...you don't go bock.

My gunny friend recently replaced his G19 with a G34, which isn't quite the pinnacle of Glock tacticoolery, but is quite a ways up the mountain. A sound ribbing was had, aspersions were cast, and trip to the local indoor range was planned.

At this range trip, my trusty XD (having recently performed flawlessly at some move'n'shoots with some old ammo loaded into mags that were left in my car for years) was more than up to the task, and to be quite honest, riding high in my esteem from its excellent performance.

After some initial play, we started to settle back into our grooves, and decided a challenge was in order; best three shot group at 7 yards.

He threw his first group for some reason, the sun was in his eyes, the target was moving, swamp gas reflecting off Venus, whatever the reason, I knew he could have shot it better, so I proceeded to take my time with my shots to really rub it in. I got two shots touching, and one an inch lower. "Ok, one more time." He said, and I smirkingly accepted.

It was at this point that the planets aligned, time stood still, a flipped coin landed on its edge, and he and the Glock became one. He shot, in under three seconds, three shots on top of each other. Technically, the first two were off by the thin crescent moon of paper that flew off, and the last bullet hit just inside the edge of the single hole.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I said, "Give me that," and proceeded to shoot that big, blocky, stupid, ugly Glock better than I did my XD. On a subsequent group, I accidentally doubletapped on the short trigger reset and sighed because I had just blown my group. "Damnit, I didn't mean to doubletap. Where'd that second one go?" "...Right into the first hole."

I respect Glocks. I don't shoot them, or like them, but I respect them. They are ugly, lack style of any kind, huge on the grip, heavy on the trigger, and command a level of fanboy-ism which only recently seems to have surpassed that of H und K. But I can't argue with results, and I won't ignore miracles when they happen.

The last Glock I shot was my friend's old 19 a few months ago. My group was meh. Before that, I hadn't shot a Glock for probably three years. There is absolutely no reason for me to pick up a G34, the biggest, and bulkiest, and Glockiest of all the Glocks, and shoot it like it was made for my hand.

After this experience, I started picking up different Glocks at the shop. I picked up a Gen 4, and to my amazement, it felt good. Not manageable or alright, but good. The grip width (frontstrap to backstrap) on the Gen 4s is definitely slimmer than the Gen 3s, and even a little slimmer than the Gen 3 SFs. I also noticed that the patented Glock humpback is exaggerated if the grip length is short. This meant that a full size Gen 4 with the smallest changeable backstrap minimized the humpback and had almost the same grip as a 45. The grip is almost straight all the way down to the hump at the bottom, which (way down there) actually fits perfectly against my palm.

I'm pretty sure Glock and I met each other half way, though my shifting must have been entirely subconscious. The point is not that I can shoot Glocks now, the point is I can suddenly shoot guns I've barely touched better than a gun I've shot for six years. I can take a hint.

So, I sold the Ruger GP100 and the 1911, and bought a Gen 4 Glock 34. I really liked those guns, but at the end of the day, they were pleasure guns, not working guns. The way things are going, I'm worried there will be more need for working guns in the future, and my pleasurable collection is getting some very practical scrutiny.

Since I've started carrying it, I've noticed some other annoyingly better things. The G34 fits near perfectly into my Galco XD Service holster (due to the extremely similar frame shape), the G34 balances better than my XD, and (worst of all) the damn huge-ass gigantic brick of a G34 feels noticeably lighter on my hip than my XD. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Over.

Well, whatever the reason, you know what they say; Once you go Glock, you don't go bock.




Damnit.