The Windshield

Unless you are a heart and soul gun enthusiest, don't even bother with this one because it will bore you worse than watching a pig on stilts.

This week me and my pardner eased to Florence to the 1.000 acre state firearms range and immersed ourselves into pure nirvana.

We opened the dance by sighting in my ole trusty 30-30 for "short shots" at the pond from my tree stand and gracefully transitioned to the 100 yard line to drive tacks with my newest venision acquisition device (Remington model 700 BDL .270) topped by a Nikon Buckmaster 3X14 (and you thought I was funnin' about the "don't bother to read this" part?)

We then eagerly broke out the .308 M-1 Garand and M-16 .223 and proceeded to shoot the cojones from mosquitos at unimaginable range.

Not being content with the sport of mere mortals, we ascended to the manly art of shooting at steel sillouettes with .40 cal pistols at 100 yards (kinda like an ant trying to rape a tall elephant)??????????/

When that intoxicating elixar of male testerone evoking activity concluded, we settled into the business at hand to spend the afternoon running, rolling, ducking, dodging (huffing/puffing) through the State Trooper police combat course.

If you ain't switched to a commercial or gone potty yet, you read the last part right. The ranch hand spent an afternoon running with the kids and big dawgs like the old days (and I held my own)>

Hell, some days you are the bug, but this week, I WAS THE WINDSHIELD.