You know who you are...
The guy who trots along all firing stations, oil can and screwdrivers in hand, during every break in firing.
The guy who stares at all my cammo'd gear, Molle-bags, ammo containers and piles of magazines before snorting, "Beginner."
The guy who then retreats, adding "Park close?" over his shoulder.
The guy who takes a look at your target, your rifle and your rests and scopes, and sadly shakes his head.
The guy who goes back to his shooting station and tells his buddies, who then all come down to look and chuckle.
The guy who, on one pass through, tells me controlled-feed bolts are more accurate than the direct-feed crap I'm shooting.
The guy who fingers my Wal-Mart Winny White Box round and says, "I make my own."
The guy who tells me smudging my scope may improve my aim.
The guy who claims I flinch with a television clicker.
The guy who taunts me at a target change, saying, "Why bother? You didn't hit it."
The guy who then adds, "Need to move it closer?"
The guy who, on another pass through, touches my steel, blows on his fingers and says, "This barrel won't last long."
The guy who told the range master I'd said the woman next to me had a nice ass. I swear; I said, "She's a nice lass!" There was no stalking...
The guy who got all smarty-pants-pissed-off just because I bumped his original Winchester 1873 Carbine off the rack and onto the concrete. How'd I know Jimmy Stewart once fired it?
The guy I told, "Well, it won't work now..."
