First: there's nothing glorious about any of this. I was sitting in the bathroom, as I like to from time to time, when I heard our dog barking angrily in the yard. I looked out the window of our rural, remote West Texas home and saw a stranger tossing stuff into their truck, presumably thinking no one was home. Theft is common out in the boondocks of the sandy and meth-laden oil fields, and it wasn't uncommon to have at least a couple of tweakers dig for scrap metal in any given week. I grabbed my pump-action shotgun (an older clone of a Mossberg 500) and headed out, creeping to keep hidden until throwing the door open. In my best "angry dad" voice, I yelled at the guy and pointed the barrel at his head while looking like a reject from Duck Dynasty. The thief-turned-target looked up at me, turned white as a sheet, and bolted toward the running pickup truck parked in our lawn, doing his best jazz hands and screaming in Spanish as he moved away.
Via Ryan Jarcy
The actual gun, in its favorite chair. Sadly, the chair never walked again.
Wracked with both anger and a tiny bit of moral scruples, I decided not to shoot: an old battery charger and some plywood isn't worth a human life. We've all done dumb stuff, and that's not a crime typically handled by the death penalty. Now, if you're waiting for the part where the thief's accomplices in the truck leaned out with their own shotguns and took out my leg, well, that's not exactly how it went down. The truth is much, much dumber.
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You might get a concussion from how hard you're about to facepalm.