The Gunz R4
Movement
The GR4 Pussies Movement was begun in 2020 by a
disgruntled and previously ungruntled and disgraced Right Wing newspaper
columnist and current bloggist named Malcolm Pearlmutter.
To this very day, the GR4 Movement continues to
grow and burgeon (which is the same thing), and is said to be within a couple
baby steps of wiping out all gun violence in the country forever.
The roots and basic philosophy of the movement
were encapsulated in Pearlmutter’s very first blog on the subject, posted in
his “The Mutterings of Pearl,” an on-line blog (previously a newspaper column
which was syndicated in over three hundred dailies daily, back when there were
actually over three hundred dailies nationally):
What follows is the full text of Pearlmutter's
initial rambling, semi-coherent blog:
O ye teary-eyed, strong-hearted friends of mine,
our palms must now be pressed down upon that hated, heated, frying pan of fate,
with its cooking oil percolating up to scalding temperatures, with both the
dermis and epi- to be scorched by facts to be faced, starting out with this one
doozy:
This beloved country of ours has turned itself
into a gun-powdered and dildo-ed nation, ready for nada, willing to
perforate others but unable to perform.
You’re too young to remember this, but our Sweet
Prince of a Boy, a sacred spot that both we and Irving Berlin referred to as
“The Beautiful,” all decked out with his top-hat and tails—red, white and blur—once
strode proudly out of the ashes of the Brown Shoe War with both guns cooling
but still hot to the touch from all that blazing—the Prince himself, all
primped up, pimped and powdered, pump-action pumped, lacquered with
sweet-smelling musk and perfume, nobody’s fool or equal, doing all right in
school and okay in bed.
Since then however, things have deflated down to
the worse, and now to the worst.
Presently we are comprised of a wearied and weird populace of
boner-starved misfits, schlumping
back East across the plains, shoulders hunched and as weak as dishwater,
pretending to be in possession of a stellar pair of John Wayne’s
Guadalcanal-baked coyotes and hauling a dick with the length and power
of Sergeant Alvin C. York’s M-1917 Enfield rifle, but in reality unsure of what
to do if we ever found Betty Grable splayed out on our table. Or anywhere else.
So, instead of plying our trade against some
slanty-eyed, buck-toothed Yips (played by a runt-sized Sessue Hayakawa—runty
yes, but tending to fight back, tending to fight on, not giving in or up until
hell froze over into a hari-kari crust of crud), or else some Nazis (who tended
to be harder-hearted and harder-headed than us suburb-bred, white bread boys,
the black boys being segregated into separate but equal death platoons),
nowadays these freedom-isn't-free faggots get their rocks off by hunting down
four-year-olds in pinafores and shooting hot bullet-heads into the flesh of
tots who are hanging upside down from jungle gyms like targets in an arcade.
So here’s the ploy, boys and girls:
In order to stop the slaughter on our
schoolyards and public playgrounds, we must convince the all of them, the all
of us, from the fairly sane to the bat-shit and beyond—that entire lumpy
proletariat—that all guns, ALL GUNS, are for pussies.
You heard me right: Gunz R4 Pussies.
And that, my friends, is the name of our
campaign.
Look, you losers of the Left and anyone else who
thinks you can control the amount of guns and of moronic lunacy floating around
the countryside—It’s too late, and too big a blister, for that Band-Aid.
Too late.
The
operative figure—only slightly suspect—is this: Over one-point-one million
people have been killed by guns since John Lennon bravely took the lead, and
the lead, back in ’80 (you can pronounce the “lead” or “lead” either way, works
in both directions).
That’s.
One. Point. One.
Million. That’s more people than
claim to have been at Idlewild Airport when the Beatles landed here for the
first time. There are three hundred and
ten million guns in America; we could line up every man, woman and demented
offspring, give them each their own gun, with ammo supplied, and still have
enough left over to arm Yugoslavia, or whatever the hell it calls itself these
days.
And so, since it’s obviously too late in our
nation’s looney history to get guns out of the hands of the morons and the
lunatics (this being obvious to everyone but those lenient lovelies of the Left
who think a mimeographed application form to “Buy and Possess,” followed, if not
followed, by the wet noodle slap across the wrist and trigger finger), before
they rush into our schools with their noses dripping and their guns blazing,
let’s convince these lunatics that their guns are not macho or manly, nowhere
near that edifying, never have been, never will be, but are instead nothing
more than fairy dust for the butterflies.
This applies to gang/killers too.
Guns are only needed by pussies, so only pussies
have guns.
Let us finally admit that handguns—all guns— are
nothing more than nut-sacks for the neutered, guts for the gutless. Let’s make everyone see that. Let’s convince these future baby killers that
their pretty little blue-metal weapons are nothing more than a scam tool to be
worshipped by the weak and the wasted, the wussies of our world.
Waddayasay, let’s convince these sick-o-phants
that a real man can hunt by using just his hands and a bow, he can protect his
home and family with just his fists and a nightstick. Let’s convince these salivating remedial
morons that strapping on a gun takes the same amount of valor and verse as
strapping on a prosthetic schwantz between one’s legs.
Let’s force gun manufacturers to admit that the
whole sheboygan of its upper level management is just a neck-tied lineup of
dick-less wonders, that there isn’t a real man among them, and that money is
not only the bottom line, it is every other line too.
Let’s look back.
The 1980’s saw the gun industry quaking in its
boots. Not because of fear that a baby
might be shot through a nipple and left for dead, but because gun sales were
down. The Charter Arms Company had died,
Colt Manufacturing went bankrupt.
Then, thank God, thank the loving God of useless
slaughter, along came the 1992 Los Angeles riots. Those dirty, black thugs out in the street
had a shitload of anger and torches and youthful energy going for them. The cops were retreating, hiding behind their
shields and Teflon.
But We the People had our guns, and we weren’t
afraid to use them. Eastwood could blast
a hole through some young thug who was flat on his back and crying out for
mercy. The chickenshit was sob-faced
twisting and thwarted by that Big Swinging Dick From Above.
And so, twenty-year-old white kids have been
feeding the kindling between their legs with that image ever since. Dressed all in their camo, face blackened,
with a heavy, loaded “equalizer” strapped to the hip.
Hey, listen, don’t get annoyed as I point all
this out to you. I personally volunteer
to sacrifice my own good, macho name in order to give the movement a kick-start. When I was busy serving my country in the
United States of Wherever It Wants Army (that’s Vietnam era, son, back when our
word to the world meant something, and the fathers of invaded countries had to
lock up their sweet-smiling daughters as we unstrapped our gun belts and
unbuttoned our flies—no zippered dick doors for us he-men back then), I
qualified as an “Expert,” then as a “Marksman,” finally a “Sharp-shooter” with
both the M-16 and a Police Special .38.
So now I volunteer to go around talking with a
lisp and punctuating my words with a string of high, squeaking giggles and
cackles. I’ll even tell people that I
think the cross-eyed guy on those Real Housewives shows is kind of cute. In a way.
That way he has about him.
So, before this latest op-ette of mine
(“op-ette” being a diminutive form of “Op-Ed” for those readers who would
rather punt than pun) awakens that nest of squirrels often euphemistically
referred to as my “readership,” before this GUNZ R4 campaign begins exploding
like an IED in a firecracker factory, like an enchilada fart in a space suit,
like a spark in the Hindenburg, I decided that I owed it to all the diaper-clad
gun-nutz who read my stuff and can actually comprehend a bit of it, to actually
visit a gun show, since that pleasure has been denied to me through seventy-two
years of actually living a life.
So I did.
The show billed itself as “The Largest Gun Show
North of Boston,” an obvious literary reference to the first collection of
poems by Robert Frost, that California-bred, New Hampshire/Vermont native son
who wrote the timeless, “Stopping by the Woods with My Assault Rifle Locked and
Loaded on a Snowy Evening.”
Allow me to state my pre-visit prejudices about
these type shows. I admit that what I
expected to find was an overheated and under-ventilated aluminum Quonset hut,
packed sardine-tight with that type of malnourished weasels you see driving
monster trucks but still need a booster seat to see out the windshield, with
blocks on the pedals to reach the controls with their lift-aided combat boots,
all wearing rumpled backpacks stuffed with giant tubes of Clearasil that
obviously weren’t working.
And I was right, that is exactly what I did
find.
I knew I was in the right place as soon as I
noticed that my Ford Fiesta was the only vehicle in the parking lot without
layers of dried, crusted mud, clear up to the windows, and mud-flaps showing
cartoons of fake and flashy women, under-clad—posing as every wimpy boy’s
example of a wet dream, while trying hard not to laugh until the john had left
the room and maybe left his wallet too.
Inside, I saw hordes of young white men, each
wearing different articles of “Look at
me” camo clothing (which seemed to defeat the original purpose of camouflage),
but what do I know. Well, at least I
know more that this band of mentally deficient goofballs combined, and so do
you, so does the average man in the street, even if the street has been exposed
to massive amounts of brain-deadening toxic waste for the last forty years.
Speaking of toxic waste, the stench of B.O. in
the place did not quite reach the sense-deadening level, which was a shame, and
the thought occurred that marketing a spray deodorant in a canister designed to
look like a Mauser C96 could make some money.
The lack of security would have flagellated the
anti-gun-nutz crowd, but I found it somehow soothing and appropriate. Also appropriate would have been a wet-bar
that served moonshine and denatured alcohol along with the automatics and
revolvers, but if there was something like that there, I didn’t see it.
Numerous gun manufacturer ads and logos were
plastered about on walls and easels, all ads showing either pictures of
attacking grizzly bears or tits (human, female). The undercurrent of each of the ads was
obviously: “Boy, grab yourself one of these weapons, a sidearm or a rifle or
shotgun. Bring it on home with you. Whenever you find yourself incapable of
producing a pole in your pocket, these here pieces of heavy metal are the next
best thing.”
It stands to reason that there must be a gun
enthusiast somewhere (they don’t like to be called “gun-nutz” because it hits
too close to home, “home” being where they keep their gun-metal blue, heavy
dildos, locked up tight in a storage cabinet while the firearms lie loaded on
the couch and stuffed between the sofa cushions, for the kids to find and play
with) who doesn’t consider his collection of child-killing weapons to be a
subconscious extensions of that fleshy one he has hanging down there where his
legs collide, but if there is, I have yet to meet him.
The crowd was exceedingly white and dirty, which
I had expected and was ready for, but the young age of the participants
surprised me. Some young bucks who
looked about twelve were accompanied by toddlers and infants that seemed to be
their offspring, but my guess would be the babies were all sired by an older
woman who has been allowing junior to visit at the cost of a pack of
cigarettes. Which continues to double
every few years.
The crowd was so young looking that at least
twice I was sure I spotted Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris strolling by, among
all the other goofy-eyed gunsels who someday might have to kill just to get
their cookies off, just like those Columbine twins did, just a pair of
de-neutered dong suckers (if I were still writing my newspaper column, I would
not have been allowed to call these boys “dong-suckers”—too close to home ) who
just couldn’t stop jerking each other off until everybody around them was dead
and cold, including them. Them two
too. The difference between the shooters
and their victims being the eunuchs already had that pair of whimsy dicks
hanging uselessly between their legs even before the shooting started, while
their victims were normal, up until their death by trauma.
It probably would not have been appropriate to
hang a sign among the ads that read, “Numb Nuts = Gun Nuts” so I didn’t.
One sign that I did see explained that
Switzerland requires its populace to own a gun and that country has the lowest
homicide rate in the world. This Swiss
Miss policy seems to me to be the ultimate in the gummint’s intrusion into our
personal liberty. I could just picture
former NRA Grand Pupa and demigod “Charlatan” Heston raising up a fist in a
crowded convention hall and shouting, “The government can require me to possess
a gun when they pry it into by cold, dead fingers.”
I left.
Okay, so even if you’re a moron, try to follow
this:
Even if you hail from West Texas, down where
nepotism begets incest and vice begets versa, follow this:
You heartland guys always seem to be a-worryin’
about the gummint trying to take your guns away, right? Remember Jade Helm? The U.S. Army was running some silly,
insignificant, budget-bloating training exercises down there in that
piss-soaked, goiter-choked neck of the Texas woods, when you and the boys
decided it was an undercover gummint invasion.
A ploy so that Obama could confiscate all your firearms and hand them
over to the Muslims. With ribbons and
bows and little note tags with quotes from the Koran.
Even great national heroes like Chuck Norris and
your own Governor Rick Perry (who actually ran for the White House until he was
unable to name the city that the White House was located in) were onboard with
the counterattack.
So, Fuzzy Skeetz (may I call you Fuzzy Skeetz?),
how many nights did you spend yanking on your pathetic braciole in a
sleeping bag while lying on the cold Texas oil-soaked soil as a proud foot
soldier and part of “Exercise Counter Jade Helm”? Did you do your best to locate and track the
U. S. Army soldier boys, and then forward all that intel by homing pigeon to
some headquarters up in Arizona to be posted on some shit-stained, half-ass
website up there?
The two-sided NRA argument goes both ways (as I
suspect many of the members do also): 1. “Careful of the army, they’re here to
take you guns”; but then turn around and say: 2. “Pearl, you say all gunners
are fairies? What about our brave
soldier boys out there protecting our freedom, and our brave police officers,
you want them to give up their guns?”
So let me logically follow this through for you,
since you’re obviously incapable of doing it yourself. Can’t you see, Fuzzy Skeetz, that the U. S.
Armed Forces (and law enforcement agencies) should be the very ones you’re
trying to dis-arm? Jade Helm,
right? Why are you trying to protect
these brutes in your imminent posts to me?
They’re coming after your guns.
You better get to theirs first.
Every gunnut website will gladly tell you the
story of how Hitler got everyone to register
their guns when he came to power, just so he could confiscate them and
only give them back to the S.S. so that they could exterminate Jews and invade
Poland. That entire story is bogus, of
course, the Nazis actually loosened gun-control when they came to power, but
the story reads well for the uninformed and the double-digit IQs and the generally
all-around doltish. Such as yourself.
Let’s face it, Bubba, the gummint is trying to
take away your guns and you’re letting them do it by falling for the old, “Boys
in uniform are out there protecting us with their lives and guns”
argument. Its enforcement arm for
accomplishing this aim consists of Federal, state and local law enforcements
agencies, but its most powerful enforcement tools belong to the Armed Forces
(Army, Marines, etc.) Therefore these agencies should not be allowed access to
guns.
In the interest of complete transparency, let me
quote the eminent Walter Sobchak: “Duuuude, Duuuude, there’s nobody coming to
take away you guns.”
So, in conclusion, not delusion, here’s a bit of
some undiluted clarity:
If you use a gun, you are a pervert.
It doesn’t matter whether you are shooting at a
range target or at a home invader or a gaggle of screaming kids in a school
yard. Doesn’t matter if you’re a whitey
white with blackheads pockmarking your face or a Crispy Crip looking for
protection and revenge. You are a
pervert, sending bullets through your barrel because you can only shoot blanks
in the bedroom. No, not even blanks,
duds. You are a dud. Your whole life is a dud, a confused jumble
of omni-racial incompetence.
You have found that weaponry is the one thing
that gets your gonads a-galluping.
But the long and short, starboard and port, yin
and yang, gin and gang of it is this: GUNZ R4 Pussies will become a tidal
wave. Soon, my surfboard and I will no
longer be in control of our speed and direction.
If no gun were manufactured, bought or owned
from this moment on, we would still be the most heavily armed nation in the
world. In the developed world? In the world.
In the civilized world? In the
world. We are already packing more guns
in our homes and on our streets than the Ruskies, the Pakies, the
Afghanistanies. Drug cartels and gang
violence might have the populace packing in places like Colombia and Mexico,
but we got more. More in total? Yes, more.
More per capita? Yes, we got
more. More than Somalia? Yup.
More than the Congo? Yup.
The cure-all for the slaughter of our children
in our schoolyards and streets is not less guns—too late for that— but less
macho iconology on our TV sets and movie theaters and video games. Why can’t we just splash our screens with good
old fashioned sex, and let that activity flourish from sea to shining semen.
Feel like shooting someone? Jerk off instead. Get a date.
Go to the prom, a drinking party, a frat mixer, a club, look around and
see if you can get lucky.
Does that heavy piston in your hand make you
feel like a man? Replace it with
something else. Strip clubs are for
winners, gun shows are for losers. Show
the country’s youth (those that survive the school shootings are the future)
that if you’re packing as you walk into a strip club, it’s because you are
ashamed at whatever else is there or isn’t there in your pants.
Count the dictionary phrases that stand for both
guns and groin: ‘blaster,’’ “piece,” “rod,” “snub nose,” “six-shooter,”
“hardware,” “heater,” “hog’s leg,” “stick,” “broom,” “pickle,” “hot rod,”
“dagger,” “gun,” “rod,” “banger,” et, et, et cetera.
Let’s stop substituting firearms for the real
thing:
Cocks, not artillery!
Pricks, not cannons!
Circle jerks, not shoot-outs!
Bazookas, not bazookas!
Piss shooters, not peashooters!
Remember:
The only thing more dangerous than a moron is an
impotent moron, and the only thing more dangerous than that is an impotent
moron with a gun.
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