Once upon a time after a night of complete pandemonium I fully earned the nickname Chuck Jager. For once I'll spare everyone the details except that the incident in question occurred in Charleston, West Virginia, whose local, commercial field is Chuck Yeager Airport. So things sort of fit.
Back in my early twenties, I used to run with a couple of fellows who liked to swill Jaeger in the duck blind. To stay warm, they said. They got me doing this on one particularly cold morning, and by shooting time I was hopelessly fucked up. At 6:30 in the morning, in a freezing cold duck blind out in the middle of fucking McFaddin Marsh. With a loaded shotgun and a vest full of shells, mind you.
By that point, though, I doubt I could have hit the broad side of a barn; much less a teal or a widgeon, on the wing. And I didn't fucking care, either.
Likely one of the most enjoyable duck hunts I ever went on.