A strange phenomenon of backwoods states and the like, deer hunting almost always guarantees stupidity. No one can actually justify WHY they hunt. There is only the occasional, "I like venicen jerky", or some other idiotic remark.
In Ludington, MI, the first day of Rifle Season for DeerHunting is like a fucking holiday. The state, viewed from the sky, appears to be one massive blotch of orange. If you don't hunt, then you will most likely have to:
a) Kick some fuckin' deer hunter's ass for dumping buck guts in your backyard b) Ask them not to point that thing at you c) Answer five or six times daily: "No! I don't fucking hunt! And by the way, did you ever stop to think that maybe it's the venicen that's rotting your girlfriend's teeth?"
It's not very often that you can avoid deer hunters in the state of Michigan, or Wisconsin, or even Ohio. But you can make the time that you share with them interesting. These are the results of two impromptus interviews I have conducted since Deer Season began.Stupid Fuckers.
Description: Red faced, twenty-something, dumb-looking. He's got work boots and camouflage on. We are in Shell Gas Station, he is buyinga pack of Marlboro Reds and some Tillamook Jerky.(Never eat the tillamook, it gives you the shits.)For the benefit of the interviewee's privacy I will refer to him as, "Humper".
ME: "So you deer hunt?"
HUMPER: "Hell yes."
ME: "Get one so far?"
HUMPER: "Yup--well, a doe. That ain't good enough though. On Sunday we're gonna head back up to Cheboygan and I'm gonna get a buck. My dad says--"
ME: "Yeah, yeah...so, tell me--what kind of strategies to you use?"
HUMPER: "Deer scent, uh...apples, I don't know..."
ME: "If you were in the woods and a BIG buck was right there, like a....a...."
HUMPER: "Thirty Point Buck?!?"(His eyes start to glimmer.)
ME: "Yeah, a thirty point, any ways...if it was right there, and it walked up to you and tried to hump your ass, and you knew you had a good shot at it...would you let the buck get his groove on?"
HUMPER: "............huh?" ME: "...if it was right there, and it walked up to you and tried to hump your ass, and you knew you had a good shot at it...would you let the buck get his groove on?"
ME: "Never mind, [Humper], you've been a great help, really, (under my breath)...you fucking fruitcake."
Description: Mid-thirties, clean cut yuppee/backwoods idiot, driving a spray painted van. Orange hunter jacket, slightly balding hair. Once again, the location is Shell Gas Station. For the benefit of the interviewee's privacy, I will refer to him as, "Cumguzzler".
ME: "Just get back from deer hunting?"
ME: "Where you hunting?"
CUMGUZZLER: "Oh, just out on m'property."
ME: "Doesn't it get kind of cold and boring out there by yourself."
CUMGUZZLER: "Nah, I've got a little tape player and headphones, a thermos. There's my dog, too. Thoroughbred."
ME: CUMGUZZLER: "uh...right now I think it's the Nuge...er, Damn Yankees. Earlier I was listening to Travis Tritt."
ME: silent. I leave immediately.
These are to prove a point: Deer hunters are slow and they listen to bad music. They can't take a fucking joke--the younger kid I talked to looked scared when he got into his truck. ("Dad...can deer hump...I mean, us?") We try to do as much damage to their game as we can every year. Blatant, subtle, all kinds of tactics. We even tried poisoning the biscuits and gravy at "Ya'll Come Back Cafe" in Ludington, Michigan. THEY KEEP COMING BACK!! Fight the redneckers as best you can. We do.