By 
The Marine Corps has a funny way of turning just about anything that sounds fun on paper into being a fairly miserable entire fucking day. Combat ranges are one of those things. On paper, it sounds great to go out shooting guns with 40 of your best friends. In practice though, it turns into an arduous day in the sun, wearing full combat gear for like 17 hours, shooting a few times about 2 feet away from your battle buddy, and having hot brass make that one-in-a-million perfect nothing-but-net shot down your collar to permanently scar your neck.
Despite the odds of this being fairly stacked in your favor, the brass from your buddy’s rifle will somehow always manage to make that perfect fucking shot onto your bare flesh. I personally believe this to be a supernatural phenomenon, driven mostly by the evil and omnipotent presence of the green weenie across all military installations. There’s nothing you can do about this either, except maintain positive control of your rifle while trying to dance it out of your clothes.
You’ll try and fail to find that perfect spot where the brass won’t hit you, but the only real way to avoid it is to be on the far left end of the shooting line and spew your brass onto some other poor fucking person.
In other news, don’t forget that the Terminal Lance Ultimate Omnibus is available everywhere books are sold! The perfect Terminal Lance gift for that poor fucking Lance Corporal in your life.
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