Why Resistance Needs Both Ammo and Attitude
By Cliff Potts
Somewhere Between a Gun Show and a G-String – July 26, 2025 — I was in Texas once. Real Texas. Open-carry, God-fearing, liquor-before-church Texas. The kind of town where the bar has more mounted deer than patrons, and the gas station sells both ammo and truck nuts. I was sitting in a trailer with a retired Army sniper named Buckshot Ray, two former runway models turned call girls named Sapphire and Nicolette (don’t ask), and a bottle of something so strong it made my ancestors wince.
Ray looked me dead in the eye, cradling an AR-15 like a newborn baby Jesus, and said, “You Democrats still think voting’s gonna stop these fascists?”
Sapphire laughed so hard she damn near lost a nipple. Nicolette was busy loading stripper clips while watching MSNBC with the sound off.
That was the night I realized something:
You don’t beat fascists with feelings. You beat them with firepower, forethought, and a filthy sense of humor.
And let me say this loud for the DNC in the back: You cannot organize your way out of a gunfight with hashtags and tote bags.
Every time I see a Democrat whisper “I support the Second Amendment but…” I want to tattoo the word “extinct” on their soft blue neck.
Let me be clear—this isn’t about starting a war.
It’s about being alive when one arrives.
Because MAGA?
MAGA is already locked and loaded.
They’ve got guns, militias, bunkers, a million pounds of beans, and a hard-on for civil collapse.
What do we have?
A strongly worded email from Nancy Pelosi.
Let me paint the picture:
You’re standing in a ditch outside Austin with nothing but a hope-and-change sticker and a wet mask.
They’ve got night vision, body armor, and Jesus on speed dial.
That’s why I’m forming the Texas Chapter of the Democratic Dirty Dozen—twelve pissed-off progressives who believe in gun safety, gun training, and putting fascism in a shallow grave if it knocks on the wrong goddamn door.
Each meeting ends with target practice and lap dances. Nicolette brings the ammo, Sapphire brings the sass, and Ray just nods like a grim prophet of the coming storm.
So no, I don’t want your thoughts and prayers, your wine mom postcards, or your “blue wave” playlist. I want a magazine full of .308 and a reason to believe the American experiment ain’t already six feet under.
Because when the lights go out—and they will—you don’t want to be the only one on the block trying to reason with a redhat using a tote bag and a gluten-free granola bar.
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Dark Val 