I read Hunter S. Thompson to stay sane, but then I have to stop reading him when he starts affecting my behavior. In 1963 he wrote a letter to a photo editor who had screwed him out of a payment:
Too many people in this gutless world have come under the impression that writers are a race of finks, queers and candy asses to be bilked, cheated and mocked as a form of commercial sport. It should be noted, therefore, that some writers possess .44 Magnums and can puncture beer cans with 240-grain slugs from that weapon at a distance of 150 yards. Other writers, it is said, tend to enjoy violence for its own sake, and feel that a good fight, with the inevitable destruction of all nearby equipment and furniture, is nearly as fine for the nerves as a quart of John Powers Irish.
Philosophically, it's unanswerable. Behaviorally, however, it's worrisome.
WTF.
I’m sorry.
Hey, were those pheasants? And . . . did anybody eat them? And . . . if nobody ate them, and they are frozen somewhere, can I have them to eat?
I could never hunt, I don’t think, though I love the idea of shooting a big gun.
When I was 14, my friend and I had bows and arrows, and we were in the prairie by our house.
I saw a rabbit running across, and on a lark shot an arrow at it, never thinking I would hit it.
Well, I did. But it didn’t die. It was just laying there twitching and twitching. I started crying, and my friend had to break the bunny’s neck.
But I could beat the shit out of Hunter Thompson in a fistfight.
Steve C.
Hey, were those pheasants? And . . . did anybody eat them? And . . . if nobody ate them, and they are frozen somewhere, can I have them to eat?
I could never hunt, I don’t think, though I love the idea of shooting a big gun.
When I was 14, my friend and I had bows and arrows, and we were in the prairie by our house.
I saw a rabbit running across, and on a lark shot an arrow at it, never thinking I would hit it.
Well, I did. But it didn’t die. It was just laying there twitching and twitching. I started crying, and my friend had to break the bunny’s neck.
But I could beat the shit out of Hunter Thompson in a fistfight.
Steve C.
Hey, were those pheasants? And . . . did anybody eat them? And . . . if nobody ate them, and they are frozen somewhere, can I have them to eat?
I could never hunt, I don’t think, though I love the idea of shooting a big gun.
When I was 14, my friend and I had bows and arrows, and we were in the prairie by our house.
I saw a rabbit running across, and on a lark shot an arrow at it, never thinking I would hit it.
Well, I did. But it didn’t die. It was just laying there twitching and twitching. I started crying, and my friend had to break the bunny’s neck.
But I could beat the shit out of Hunter Thompson in a fistfight.
Steve C.
I mean, if Hunter was still alive.
Steve C.
I mean, if Hunter was still alive.
Steve C.
I mean, if Hunter was still alive.
Steve C.
Yeah, I had no stomach for it, either, and found myself wandering around thinking, “What do these guys find fun about this?”
I did shoot one pheasant, and it hit so squarely there was nothing left but feathers. Which was good, because I didn’t want to carry its twitching body around. So for the rest of the time, I just took video of the other brutes doing it.
We did take some back–the hillbilly guide dressed them for us–but didn’t eat them, nervous about the hillbilly’s inattentiveness about getting out the buckshot and Tom’s inability to cook them properly.
So: We actually could have used your bitch-ass last weekend.
(I’ve got to stop talking this way ….)
Oooh . . . while you boys were out hunting I would have have the cabin scrubbed clean, and candles lit . . . and I would have taken those pheasants and made a wonderful hunter’s stew for the fellas.
Or maybe even a pheasant-themed tasting menu:
Pheasant pate
Pheasant risotto with wild mushrooms
Pheasant “coq au vin”
All with appropriately paired wines, of course.
You should have invited me.
Steve C.
Oooh . . . while you boys were out hunting I would have have the cabin scrubbed clean, and candles lit . . . and I would have taken those pheasants and made a wonderful hunter’s stew for the fellas.
Or maybe even a pheasant-themed tasting menu:
Pheasant pate
Pheasant risotto with wild mushrooms
Pheasant “coq au vin”
All with appropriately paired wines, of course.
You should have invited me.
Steve C.
Oooh . . . while you boys were out hunting I would have have the cabin scrubbed clean, and candles lit . . . and I would have taken those pheasants and made a wonderful hunter’s stew for the fellas.
Or maybe even a pheasant-themed tasting menu:
Pheasant pate
Pheasant risotto with wild mushrooms
Pheasant “coq au vin”
All with appropriately paired wines, of course.
You should have invited me.
Steve C.
We would have, except we don’t have a sidecar.
This conversation is disturbing to me on so many levels, I can’t even begin to articulate them all. I think, therefore, that I will simply wish you both a great weekend.
I myself am heading to Michigan tomorrow, in order to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with my family. [Yes, I realize it is odd to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving in the U.S. What can I tell you? I come from a family of rebels.]
For me, I’m focusing only on the 2-second clip of fly fishing. Oh, and the dog.