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The Sig P229, and beating the shit out of futurists

(Ed. Note: Yeah, I was intoxicated when I wrote this. Doesn’t mean that I disagree when I’m sober, though.)
I almost beat the fuck out of the guy who referred to me as ‘Generation Y’ in church, the first time that I heard the phrase. Not only was he a disrespectful dickhead, but – come the fuck on. I didn’t go around referring to him as ‘that old wierd southern white fuck’, did I?

Okay, maybe once, but that’s not important right now.

Fucking futurists. Always coming up with stupid phrases like ‘Millenials’ and ‘Screenagers’. Next time you read some shit that says ‘Futurist so-and-so says blah’, you’ll know who to punch in the face, should you ever meet with them in person. Not that I would ever admonish violence as a method of dispute resolution. After all, it’s so much better to be keyboard warriors and cause children to commit suicide than to simply resolve your differences with a harmless scuffle.

There are some things that you love right away, and some things that you hate immediately. There are other things that you develop an irrational emotional attachment to over time, and then there are things that you develop an emotional attachment to, based on a long series of events and dependencies – anyway.

When I was in, I wore my Sig P229 for endless hours at a time. Siggy bruised my leg. Siggy rode through all the swells and the shitty weather with me. Siggy was there when I talked down irate drunk New York fuckheads, and was there when I talked to the drunk sorority girls who were hanging all over the men in uniform (yeah, I was one of the men in uniform). It saw NY-style racial murders, dead bodies, drownings, waterspouts, drugs, crime, insanity, ungodly long hours and everything under the northern sun.

So, over time, I developed a love-hate relationship with my Sig. The long, 6.5# DAK trigger, the weak night sights, the beautiful steel Sig mags, the flawless feeding and the uncannily accurate barrel – all of it. Parts I hated, parts I loved, and the whole thing I relied on, day in and day out. To my joy and shame, I never had to shoot anyone with it. And then I got out, and said goodbye.

I thought I was okay. I even bought a Glock 19, and figured I was over it. The breakup was done – no need to worry about it anymore. All those old emotions are gone. No, I don’t still carry a torch for fine German engineering. What, you think I’m some kind of emotional softy or something?

And yet – and yet, I walked into the gun store, looking for some cheap ammunition (Police gun store. Great prices.) and to look at the HK USP 40 bi-tone trade-ins, and… there it was. Just sitting there, looking lonely.

A Sig Sauer P229, old-style, with the DAK trigger, 3 magazines. In 40 S&W, just like Siggy, my old friend and antagonist. Some barrel wear, a little frame wear, and a heavily worn grip, right where the thumb rests while doing the two-dogs grip (if you don’t know what the two-dogs grip is on a handgun, go ask mommy. If mommy operates.). Oh yeah. This one looks like it was heavily used as a carry gun. And it was a police trade-in, so I can feel the same amount of pain and reliance in this worn frame.

Bullshit! Of fucking course I can’t feel those emotions invested in the gun. This isn’t some fucking fantasy novel. It looks worn, and I can imagine all that shit, but there’s no stupid leftover emotion in the gun. I’m just a sentimental asshole. All the rest of that is impossible! Right? Right. Plus, all of my liberal friends would tell me that this P229, just like the one that helped me save so many lives, is just a soulless killing machine, and should be destroyed.

Oh, you saved American lives with that? It must be evil, then.

Fuckers.

But… I bought it, and it was definitely an emotional purchase. And it felt good. I did my due diligence, a background check, I said ‘Hi’ to the peace officers shopping there, and then I walked out, giddy like a schoolgirl. Or schoolboy.

And there she is. Gunky, worn, dirty, with lint in the barrel and mildew in the mainspring. But she’s a Sig, and she sure as hell won’t quit.

She needs work, but her frame isn’t getting refinished. She’ll keep her battle wear, and carry those scars like every veteran does.

This is part 1. If you check back,you’ll see how she shapes up after some maintenance.
Oh, and did I mention that this Sig Sauer P229 was only $350?

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