Mea Culpa

All of the previous information was not a backhanded attempt at proving spurious machismo but simply to set the stage as I lay my soul bare before the shooting world and admit my major shortcoming, one that has caused me no end of personal shame. I’ve hidden this for years and now, in the late-summer of my journalism career, I must stand figuratively naked and quivering on the stage of public opinion to finally come clean. Here goes — I don’t reload.

There, I’ve said it. I know several readers just crumpled the magazine, thrown it aside in disgust and probably even a few have actually spat upon the page. I’d guess several people are also saving this column for use in the outhouse in case they run out of toilet paper, but judging by several hunting camps I’ve visited in the last two years, this is already common practice.

Before you start writing nasty emails claiming I love Avocado Toast, Progressive Feminist causes and man-buns, let me explain (though I will admit to somewhat liking avocado toast if the mood strikes me).