Chuck Norris

Ten-to-elevenish-year-old boys are possibly the strangest specimens I have ever encountered. My brother and his friends are currently standing in his room (all of them completely adorable in their “I’m too cool to be cold even though it’s freezing outside, but mom made me wear this hat anyway” clothes) debating about something. That something, I believe, is what they are going to put in their “in case the neighborhood’s invaded” fort. Before this debate, my brother stood on the deck with his new, fancy CO2 airsoft pistol and shot his friend who stood resolute 20ish feet away and barely flinched when the hard, round pellets reeked their havoc on his back. After this small, stupid, endeavor, the boys all crowded around the one that had been shot as he showed off the dime-sized welts in his skin. They all gave the equivalent of a cheer and came in here to have this all-important debate, which has, someway, somehow, made its way to Chuck Norris and how exactly to get said legend into their “in case the neighborhood’s invaded” fort. I, being a girl, and a bookish girl at that, do not, by any stretch of the imagination, understand shooting my friend in the back and then applauding his stupidity for volunteering to be shot in the back and acknowledging the painful marks on his back as some sort of measurement of his awesomeness. I also don’t understand Chuck Norris, but I’m pretty sure that just comes with being me and has nothing to do with my lack of testosterone or surplus of bookishness.


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