This song is for the Newtown kids. My grandmother lives in Watertown, Connecticut - which is where my whole extended family (all 65 of us) go for Thanksgiving every year - and we passed by Newtown on our way there on Thursday. It's tough to even read the road sign.
My entire office shut down that day - people just stayed glued to whatever live stream they were watching. The initial reports were so much easier to stomach. My kid (and I'm trying so hard not to start sounding like ONE OF THESE PEOPLE more and more in these blog posts and obviousy losing the battle) was like a year old at the time, and as everyone learned the actuality of what happened at that school, a part of me shut down. I just left and came home. It's been as transformative experience in my life as 9/11 was previously. I don't think in a good way, either.
I've shot guns at shooting ranges before - it's awesome. What a full sensory experience. My first shot with a .45 I put a hole right in the target's forehead. I was dumb proud of myself for my accuracy. The instructor said, "Hell yeah. That'll scatter the gray matter". And I laughed. Because that's a ridiculous thing to say. It doesn't dawn on you til later that that has actually happened to human beings before. That unbelievable force that was ejected from the gun that nearly kicked your hands over your shoulders has been deposited into human flesh many, many times over the course of human history. It's fucking crazy.
I've gone back and forth a number of times on whether or not I want a gun in my home. I'm currently in the "no" mindset, but I could shift back. Who knows. I've been having difficulty controlling my anger recently, though, and it scares me to think how easy it would be for me to pull a gun on someone over some bullshit. I daydream about it all the time. So, for now, I am content to just keep my blade on me. That way if a situation jumps up where I feel like I'm in mortal danger - which honestly hasn't ever happened - I'll have something to defend myself with. And I don't worry about making a reckless decision with a knife. It's too personal of a weapon.
We brought knives to the gunfight. See what I did there?
Because the song subject matter is so difficult for me (as I'm sure it is for everyone), the way we decided to write the song makes me sick to my stomach. Which it should. That's what we're going for. Just like the instructor at the shooting range we visited, there's this displaced way that guns and the damage they are capable of inflicting are discussed everywhere. It's most obvious when you're browsing guns for purchase. How do you describe the power of a tool to end life in a way that appeals to people?
So, that's what we're mimicking in the song. We're trying to sell you a Bushmaster .223, the same gun that the Lanza kid used to murder hella children in a fucking classroom. Stine lightly mixed in some choice quotes from a fucking Chuck Norris pro-gun PSA just in case you weren't disgusted enough.
Super light carbine. All black. Hardline. Semi-automatic. Equal trigger pressure at all times. Built to fit a telescopic scope. Long range. At 300 yards the bullets are still on a frozen rope. Red dot site. Bolt locked tight. At a distance you could still stick a headshot at night. Centerfire. Weighs about as much as a kitten. You can add another pound if the magazine is missing.
30 cap mag. Three bullets a second. This is a blow-your-cap world class type weapon. All parts top of the line. No half stepping. Made to shoot first and then ask questions. Barrel like a foot and a half. Firing rate matches any rifle. You do the math. Pleasure to shoot. Pleasure to buy. Pleasure to own. Protect your family, protect your home.
Buck, buck. Let God sort 'em out.
Murdered out like a flat black Mercedes hatchback. They said you have to practice on them games but I never played. Bullseye painted a hundred yards back. That's that. Natural. It's like I never aimed. Grip like a cross-hatch. Cost me a goddamned arm and leg but it's worth the better range. Butt against the shoulder. Camoflaged like soldiers. Never knew why there were saftey's on these anyway.
Don't remember names. Take 'em. Talk about them later. One for the bossman. Two for the haters. Three for the heartland. Four for the anger. Five, six, seven, eight, nine hundred traitors. Treat it like a best friend. Treat it like a best. Treat it like it's beautiful but got a mouth of teeth. Treat it like the modern sporting rifle that it is. Rocking that full metal jacket. Packing thirty to a clip.
Buck, buck. Let God sort 'em out.« Back to Home