Have You Got Your Silencer With You?

Falling through the universe at the speed of life

By David Glenn Cox

I’ve never been much of a hunter because I’m not so conceited as to need a reason to drink. I like guns and I like shooting. I just don’t like getting up at three in the morning to get dressed up and go outside and walk around. There is a biological need it seems for some men to be a hunter. The self-satisfaction in answering the call of the wild, if only for a minute or two and only to pretend.

The old classic Big Game trophy room with stuffed heads on the wall. “Ha, ha, that ole boy really gave me a devil of a time what! So, I thought I’d cut his head off and nail it up on the wall as a remembrance.” Let’s just say it’s gone out of fashion, in say 1935. The end result of a shrinking world. The last big game hunter in New York City. When was the last time you saw a designer magazine “50 Great New Home decorating hints with Taxidermy!” Or “Decorating with Dead things!”

But I’m no hunter, I don’t need a rod and reel or a shotgun to kill a six pack. But if you’re into any sport, it gets expensive. The gun, and the scope, the ammunition, the clothes, and the deer piss. Dues to the hunting club, gas money and beer. You’re financially invested here, with a need to bag a kill. It was this or a trip to the Bahamas. Now kill something!

I come from a background of middle aged, middle class, middle manager. But I would rub shoulders with them at conventions and sales retreats. Telling me about their ten-thousand-dollar hunting rifle and $3,500 scope. That they had sent off to a former marine sniper killed in Iraq, who now lives in a tree in the woods and calibrates hunting scopes all day, for an elite clientele! Then, we’re going to charter a plane and fly to the Peruvian Andes to hunt exotic Mountain goats, with hopes of using their body parts as home décor.

Gee, but that sounds like a lot of work. Couldn’t we hunt something a little closer to the hotel? Couldn’t we just stay here and listen to music and kill a few Margaritas instead? But as they say, if you’ve got the money, it can be arranged.

The “hunting camp” where Dick Cheney shot his friend takes you out in a jeep. Then just before you come around the corner, birds with clipped wings are released from their cages. “Oh, look sir! How fortunate, wild grouse! Oh, good shot sir! Why, he must have been at least ten feet away! You’re quite the potent hunter!”

The affluent hires “guides” to lead them to the big game. In much the same way Mr. Bruno will introduce you to a girl looking for a date on a street corner. And it works much the same way with the law. If any legal issue arises, it’s all on Mr. Bruno.

Don Jr. I don’t even have to finish, just say Don Jr. (Pause) and wait for the laughter to die down. So, America’s favorite family coke head went “Big Game” hunting in Utah. “Shhh, we’re big game hunters hunting big game. Just four miles off the Interstate, by the Waffle House and the Home Depot.” And it appears that there were violations of law in this “Big Game” hunt.

A black bear was enticed with grain, oil, and pastries to be executed by “Big Game” hunter Don Jr. “I nailed him as went for the crullers.” All legal ramifications and penalties fall on the “Guide” and the customer is considered an affable dunce. Who paid money, doesn’t know shit and ergo isn’t legally responsible for their heinous behavior. “A prostitute! Mr. Bruno told me she was a nice girl. I must say, I’m shocked.”

If you spend that kind of coin in hopes of killing yourself a harmless wild creature, you want results. You’re not going to fly to Utah, hire a guide and get all dressed up only to hear, “Well, we had fun anyway.” No, they want results. So, when the guide says they need to stop by Dunkin Doughnuts and pick up a $100 worth of doughnuts, you don’t ask why.  It’s an old hunting trick.

I can tell you with a near certainty that 50% of all the third-grade school children in Alabama know that hunting in a baited field is illegal. But hunting Black bear in a baited field? What, were butterflies out of season? A timid vegetarian, lured to a kill zone with some fresh baked goods. Ah, the sporting life! “That’s the way he looked when I shot him, look and you can still see some of the vanilla frosting on his nose!”

Consider this, this is Twump’s “good son” the “smart” one. The son named after him, and it shows. The one that likes killing defenseless animals for sport. But it wasn’t “hunting” or sport, anymore than the Hormel slaughterhouse hires cow hunters for safaris. It was the illusion of hunting, the thrill of “big game.” The illusion of ancient Earth wild and untamed, teeming with vicious great giant beasts (Oh, save me, save me!) D. Boone Kilt a bar on this spot.

Disneyland for rich people, West World. “Strap on your six-gun partner and I’ll show you around town.” Experience…Big Game Hunting! Looking for a once in a lifetime experience, what else have you got to show me? You’re not really going into outer space on the Millennium Falcon, it’s just a thrill ride at Disney.

“Yeah, I got that bear while I was “Big Game” hunting in Utah. He was a mean cuss, the guide got five years in prison. Now that lion’s head over there has an interesting story behind it. We were approaching the lion’s den when my guide frantically signaled for me to get down and hide. My heart was pounding in my chest and my palms were sweeting. When my guide leans over an whispers to me, “it’s alright, the zoo security guard didn’t see us. Have you got your silencer with you?”

“You know, I’d buy him a parachute if I thought it wouldn’t open” – Groucho Marx

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