Posted on 06/23/2016 9:54:28 AM PDT by Lazamataz
Gersh Kuntzman, a faltering lily from the New York Post, wrote a meek and scared little article on his experiences firing an AR-15. Here is a sample:
The recoil bruised my shoulder, which can happen if you don't know what you're doing. The brass shell casings disoriented me as they flew past my face. The smell of sulfur and destruction made me sick. The explosions — loud like a bomb — gave me a temporary form of PTSD. For at least an hour after firing the gun just a few times, I was anxious and irritable.
Someone then created a mocking satire piece of Mr. Gersh Kuntzman driving a Prius. It is printed below:
I decided to enter the funhouse. Here are my three entries:
Hilarious, dude!
You didn’t say Kuntzman bruised his shoulder using an electric can opener, “if you don’t know what you’re doing”.
My sure bet is that Kuntzman doesn’t know A LOT of what he’s doing.
Well done.
I think that Mr. Kurtzman should go see a doctor and have tests done to determine if there is any testosterone present in his body.
I bet the tests would come up negative.
I’m shocked that I’m not already on your ping list! Please add me!!
Hahahaha...where did you find those, Laz???
Now, now, let’s remember to be compassionate, people. I think we should take up a collection and send a sympathy card to his significant other. Can you imagine being in a relationship with that? He probably finds dryer lint traumatic.
LOL, but I will say, she gives that word a bad name.
Amen, it is in the Alinsky playbook. Ridicule is your most powerful weapon.
Professional snowflake. The one dealing with the AR-15 appears genuine just because it is the reaction many liberals would expect to have. In conjunction with the others I suspect a tongue firmly in cheek. I wrote things like that in high school as satire.
Laz, you are good. There are no two ways about it.
Funny...
I’m sitting here trying figure out the purpose for Kuntsman’s existence.
Somebody help me out here,’cause I’m getting nothing.
I put my dime and quarter into the slot. The sound of the change rattling into the box disoriented me. The sudden, loud dial tone made me sick. Pressing the buttons, with their loud beeps and boops, gave me a temporary form of PTSD. When the lady answered on the other end of the line, I though for sure she would want me dead.
DANG!
Rich.....very rich
It pays his bill sand he gets to write high school creative writing exercises which are fun, at least through a couple of them. Then they get to be mechanical and indistinguishable.
I propose that, in the same vein by which “clymer” became synonymous with “anal sphincter,” a “gersh” becomes the very definition of a nutless sissy who wets himself at the sight of his own shadow.
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