When it was time to leave, I pondered my perspective on guns. The shooting range was kind of like a bowling alley, only instead of throwing a big urethane ball toward a target, I was discharging tiny metal slugs at one. I could understand the sport of it, but I’ve never been one for sports. As I gathered my things, a middle-aged gent, this one with facial hair like David’s — a goatee to keep the ’stache company — asked me how I felt after plugging the target.
“Honestly?” I answered. “I’m pretty sure my penis got bigger.”
After taking a moment to let my words soak in, the guy responded, “Oh yeah? In that case, I think I’m going to go back in there and do some more shooting.”