Rambolina

It's ladies' night at the shooting range.

A hot shell lands on my collarbone. I quickly sweep it off.

"Good thing you did that," David says. "That happened to my daughter once, and she ended up with a blister in her cleavage."

Has that happened to any other ladies?

"A sorority of 20 from FIU came in once for an initiation," Walter remembers. "They had no idea what they were doing, but I don't think they cared. They just wanted to shoot guns all over the place." Their collective boobies, all 40 of them, survived unscathed.

"Women are usually better first-time shots than men," Paul says. "I think it's because they're more empathetic. Guys are sometimes blinded by machismo."

Just then, Megan, a 23-year-old newbie with full lips and blue-green eyes that match her elaborately beaded turquoise necklace, pulls the trigger of a .22 pistol. As the bullet hits a target and her pretty eyes open wide, a scorching shell flies up and tangles itself in her necklace.

"That was awe-ouch!" she yelps.

And as the boys and I fumble through her aqua beads and dig in pockets and duffle bags for Band-Aids, all I can think is: Hot!

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