This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I'm the product of 200,000 years or so of shooting. Prior to the invention of gunpowder, my ancient ancestors used various projectiles to kill animals for food and periodically one another for profit or just fun.

Rock-throwing, stick-flinging, spears, slings, arrows, crossbows, muskets, rifles, machine guns, cannons and shooting remain a permanent part of the male genetic code. Even the most pacifist among us can't help it.

Proof is in male-dominated sports like football, golf, baseball, basketball, hockey and billiards. Hell, even bowling. Guys just love firing away at stuff with other stuff.

Note: I'm not saying that women can't or don't like to shoot. I'm not even saying they can't be good at it. I'm just saying that it's not genetically imprinted on them to the point that they can't help it.

If you have an office filled with women, almost never will they start hurling wads of paper at a trash can until ego becomes involved and someone eventually gets hit in the face with the earliest projectile of record — a fist.

In an office full of men, everything becomes a potential projectile: paper clips, rubber bands, staples, soda cans, gum, rubber darts, lunch leftovers, Nerf footballs and, if a major layoff is anticipated, sometimes actual bullets. My first projectile of record was a wooden block. My mother will tell you that it was vomit, but the projectile I remember was the block. I discovered that the more I threw it, the more accurate I became. And the bigger mark it left on walls.

From then on I was hooked. Toy cannons, slingshots, catapults, archery, BB guns and, inevitably, a real gun. Suddenly I was a man. I probably felt the same way a distant adolescent ancestor did upon receiving his first real spear.

Guns led to hunting. I did that for a while, but soon came to realize that most of the animals I killed didn't taste all that good, and that it was a hell of a lot of work to eat the ones that did. So I quit.

I still shot animals in cases of self-defense or pest control. I figured that they had it coming. Otherwise, unless I planned on eating it, I didn't shoot it.

Target shooting held my attention for a while when I was a cop. I even won a few trophies. But I tired of that when I gained enough street experience to know what a bullet does to a real head instead of a paper one.

It was around that time I got into cannons in a dedicated way. I got all of my primal needs filled by shooting inanimate things nobody wanted anymore — cars, appliances, dead cows, etc.

I'm old now. Cannons are getting heavier. Soon, I won't be able to lift them into the back of a truck without help. That will be bad because I'm a guy. I'm still genetically inclined to hunt and shoot and guard.

The perfect answer is the Bug-A-Salt gun I got last Christmas. If you love shooting but can't stand the mess of hunting, the memories of death or the whining of protective organizations, you need to get you one of these. Bugasalt.com.

I no longer have to leave the neighborhood, lift heavy cannons or even wear hearing protection. I sit in the backyard of an evening and shoot flies and mosquitoes. There's no limit. My wife thanks me for shooting now. The neighbors appreciate the lack of noise. There's no mess to clean up. I'm being protective. Best of all, flies have yet to form an activist group.

If you love shooting but are getting on in years, get one. Say what you want about lions, tigers, and bears — you haven't lived until you've shot a trophy size horsefly out of midair.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.