When I was 33, my father gave me his shotgun. He was recklessly unconcerned about the consequences of giving his most incompetent offspring a firearm. I thought I should use it. So I headed out to someone’s unused farmland to shoot birds with three Chicago detectives. Continue reading
Friends, feel free to stop right here. Because there’s only an “um” and an “or” separating humor from horror (ok, so there are two R’s in horror–the whole thing only really works when you say it aloud–but that’s really getting way off track here. JUST CALM THE HELL DOWN). However, this is America, and you have every right to read this post and decide which this is all on your own. Or don’t. Or really don’t.