I attended a gun-range bachelorette last night.

This is me shooting a gun. The leather jacket does enhance my badassery, but I was wearing it because the range was about as temperate as a walk-in freezer. (Is this a thing? Are all gun ranges arctic-expedition cold? And if so, why?)

Jaime’s getting married Saturday, and this was our most compelling celebratory idea. It turns out she’s a hell of a shot, which surprised no one. Jaime is the first person to whom I would hand the weapon if I found myself stranded on an island. An island with a weapon. And Jaime’s there too for some reason.

Point of interest: In the above snapshot there are three of us, at a gun range, posing for a photo. You may be asking yourself, Why doesn’t that photo look more like this?

Good point, my friend. Unfortunately, despite multiple requests, I was unable to muster any finger-gun irony in the face of actual guns.

I pretty much nailed the vaguely apprehensive pose though:

The apprehension is because of an early run-in with a hot bullet casing. The first time I fired my gun, the casing flew behind my safety goggles, behind my glasses, and landed on my eyelid.

Ow.

I refrained from flinching and flailing, because I had a loaded gun in my hands, but I did set the gun down and curse profusely, which startled my heavily tattooed instructor.

Because a few of us have Vice Presidential aspirations, the gentlemen at Jackson Arms allowed us to pose with some of the enormous, phallic weaponry available for sale.

Apparently they get a lot of bear hunters in there.

In conclusion, this is how Jaime’s sister stands when she shoots in heels:

Male readers? You’re welcome.