you to help me post stuff :)

Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell me with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.