I’ve never been a great Kentuckian.

 

As a kid, most Kentucky “traditions” didn’t appeal to me. Horses smelled weird, fried chicken grossed me out and my parents were prudes and wouldn’t give me bourbon nightcaps. I’ve never heard bluegrass music and I can take or leave the Judd sisters.

 

I’m not proud of it, but I’ve discriminated against Kentucky. I’ve treated Kentucky like Kim Davis treats two lovebirds, both with peckers, looking to get their beaks wet in some matrimony.

 

Ever since I can remember I had plans to move away. And eventually I did. But a funny thing happened while I was away. I missed the place that raised me. And the people.

 

Now that I’m back, I’m on a mission to be a better Kentuckian. I’ve created a section on my to-do list dedicated to all things Kentucky. It’s time for me to dig in and showcase what this state is all about… the good, the bad, and the smelly.

 

So I started with the most Kentuckian thing I could think of: shooting a gun.

 

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve shot a gun before. The year was 1993 and the occasion was an intense game of Duck Hunt.

 

How different could a gun range be?

 

I channeled my inner Annie Oakley, hopped in my whip and headed to a place called Point Blank.

 

As soon as I walked in I wanted to turn around and walk out. Guns were everywhere. I immediately felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I used to think nothing could make me more nervous than a white, windowless van in a parking lot could, but it turns out guns come pretty damn close. It’s a real strange feeling to know everyone in the room is packing heat.

 

My nerves were shot.

 

The clerk placed a hand gun, some bullets, and ear protection in a basket for me. He told me to pick out a target and make my way into the shooting range.

 

Traditionally a person chooses a target that has the outline of a person, but even that seemed too violent to me. I went for the target that depicted a carnival game and I spent the afternoon shooting at flying pigs and rubber duckies.

 

 

I walked into the range and was greeted by five old, Clint Eastwood lookin’ dudes… all of whom I sensed wanted to tell me to, “Get off their lawn.” I don’t think it was because I was a girl though. There was one other girl at the range that day. She was wearing a pink and purple plaid shirt, cowboy boots, and an AR-19 around her shoulder. They adored her.

 

I entered my shooting booth and attempted to load the gun. I was shaking. Fumbling a hand gun is about as safe as R. Kelly chaperoning a school field trip, so I asked a worker for help.

 

As he stepped into my booth to assist me, the person next to me fired their gun. That was the first time in my life I had heard a gun shot up close. I dropped my gun and ducked as if I was the intended target.

 

For those who aren’t familiar, dropping a gun is a giant no, no. The man looked at me the same way we all look at Stormy Daniels knowing that she let Donald stick his Red Ryder into her gun safe. He was disgusted with me.  

 

I hit him with an avalanche of apologies and quickly dropped down to pick up the gun before he could. I knew if he picked up the gun, there was a good chance I was also going to experience my first pistol-whip.

 

I took a deep breath. It was my time to shine.

 

I wrapped my chubby little sausage links around the trigger, closed my eyes, and I unleashed my first round of bullets. 

 

A complete whiff. Not a single bullet made contact with my target. Michael J. Fox could’ve done better. 

 

People saw the shit show I was putting on and a crowd started to form around my booth. Everyone wanted to witness my pathetic display of marksmanship. By my second and third attempt I had gotten a little better and somehow I developed a fan. The other woman in the range approached me and begged me to hop over to her booth and try shooting her gun.

 

     “This probably won’t come as a surprise to you, but after that entire round of shooting, the only mark I left is the skid-mark that is currently residing in my bloomers. I’m finding out today that I’m terrified of guns and that my bowel control is sub-par. So thanks for the offer, but I think it’s in our shared interest that I call up it a day.”

 

She fired back in a country twang, “Just do it! You’ll be fine. The assault riffle is way different than a hand gun. You’re gonna to love it.”

 

The next thing you know, I’m standing in her shooting booth staring down the barrel of a purple AR-19. She stood behind me to talk me through the steps. My heart was beating out of my chest. My bum cheeks were puckered.

 

     “Tuck you chin. Now, push the gun into your shoulder. Find your target in the crosshair and gently pull the..”

 

My eyes caught a glimpse of a plaque on the side of the gun.

 

     “I’m sorry to interrupt, but does your gun say, “My New Bitch” on the side?”

 

     “Yes, and underneath that it has my anniversary. The gun was a weddin’ gift from my husband.”

 

     “Well bless his heart.” I responded.

 

I aimed and barely flicked the trigger. The gun released a loud “boom” and a jolt shot through my entire body. It was so powerful I thought I was going to have to rush home and take a morning after pill.

 

     “How did that feel?” She asked me with a giant grin on her face.

 

     “Listen, I’m not trying to one-up the Virgin Mary or anything, but it seriously feels like I got struck by lightning and we may or may not be witnessing the immaculate conception of Ziggy Stardust’s baby.”

 

I thanked her for sharing her weapon of mass destruction and quickly got the hell out of there.

 

So to recap: I hated it. Shooting guns (especially the assault riffle) felt like I was pressing a proverbial red button I had no business pressing. 

 

I know guns are a Kentucky past time, but this is one hobby I can’t get in to. Even though guns missed the mark for me, I can’t wait to pull the trigger on another Kentucky tradition soon.