The owner of the last gunshop I worked at was a real blowhard, nattering on constantly about his imaginary experiences as a sniper in "the 'Nam", and how some general asked him to be on the U.S. Olympic shooting team but he turned him down because he "wasn't gonna wear no corporate logos", and all manner of other active fantasies.
Anyhow... He had this thing for .22 target rifles, went so far as to order stuff from Champion's Choice (such as a shooting jacket and sling that he hadn't a clue how to use
). One day he scored a nice 'Schutz and decided to drag it along to the local indoor range when we went to test-fire some repair jobs.
I wind up doing all the test firing as he goes and piddles with his new toy using the bench on the far end of the range. When I get done, I wander over and he offers to let me shoot the Anschutz. As he's reeling his target (which looks like it's been hit with a blast of #4 from a cylinder bore) in from the 25-yd mark he says "This Remington match ammo is crap, it's not grouping worth a darn, and that Lapua stuff your buddy gave me ain't much better".
He sticks three Shoot-N-See bullseyes on a piece of cardboard and trundles 'em out to 25 yards and, in his most patronizing voice, tells me to have fun.
Now, it's been a few years since I shot three-position smallbore in college, but I was fair to middlin' at it. I got slung up to the rifle, settled in, squinted through the sights... Gosh, it all felt just like those happy days of yesteryear when I spent so much time on the indoor range shooting up the school's ammo that my grades took a pounding and I had to drop out... I loaded up a round of that Remington "crap" and *
pow!*... "Hey," I think to myself "That looks pretty centered!" Without pulling my cheek off the stock I chamber another one and repeat my performance on bullseye #2. Wow, this really
is like riding a bicycle. One more round and target #3 gets a bright yellow splotch in the center. I un-sling myself from the rifle, run the target back in, hand three (I kid you not)
perfect bullseyes to my boss and say, "Nothing's wrong with that Remington ammo..."
(We hung the targets on what later became known as "The Wall Of Shame" in the back of the shop; it was covered with targets where folks had outshot Mr. Blowhard using Mr. Blowhard's guns.
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