Excuse me, sir? Are you the manager? Oh, great, yes—so sorry to bother you but as you may have noticed, I’m bleeding rather profusely from my left foot at the moment. There is a significant amount of blood that has already soaked through my socks, and I may be mere moments from going into shock, but I feel I need to make a complaint or I will lose the nerve.
You see, sir, I keep shooting myself in the foot.
Oh yes, it is alarming to me too, especially because I am pretty handy with a gun. I know it’s not my fault. My grandfather used to build his own rifles out of melted-down car exhaust pipes and, well, that’s how my brother lost his arm and his football scholarship. So I know my way around almost any kind of gun you can imagine. I’m also really great at providing massages for phantom limb pain, but that is neither here nor there.
You see, I think there must be something wrong with your guns. I have perfect form: I stand with my shoulders squared, both hands on my .22, the elbow of my dominant arm almost completely straight, I’m leaning forward.
Then I..I…shoot…I shoot the…oh, goodness, I apologize. I started losing consciousness there…no I’m fine. Let me finish.
As I was saying, I shoot the gun. No matter what I do, how perfectly I aim, my bullets absolutely cannot hit the target.
When I shot myself the first two times, I thought I was having an off day, that maybe it was a fluke accident with no real reason behind it. I came here to Lonesome Young Gunners to blow off some steam, yet all I’m doing now is watching my bullets stray from the target, moving into that gray area behind it, then somehow reaching my Achilles’ tendon. I have shot myself in the foot eight times without even aiming for it! I’m confused and bewildered, and I don’t think it’s the fact that I’ve lost a pint of blood since I’ve been standing here.
And you know something else? My gun keeps recoiling straight back into my face, even when I’m holding it correctly! I’m worried that on top of shooting myself in the foot, that I’m also going to have it blow up in my face!
No, I will not stop coming to the shooting range. Yes, I realize that I am playing with firearms. No, I do not consent to first aid; just wait until I pass out so consent is implied. Until then, I’ll do what my brother did when he lost his arm- I’ll try to stop the bleeding by putting my foot in my mouth.
Kristina Felske is the founder and chief editor of the Other Otter and a big, big fan of appetizers. http://www.kristinafelske.com // twitter.com/kristinafelske.