On Tuesday, Democratic president candidate Rep. Eric Swalwell took aim at the NRA, taunting them that they wouldn’t debate him. But NRA spokeswoman Dana Loesch had a swift and blistering response, quoting from Val Kilmer’s immortal performance as Doc Holliday in the film “Tombstone” and firing back, “I’m your huckleberry.”
Swalwell was responding to Loesch pointing out that Swalwell had “dodged legitimate questions about his gun confiscation-and-jail policy for quite some time.” Prior to that salvo, she had stated, “You said you would jail law-abiding gun owners if they didn’t turn in their lawfully owned firearms. How do you plan to confiscate guns?”
Swalwell responded, “Ms. Loesch — I see you’ve spent another day blowing up my Twitter. Thank you for following! But here’s the deal, you’re an @nra mouthpiece. I don’t aim down, so I don’t debate mouthpieces. But send me your president, @OliverLNorth. I’ll debate him anywhere.”
Good on Dana for stomping this asswipe and all, but my unalienable 2A rights ain’t up for debate—”SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED,” remember?—and I care not one lonely damn with whom Swallowspunk might or might not prefer to flap his cockholster in public about the issue. No talk, little man. Come and take them, if you dare. We’re all out here…waiting. Practical advice for ya: better bring help. Lots and lots of it.
Swalwell, apparently afraid to take on Loesch, sidestepped, “Here’s a prediction: the @nra is afraid to have its president debate me. They talk so tough on Twitter, but when challenged to a debate to defend their advocacy for unrestricted weaponry it’s just crickets from @OliverLNorth. #NoFear.”
“Afraid”? Of the likes of you, and whatever sob-sister army composed of like-minded pissants you might scrape up? It is to laugh, until the floating ribs part from their moorings. I say again: come and take them. Here’s a helpful historical review of what you’ll find waiting.
Someone once asked how many men were needed to start a revolution.
Apparently, 77 is enough to get the ball rolling.
“Stand your ground. Don’t fire unless fired upon. But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.” – Captain John Parker, Lexington militia
“Throw down your arms, you damned rebels!” – British officer, 4th Regiment of Foot, on Lexington Common
And then the F**k-Up Fairy landed, someone pulled a trigger, and the genie was out of the bottle.
Tally at the end of the day:
The British troops, formed of disparate clumps of men and officers from a dozen regiments (which made command and control even more tenuous throughout the day) after brushing aside what was always intended as token resistance at Lexington (the colonial militia was on the common, not blocking the road at all, and made no move to impede the far superior British forces, all the colonial leaders and stores of weapons having been removed or hidden long before the Redcoats’ arrival), marched on to Concord bridge, where they searched the town for weapons until noon, mostly to no great effect, but upon their attempted return to Boston got a much different greeting than at Lexington, and then began an all-day long fighting retreat that left every British officer from the original expedition injured or wounded and unhorsed, all of them exhausted, nearly out of ammunition, and all but surrounded and captured as they straggled back to the safety of Boston city limits. The British in Boston were subsequently surrounded and besieged by tens of thousands of enraged colonial militiamen, which troops then formed the seed of what became the Continental Army.
And with blood shed in strength by both sides, no way any longer to put back the cork to the genie’s bottle.
Lesser lights in modern times, agitating for both gun control and confiscations, and shilling for an open conflict in the midst of civil society, should learn a lesson or three about being careful for what you wish.
Yessirreebob they should. So…any time you feel froggy, Swallowspunk. Any. Fucking. Time. One of Aesop’s commenters brings up the amazing story of Samuel Whittemore as further food for gun-grabber thought.
On April 19, 1775, British forces were returning to Boston from the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the opening engagements of the war. On their march, they were continually shot at by colonial militiamen.
Whittemore was in his fields when he spotted an approaching British relief brigade under Earl Percy, sent to assist the retreat. Whittemore loaded his musket and ambushed the British Grenadiers of the 47th Regiment of Foot from behind a nearby stone wall, killing one soldier. He then drew his dueling pistols, killed a second grenadier and mortally wounded a third. By the time Whittemore had fired his third shot, a British detachment had reached his position; Whittemore drew his sword and attacked. He was subsequently shot in the face, bayoneted numerous times, and left for dead in a pool of blood. He was found by colonial forces, trying to load his musket to resume the fight. He was taken to Dr. Cotton Tufts of Medford, who perceived no hope for his survival. However, Whittemore recovered and lived another 18 years until dying of natural causes at the age of 96.
Let me reiterate that for you: at just short of 80 years young, this true American hero was still spry enough to be reloading after having been shot in the face, bayoneted, and left for dead. He wasn’t done with his enemies quite yet, see; aged as he was, gravely wounded as he was, having already done more than his part to resist, he was still unswervingly determined to have another go at killing as many of those Redcoat gun-grabbers as he possibly could, by any means he could contrive.
And if you think they just ain’t building Americans that way anymore, well, you just try us. You’ll learn, to your horror and dismay, that there are still a good few out here even yet. And they’re all done talking.
They’re out here…waiting.