Let me start by saying that there will be no Bridal Beatdown today. Sunday Styles was a pile of shiz yesterday and does not deserve my plug. If I wanted to read about dentists and accountants getting hitched at some New Jersey country club I’d pick up the Journal News. Step it the eff up, NYT!
Instead, this Monday’s post is going to be about guns, because I really like them and you should too.
As is typ typ of all jewz along the Eastern Seaboard, Linda and Larry used to ship our crazy asses off to summer camp for two months out of every year so they could take some deep breaths and do some deep thinking about why they had to bring not one, not two, but three psycho hose beasts into this world.
Now, a lot of dumb dumbs out there send their kids to wack co-ed camps in the Poconos or Georgia or wherever. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 23 years of being a hater, it’s that you cannot convince these fundamentally misguided people of their wrongdoing: they believe down to their very souls that summer camp is for getting to sloppy second in a softball dugout at the age of 12, wearing tie dye, and being in a state where moose do not pose a serious threat to your wellbeing. If this sounds wholesome and/or pleasant to you, you clearly huffed too much glue in Arts & Crafts.
Just to quickly review what I’m getting at here, REAL camp is:
- wholesome and appropriate at all times
- in Maine
- preferably without electricity in the bunks, though that can be negotiated under special circumstances.
Anywhowho, CF brought a lot of joyful things into our lives, including the hottest Australian/British/Southern male counselors known to man, Hawaiian chicken, the phantom pooper, et al. But I would argue that one of the most unique and enduring legacies that CF left the Feinbergs was how to shoot a gun.
You see, CF is super legit for a lot of reasons, but foremost among them is that they plop .22’s into our tiny little hands at the tender age of 10 and instruct us to aim and fire! I’m sorry, but how awesome is that? They train us like we’re going to Falluja, then truck us over to the boys’ camps for competitions where we take home every.single.trophy. It might seem butch but I swear we hiked our shorts up high enough that we looked good doing it.
Even though it’s been almost a decade since the last Feinberg was a camper, we’ve kept up our skillz by practicing on the air rifle every Thanksgiving (a pre-turkey tradition that got much cooler this year when we starting shooting empty bottles of Whiskey) and making use of local skeet shooting ranges whenever possible (i.e. loading up a shot gun and blowing clay pigeons to bits).
So whether or not you’ve ever experienced the sheer euphoria of pulling a trigger and obliterating the remnant’s of last night’s bender, I highly recommend organizing a weekend day trip to a local range. It beats brunch (UGH!) or seeing J. Edgar (worst movie ever) any damn Saturday.
Jess April gets the First Ever Honorary Feinberg badge this week for understanding the assignment:
Since I know all you biatches are as lazy as I am, I did the googling for you and found some spots for you to try out:
New York: Thunder Mountain Trap and Skeet