Fats And Gun Ranges. Story #1 finds yours truly, doing what I do best.  Murdering paper targets at my local range.  Anyway, a few hefalumps waddle in and take up position a few lanes from me (thank god, I can shoot but the last thing I wanted to blow was chunks from the stench).  Fat bastard had an OWB (Outside WaistBand) holster.  He was practicing his draws, which was quite a sight to watch him have to move a roll of fat each time.  I mean, seriously.  Also, these shooting booths are wide enough for me and an instructor to stand side-by-side.  Guess how many times fatty was bumping the edges?  I'll just say I stopped counting after... Say 10.   Story #2 is a little more gut wrenching (teehee).  I'm chatting up the staff at the counter and one of them puts on his ears (ear protection) and bolts out the door, leaving a vapor trail behind him.  Turns out, some fuckwad was on the rifle range, LOADING her rifle while someone was downrange putting up their target.  Rules are, if someone's downrange, you don't go anywhere near your gun.  Staff member gave her a proper scolding that only a military veteran can achieve.  Now's the time where we guess what gender the female retard is...  Mayo?  Crisco?  Butter?  I'm not sure, but I think it was all of them.