My idea of hunting is that every hunter should be given one state-issued knife, stripped naked and taken out into the woods in a helicopter on Friday afternoon. Whatever the hunter comes out of the woods with on Sunday, including anything he might kill plus whatever limbs, organs and blood that were his to begin with, he gets to keep. Now that's a sport. Of course, that isn't how it is. Hunters can use high-powered weapons and navigation tools while animals get to be whatever animal they are. Doesn't seem like much of a challenge and I just don't see the fun in that.
Still, that's a big-ass deer. But upon further investigation, MB found out that "he shot this at high fenced hunting where the deer bred and fed". Which, by the sound of it to me, is a petting zoo. He didn't even go out and sleep in the woods. He drove to a place, paid a dude some money, shot the deer and posed for this picture with that stupid grin on his face. "Look at me! I'm the shit!" He probably did it between lunch and dinner. How the hell is that hunting and why the hell does he look so pleased with himself? Was it on a rope, tied to a fence? Did it have its head in a bucket, munching away on food provided by the staff who run the place, treating the "game" like pets? Well sure, but it could have moved one way or another, if it had any reason whatsoever to think somebody might open fire while it was lined up for one of its' three squares a day, which, come to think of it, no wonder it's so big. None of that matters to Ralph here, though, He paid to shoot a deer and goddamnit, he shot a big-ass one.
Way to go, Ralph.
You know I'd like to do? I'd like to "hunt" Ralph. Lock him in an Olive Garden for a couple of weeks and keep the pasta and breadsticks comin'. Then one day, I show up with a shotgun. Ralph looks up with a chunk of chicken parm hanging out of his mouth and he knows something's up. But, HA HA, too late! My first shot hits him in the left thigh, just below his ass. Shit. I biffed that one. He falls down and crawls pathetically across the floor, terrified out of his mind, hoping to find cover behind the salad bar. But guess what? It's Olive Garden; there's no salad bar, bitch! They bring you all-you-can eat salad and breadsticks, feeding you as one might a pet. I catch up to him cowering under a table and... is he still chewing that piece of chicken, like this is just a temporary interruption of his dinner? Aw, now that's adorable, I think as, BLAM!, I finish him off.
I take it back. That would be fun!
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