So we loaded up a small arsenal, headed out into the middle of the desert, and proceeded to shoot stuff. Namely, clay pigeons, coke cans, boxes, and a Christmas bag adorned with two cuddly penguins wearing Santa hats. I had a hard time with the last target; it was strangely morbid.
This is part of the small arsenal.
Ladies, this is the equivalent of your best friend showing you her new Coach hand bag and you tell her, "How nice! You are so fortunate," while in your mind you're thinking "B*tch."
I know everythin thay is to know about shootin guns. Thay's big guns, little guns, shot guns, hand guns, guns in potatoes, pineapple guns...
We decided to take a break from shooting, and threw rocks in the river instead.
I learned a thing or two about bird dogs--when they hear a shot, they run after whatever it is they think you shot, even if it is only a clay pigeon that has been blasted into fragments. It soon became a matter of calling all the dogs back in after each shot, so we could shoot some more without shooting the dogs.
Men do not like to wait for dogs to get out of the way so they can shoot.
This is where dogs go when they don't get out of the way so men can shoot.
Dogs do not like to be stuck in the back of a pickup while men are shooting.
As the sun began to set, we packed up our things because the men could no longer see what to shoot anymore. Actually, I think they would have stayed late into the night shooting into the darkness, or aiming for the stars, or maybe even the moon. It would have gone something like this, "You dang star! You done twinkled your last!" BOOM!
But the women were cold and hungry.