I don't spend as much time on the trap and skeet as I used to. In fact, now that I think about it, I have never been an especially competent scatter gunner. But the odd thing is - in my skimpy experience - the best ones around here are women... and many of them are younger and dazzlingly beautiful. I am not kidding either.
Now that I think of it, they come in two flavours too: the demure goddesses that can stop your heart with a word or a smile... and the rancid bitches that make you want to head for the hills. A hundred years ago at the old Strathcona club I almost got gooned by a flying Krieghoff shotgun when Susan Nattress threw it at the rack because the skeet machines weren't set right and was throwing the birds too high or too low - I can't remember. Those shotguns were worth about $25,000 dollars back then. They have to be more than that now.
If you or I had done that, the stubfarts and hecklers would have had a field day with us, and then we'd get the very hell of it from the range master. But with Susan, they all turned white as a sheet, quailed in fear and turned away and pretended not to notice it.
The mind wobbles.