D Class:  Derp
 
Awful.  You are functioning at a level of retardedness that must truly tax your mother’s faith in the almighty to not seek a retroactive abortion.  You are lucky to escape the porous net of an overtaxed social services system that would certainly have you committed, where you would eventually be heavily medicated and moved to a secret government compound to be studied as a backwater evolutionary waystation between modern humanity and distant echoes of our primordial ancestors who struggled for existence armed only with instinctual reactions to environmental cues and a pointless but very real desire to survive.
 
C Class:  Crap
 
You are looking up the wrong side of the bell curve; it’s an Everest like climb for you to think about summiting at average.  Likely you will die in the attempt, frozen and alone, existing as a reminder that not everyone who dreams should dare.
 
B Class:  Blah
 
Not terrible.  You’ve reached a place where you can assign your lack of any singular achievements in any facet of your life as the admirable result of a focus on work/life balance.  It’s not fooling anyone else, but it gets you through the day.
 
A Class:  Asshole
 
You are a constant threat to break the top 10 at a local, depending on attendance.  You rest assured that people unfamiliar with USPSA who hear you are an A class shooter must think you are good, since the class labeling system bizarrely puts the highest grade letter in the middle of the actual class rankings.
 
M Class:  Meh
 
You are a walking embodiment of Ben Stoeger’s maxim that anybody who puts in enough effort can be good at shooting (or something like that).  You have won some locals and you are almost good enough to be considered match heat.  Almost.  That means not good enough. 
 
Your finest moment and key to M class glory was finding a range that let you put up classifiers that you could practice incessantly after facebook stalking matches and match directors to divine the upcoming classifiers.
 
GM Class:  Gun Masturbator
 
You’ve made it to the top.   There is nowhere dumber to go.  You are capable of winning a local match with accompanying glory similar to that achieved by being on the winning team of a pick-up basketball game in a suburban park. 
 
All it cost you was thousands of dollars on an income stream that would have Dave Ramsey punching you in the balls with a set of borrowed brass knuckles if he only knew, a major portion of your free time that could have been used to strengthen family relationships or learn marketable skills, and tendons that will now be chronically inflamed for the rest of your life, which is by the way downhill from here.

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