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Bobby always wanted to be a bullet. It was his lifelong
dream to be fired from a gun at breakneck speed.
Every night he prayed that he would wake up to be a bullet.
Then, one day, he did. Laying in Bobby's bed, was .22 caliber bullet.
His dad was going hunting that morning, and he came in Bobby's
room, looking for some bullets. He saw Bobby and said delightedly,
"There's one" and proceeded to put it in the pocket of his hunting vest.
Later that day, as his dad was hunting, he put that very
bullet in his rifle, and said, "Boy, I bet Bobby would have loved to be
out here today."
He spotted a deer, and pulled the trigger. As Bobby
sped through the air, he was overcome with joy and excitement. But
sadly, his joy lasted little more than 1.13 seconds as he entered the left
rear flank of the deer, lodged in some muscle tissue. Around him
he could see arteries, veins, tissue, and bone. It was, to say the
least, disgusting.
The deer escaped, and its wound healed, leaving Bobby buried
within.
For the rest of his life -- which was only nine more years
-- Bobby lived inside the deer, regretting each passing day that he had
wished to become a bullet.
Moral: Don't Be a Bullet!
Footnote: a sharp-eyed student of mine informed me that you don't kill
deer with .22 bullets. To which I respond, what was Bobby's dad thinking?!
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