I was 2 years old, on ol' Grandpa Hickory's farm. Oh, it was such fun. I didn't really shoot it myself--he had me on his lap and put my finger on the rifle and pulled it for me. We shot cans and pretended they were Japanese people.
The next time, I was actually shooting Japanese people, because I was shooting guns in World War II. It was a fine, fine time to be alive. We'd do some shooting, then sit around and talk about how great it was to be alive during olden times, before computers and rap music and such made things bad. We'd smoke some Lucky Strikes and have a good strong cup of joe (which only cost a penny) and then shoot some more people and go home to our loving families. My gun rested on a special pillow in the living room.
The next time I shot a gun, I was hunting with my family. It was Thanksgiving day and the air was crisp and the foliage bright. We couldn't wait to get home to some apple cider and a warm fire. But first we had to shoot a ten-point buck and we did. Oh it was majestic. What a day that was. The buck was beautiful but impertinent unlike my gun, which was straight and true and reliable.
And the last time I shot a gun, it was during a Wild West show. Somehow, in a way that takes too long to go into, I came into the situation that if I wanted to save ol' Grandpa Hickory's farm, I would have to shoot a hole exactly through the center of a three of hearts card, while standing backwards, blindfolded, a hundred yards away from an orphaned child who held up the card. If I made the shot, Grandpa's farm would be saved and the orphaned child would be sent to live a wealthy family, and not the work house. I whispered a prayer to my gun and promised it a treat if it made the shot, and guess what. It did.
So, just in case you were wondering how I stood on guns. There it is. And if you ask me for proof of these stories I might have to turn the tables on you and ask you, what about you? What's your proof? Do you hate America? Quick! Look over there!