After gunning down a few ducks last month in Wisconsin, a couple of gutless savages had the audacity to complain about a few shotgun blasts being fired in their direction.
According to the Duluth, Minn.-based ABC affiliate WDIO, “within minutes of shooting two mallards, the hunters became the hunted.”
Van Hawkinson, who fired the protest shots, was quoted in the WDIO report as saying, “I’m an animal lover and bird lover. I don’t like to see things die, especially for the sport of killing.”
After Hawkinson received a slap on the wrist from local law-enforcement officials, one of the savages whined to WDIO that “he got nothing for basically trying to kill us.”
Hawkinson should have been given a medal, as far as I’m concerned.
While one can almost hear the hunting community’s outrage at that last comment, imagine how apoplectic the recreational barbarians among us would be if we were celebrating the sniveling thugs’ executions.
My good friend Monty Gelstein recently asked, rhetorically and with abundant sarcasm, “They can share photos of themselves beaming pridefully over brutally slain animals, but we shouldn’t get a kick out of their misfortune?”
Suffice it to say, Monty was pissed off.
“All this talk is making me want to butcher a hunter and mount his Neanderthal head on the wall above my fireplace,” he said, impatiently, with Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique — his favorite driving music — playing in the background.
Monty told me he was on his way to meet Hawkinson “to thank him and give him a few ideas,” one of which — “a .22 caliber circle jerk” — involves rumors of a magnificent rare beast.
“The idea,” Monty explained, “is to get as many hunters as possible to surround the nonexistent beast and simultaneously blow one another’s brains out.”
“Godspeed, my friend,” I said, listening through the telephone to the opening bars of the “Marche au supplice.”