Hairless, If you're standing there with a shotgun in your hand and a dead BG on the floor, what in the he** do you mean " It's not your lucky day?" Would you feel lucky if the positions were reversed? If it were me, I'd be buying lottery tickets, because I COULD, and HE COULDN'T.If you survive a shootout things aren't exactly going against you.Nobody WANTS to shoot someone, but I don't want someone to shoot me more. If I have to shoot, I'll try my best to be right, but I'll be alive to defend my actions. That's the entire premise of SELF DEFENSE.
Thanks. I guessed at the meaning of the words "self defense" and it turns out that I was pretty close. As soon as I figured out "defense" had nothing to do with a reference to that wood thing somebody is always asking me to paint I had it made. But I appreciate your lecture anyway.
I was responding to someone who quoted that famous saying emblazoned on the nighties of every redblooded macho guy in every redblooded macho gun forum: "A good shoot is a good shoot."
The thing about that statement is that it's a judgment made by one or more other people after the fact of the shoot. I doubt that anyone here would try to do anything other than "a good shoot." But it's not the shooter who determines whether he did a bad shoot, a good shoot, an indifferent shoot, or merely a passable shoot.
I'm aware that my transmissions are not being received clearly by your antenna so I'll give a simple example.
There you are, with your tacticool shottie dripping with so many accessories that it droops to the living room floor. Suddenly you hear a noise outside. You manipulate the shotty's pistol grip so you can make it to the door. You fling it open and there in front of you is your worst nightmare: your girlfriend's baby's grandpa once removed. He screams "You ruined my little girl and I'ma gonna getcha!" and runs right at you with a butcher knife flashing. You ignore the flashing butcher knife, although you think it's peculiarly attractive and would love to get one to complement your outfit, and fire four slugs and a round of #00 buck into the murderous elder who was intent on taking your life.
He falls to the ground, dead. You plant your right foot on his chest, wave your shotarooni above your head in the traditional gesture of victory, thump your chest with your other hand, and shout "It was a good shoot! Verily, I have laid low the varlet! Drinks are on the house!"
When suddenly the police arrive after having been called by the neighbor who has always hated your guts and reported to them that she saw you murder a helpless old man and plant a knife on him. Her statement is supported by the troupe of Mongolian hairdressers she has been stowing under her bed until Christmas and her ambidextrous cousin who she called to come help her put you under the jail. The rest of the neighborhood assembles to join the fun of telling wierd stories about having seen it all. And it turns out that you ran over the District Attorney's cat a few years before, an tragedy which he has vowed to avenge.
But you, I take it, shrug modestly and invite the responding officers to a celebration for your good shoot. And those cops, in whatever version of the real world in which the innocent always are cheered and never have anything bad happen to them, say "Yea, dude, you done good. Where's the X-Box?" And so the story ends.
Meanwhile, back on the Earth variant in which there are neither pixies nor pixels, everybody who knows me will tell you that I am a wimp. I would prefer not to shoot anyone at all. That's why I say--and continue to say--that any day on which one is forced to shoot someone is not a good day. Interesting that there are people who don't agree. It's one of the many oddities that makes me special, I guess. (If you're interested in the others, ask me nicely and I might do the entire Nibelungenlied on my Sistercian nose flute with only one breath. My breaths are often admired.)