Only 25 percent of Americans own a gun and just 3 percent of Americans own half of them. Some of folks own an AR-15 or a dozen.

And a number of owners feature their AR-15 on their Facebook page. “They just look scary, you stupid lib$%&# snowflake cuck.”

Anyway, back when cars didn’t all look alike, the across-the-street neighbor with the fancy green lawn, would casually pull into their driveway with a new Caddie.

“A Cadillac? Is that the brand? I hadn’t noticed. Do you like it, pal? How is your Gremlin running?”

What I’m concerned about, is that too many people AREN’T using a picture of their AR-15 as their Facebook cover. Everyone with a combat-style rifle and a computer, please get with the program and get that photo up. Get a snapshot of your 100-round clips, too.

How is law enforcement supposed to accurately narrow down the list of suspects after future insane mayhem with incomplete data?

Using pictures of AR-15s as the Facebook cover picture has been a thing since before Donald Trump celebrated his 30th anniversary of laundering money for the Russian mob. It was a quiet well-armed affair. They served Trump steaks, none of which were intentionally poisoned.

“I’ll give you $100 million for the mobile home, el jefe’ don Don. Ty umoysya. Toss in a bag of cement, vy budete don Don, plēz?”

I’ll assume that the guys — it’s near exclusively a male thing — own the guns, and have not borrowed, rented, stolen the weapons or copied a picture. It’s a boastful image aimed at the other gun guys maybe. Like a status symbol or a fashion statement.

I’ve been told a thousand times that all guns are just tools, like a hammer — the hammer snipers are the worst — but I haven’t seen any pictures of hammers, screwdrivers or pliers used as the topic of a cover photo or profile picture, so there is reason to suggest that these men have a closer emotional connection with their gun than their hacksaw. I think that’s clear.

I haven’t posted a single picture of my toaster, lamp or the slow cooker. Maybe I haven’t cuddled with them enough; like really bonded. But I’m OK with our associations such as they as are. Actually, I’m fine with strained relationships, if that’s their attitude. I’m not here to make friends with gadgets and gizmos.

You try to ask, “What’s the deal with the gun(s) picture that might represent your dimly lit inner personality, dude?” Two seconds later, the Facebook gun guy is steamed and he wants to know, “What don’t you understand about the words ‘shall not be infringed?'” and it devolves into a whole thing.

I’m not anti-Second Amendment, as it is required to be noted and questioned, but there is no way to convince a true believer that any law change in the name of safety isn’t 100 percent heretical.

I won’t presume that all long guns are as dangerous as an AR-15, but the AR destroys the insides of a human being with the combination of velocity and small-caliber ammo. Bones shatter. Organs become irreparable. That’s what it was developed to do. The Army wasn’t thinking, “Gosh, we really need something better to kill small mammals and blow up plastic gallon jugs of water.”

A wound from a pistol does a fraction of the damage, which isn’t a recommendation to see for yourself. There’s no reason for anyone to own an AR-15, or a comparable rifle, that it so much more lethal than a handgun. I guess they’re fun to shoot. Don’t care.

“There is the advantage that a small or light bullet has over a heavy one when it comes to wound ballistics. … What it amounts to is the fact that bullets are stabilized to fly through the air, and not through water or a body, which is approximately the same density as the water. And they are stable as long as they are in the air. When they hit something, they immediately go unstable. … If you are talking about .30-caliber (like a bullet used in the Army’s previous M-14), this might remain stable through a human body. … While a little bullet, being it has a low mass, it senses an instability situation faster and reacts much faster. … This is what makes a little bullet pay off so much in wound ballistics.” — Eugene Stoner, AR-15 creator

But regardless of the facts, the photos are still a mystery to me, if they aren’t status symbols.

“Hey Marge, yells Harold; “What should I put as my Facebook cover picture?”

Marge comes down the basement stairs. “Why? Do you know how to work a computer?”

“I don’t like to brag. What topic would you suggest?”

“Well we have three passable children, so that’s a thought that never crossed your mind. I’m a little concerned about Harry III, though. Maybe his skull isn’t ripe, yet. Have you thumped his head lately? It sounds like some sort of melon, but I can’t put finger on the type. Casaba I told the doctor. Hellooo?”

“Three?”

Then Marge has a thought. “I think you should use a high-definition photo of your precious guns, so the judge will be able to get right to the gist when he inevitably rules on my request for a protection order.”

“Their names are Ethel and Lucy, and you SAID I could have the party!”

“I didn’t say you could open fire on me when I pulled into the driveway this morning. I knew you weren’t going to work out anyway, you loony moron”

“I thought it was a Prius,” mumbles Harold. “It was morning?”

“Yup, like five hours after sunrise and you were still drunk and high. Who else was getting lit up in your little firefights, besides Ed’s garage?”

“Have you heard something? It looked like a rabid squirrel. There was foaming. They can’t prove it was me.”

“One survivor can prove it. Next time, wear your shorts. They recorded you running away.”

“What difference does that make? Lots of guys with no shorts run away. It’s called modesty if you must know, miss la de da. You really can’t tell who they are. I tried to know once, but I couldn’t know. It’s impossible. Mistrial at best. Survivor? That’s funny. You’re a funny woman, Margie.”

“You like funny? Well, besides wearing the Vikings jersey with your last name on the back and sporting a classy Calvin peeing tattoo on your derriere, the whole neighborhood has observed you airing the bottom parts out at various times.”

“I decline to dignify that scurrilous accusation.”

“Every tenant in that apartment building on Fourth has a picture. Sister Bernice on the second floor is having flashbacks from her sorority days at Florida State. We’ve talked about this, Harold. Every time you get liquored up and mix in your meds you end up bottomless. Then before long, you’re firing a gun. You’re a menace.”

“Case dismissed. Circumstantial bobbytails. I don’t see what the big deal is?”

“Neither does anyone else. Juanita down at the Rexall is calling you wee Willy and everyone else is wishing you wouldn’t free Willy.”

“Sigh.”

Now I’m not saying that dudes with guns pictured as the gateway to their Facebook world do any of those things. I’m speculating it. If anyone is offended, well, thoughts and prayers, it is what it is, and you shouldn’t have climbed that tree to get a better look at the tornado.

Then I’m thinking that is just an invite to burgle some guns. That’s why I posted a photo of my gold ingots stacked like a pyramid under my TV in the rumpus room. I enjoy violent intrusions.

I’m assuming the guys with the gun picture are planning on shooting anyone who should plan to take their guns or the diamonds in a candy dish on the end table. I’ve read lots of claims to that effect. The NRA Facebook page is infested with fantasy killings.

Obama is still out there and he’s in cahoots with Killary to take all the guns, so it’s best to be alert. And if you don’t want a gun-grabbing government or a power-hungry George Soros globalist to confiscate your weapons — 2A purists are against a national registry — the first thing you should do is advertise your ownership on Facebook.

But criminals don’t care about the consequences. Risk versus reward conversations rarely come up at their meetings. “Should we all ruminate on the downsides of this caper for a moment, fellas?” “We shan’t.”

Typically, crooks aren’t that bright. Trump is a prime example. Criminals don’t know who has the loaded gun on the coffee table or just a picture of a gun on Facebook. You might run into a criminal mastermind on occasion, but it’s rare.

So anyway, the crooks have to decide between the guns and the gold ingots. The last Facebook gun cover I saw had two AR-15’s lying side by side on a beige background. Bragging? Threatening? A two-for-one sale? Is someone being warned off or is this a signal to the others in the band?

“Which do you suppose is more valuable, Individual 1? The AR’s or the big bricks of gold?”

“I dunno,” murmurs Individual 2. “Gold is pretty heavy, I know that much, man and my back is killing me after our attempted ATM heist. I think they’re making those things hard to move on purpose. Maybe we should call Lou.”

“Lou? What does Looou know? Has he gotten any smarter since last time? I fell off that roof. Remember? Fa-thud. Thirty feet at least. You see what I’m saying? That was Lou’s fault. I think I sprained my head. You see what I’m saying? My left eyebrow is bent.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember” concedes Individual 2. I heard you screaming before the splat. Lou greased up the wrong side, Lou did. Yeah, Lou’s a menace. We sure aren’t going to call Lou, that’s for sure, Individual 1.”

Individual 2 continues. “You were spitting up leaves, shingles, paint chips and a big chunk of the rain gutter. You must have strong teeth. Stronger than mine. I suppose that accounts for some of the blood. If you tear aluminum, the edges are pretty sharp.”

“Tell me about it. Hey, here it says the gun dude is on the road 29 days a month hauling mothballs,” shouted Individual 1. “That’s most of the days.”

Individual 2 grumbles. “You don’t need to feed moths balls of anything, so that’s a stupid job.”

“His relationship status is complicated.”

“I can imagine, with him smelling like moth food all of the time. I bet his yard is swarming with moths sniffing out the food. Maybe some butterflies. I don’t want to smell it, but there are lots of things I don’t want to smell, man. Are you following me, Individual 1?”

“Stick a couple of those little carrots in your nose holes. What do you think we ought to do? I want the guns to keep for ourselves. Those look cool.”

“Me, too. Listen. I suggest we go right in through the front about midnight, and if he’s sitting there in a Lazyboy facing the door and pointing one of the rifles at us, you rush him. Then I’ll start firing the Glock at his head.”

“I’m skeptical,” says Individual 1. “Why me?”

“Well, I own the 30 mm,” explains Individual 2. “We settled the split after the last heist, man. You remember? I recollect getting the gun.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but you knew I NEEDED those Pampers.”

Some of these hombres like to pose with a gun, and many of them are not wearing a shirt. The majority of them shouldn’t be doing anything without a shirt, including showering. But flexing and declaring, “I have guns and guns,” while kissing a bicep is macho overload.

Back when millions of people had equal signs as their profile photo, it was too much for certain folks, and they made their own equal signs with silhouettes of combat style rifles. Boy, that sure taught me a lesson.

When it came to overt bragging, I liked the 1974 El Dorado much more.