Blaming of Parts
Today we have blaming of parts. Yesterday,
That piece of shit M-16 we fuckin' tol' you wouldn't work didn't. And Tomorrow
we’ll fuckin' plant Waziscowicz, L J, 042 36 3842, who we found deadern' a mackerel cleaning rod slammed down the barrel of his piece no spent brass nowhere so he like didn't even get off round one before the Dinks popped him fuckin' tol' him you slather that goddam Lubricant comma Semiautomatic all over the fuckin' Bolt it'll fuckin' lock up on you tol' him that shit was no good would he lissen, fuck, no… But today,
we have blaming of the parts. The nipa palm
casts a sinuous, elegant neck back to peer wistfully up at the sun—languid tropism—laying bare a polished, ebony gorge wayward caress of errant breeze riffling the neighboring gardens…
And Today we have blaming of the parts.
This is the fuckin' Buffer Assembly which ain't worf' a fuck but make your weapon give off that spung-buzzzz sound instead of manly smack in the arm recoil like God meant it for to be these things are gonna have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer and replaced with the new Buffer Assembly as it have been determined dur'n recent combat oeprations that oh-riginal Buffer allow the piece to function at a rate of fire sufficient it will burn up the Barrel and seize rounds in the Chamber located here when operated as fast as scared shitless empty head sweat soaked fat fingered wishes he was sommeres else nineteen year old imbecile can trigger it. And this
is the Upper Sling Swivel which you will see is completely fuckin' useless because even if it did make any fuckin' sense to sling this bitch the pistol grip hang up on your Load Bearing Equipment so you're gonna have to come up with some kind catch me fuck me sling but do not you fuckin' let me see you chopping up those A-21 Cargo Straps they cost your Government eighteen dollar and fifty fuckin' cent apiece and you're gonna sign a Survey of Charges for eighteen dollar and fifty fuckin' cent do I catch you chopping up one of my A-21 Cargo Straps to string to that goddam Upper Sling Swivel. And this is the 30-Round Magazine which in your case you have not got. The pallid fronds
of the nipa palm hang motionless with langorous indecision, honied hesitancy
which in your case you have not got.
And this is the Selector Switch which is always released with an easy flick of the thumb and do not you let me fuckin' see you fuckin' filing down that Detent to make a silent safety and be quick drawing you'll blow your fuckin' head clean off it will happen to you and doan worry abt that audible click when you flick off that safety. You can do it quite easy if you have any strength in your thumb. The airy summit
of the nipa with her perpetual nod of insipid assent invites warily, gingerly, coquettishly, never letting anyone see her fuckin' filing down that Detent. And this as you can see is the Bolt. The purpose of this
is to open the Breech as you can see only this one won't open shit on account of it's machined to too fine a fuckin' tolerance and the slightest smudge of rust it rain 28 day for 29 in the fuckin' jungle it will lock up tighter'n Dick's hatband so these will all have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer and ree-placed with the A-1 Modification chromed camming surface and do not you let me fuckin' see you smooching that goddam Lubricant comma Semiautomatic all over it like I tol' you already. The Charging Handle—see how it moves rapidly backward and forward?—will retract the Spring and hold it at the rearward limit of its travel: they call it Stopping the Travel. And rapidly backward and forward ungainly, chattering, wiry little monkeys scamper up the serrated stalk of that slender nipa and they are all gonna have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer.
They call it Stopping the Travel.
They call it Stopping the Travel: it is perfectly easy if you have any strength in your thumb. And the Firing Pin Retainer Clip fifty cent piece of cheap hardware store shit that you will lose in the tall grass and will drop in the mud and will fingerfuck in the dark and then whats you gots is not a Rifle US M-16A1 magazine fed gas operated air cooled selective fire but a fuckin' broomstick on account of without that gizmo it can't not fire nuffin' and won't not nuffin' else fit in that little hole. And the
volupturary nipa palm
in a silent plié with all the ungainly, chattering, wiry little monkeys skittering backward and forward along her arching back
For today we have blaming of the parts.