Jim Porter is beyond doubt one of the crazier people I’ve ever read about. This TP piece introducing him to the wider world is nothing short of terrifying. It’s as though the Civil War never ended.
It did, didn’t it? Please tell me it did.
Why, for example, does he call Obama a “fake President”? Why? He was duly elected, unlike Dubya the first time around and by the way, if you don’t legally win the first time around but win the second, it does not legitimate the first vote. It simply doesn’t work that way.
Then there’s that whole “War of Northern Aggression” bit. One of two things are possible here: 1) He knows his audience, so he goes for the dog-whistle; or 2) Nah, this is what he really believes—that war never ended, so regionalism bleeds toward ignorance and a single-mindedness that there’s only one point of view and nothing else could ever be possible.
Then there’s this notion that everybody should be trained on military weaponry. Against whom, may I ask? Squirrels? Moths? Come on. The only use for this level of ordinance is to kill humans. Nothing else. Now, look: You can certainly kill somebody with a six-shooter, right? You don’t need a hundred-round clip to defend yourself. What are you going to do? Shoot the intruder’s face into jelly like Tarantino did with Hitler in Inglorious Basterds? For what reason except bloodthirst?
I do in fact have experience with an M-16, at Lackland AFB in 1976. I was handed mine for qualifying for a medal I suddenly decided I didn’t want, for a simple reason. We were told just before we took our positions that there was an apartment complex on top of the hill into which we’d be firing. There was no fence at the hill’s edge. Nothing. I thought of a child chasing a ball over the edge. I’d have done it as a child myself. Never lose a toy.
“Ready on the left. Ready on the right. Ready on the firing line. Fire—”
Which I did. The kick pushed back on my shoulder rather hard, but the most surprising thing to me was how much damage could be done with a single shot. If I’d been defending myself at home against an intruder and I had one of those, trust me when I say it would not end well for the intruder. We took a class before Wet Fire (and yes, that’s what they called it; I couldn’t help laughing every time I heard it) in which a teacher showed us a six-inch piece of steel which had served as the target; there was a significant hole that went straight through. The target was five hundred yards away from the shooter. And then we saw another exemplar shot from half the distance; there was a huge hole from the front, and an even larger one from behind. That’s how these bullets work, folks. They spin on contact. The only reason for owning something like this is to kill other people—not only that, but to utterly decimate them.
Now, look: I don’t mean to tick off anybody. All I’m saying is that if you think you need an AR, I don’t know why. I wouldn’t want to shoot a deer with one of those; what would be left to eat?
About that day on the firing range, I admit to shooting toward others’ targets rather than my own. I seem to remember I got something like a 30% percent score, but it didn’t matter to me; I just hope the guys around me scored more than 100%. That would be cool.
But as to Porter, he’s an idiot. No. He’s a monster. I hope he’s the guy who finally sinks this organization that had fair motives to begin with but has devolved into something more like madness on steroids. Porter’s a time-bomb just about to explode that gun club like a match in an arsenal.