AS A HUNTER …
I can’t believe you “gun” people … your guns and your gun shows and your ammo reloading … fuck …
I’ll tell you what I do:
I strip down to my loin cloth, and hone a spear with my buck knife and my fire …
I cover myself in mule grease, and then sit out all night, whispering to the trees and moss … connecting with my wolf-self …
Then, at the appointed time, I chase down that hairy beast and consume its munkton-flesh while the moon glows, and the sun is nearly broke upon the horizon.
As a hunter …
I reach for the old style techniques, of monitoring poop flows and assessing the dayglo-sauce of deer-snakes and hester-monkeys …
I gave up on soft-style party living, and now my waters run clean from the mountainside to the prairie hovel … where my hooker bride waits, and my 12 kids hunt possum for dinner.
We wear barley armor and provide LIGHT in the dark woods …
We are true HUNTERS, looking for adventure. Sure, we take it easy when doing “Kentucky Style Love Making” on a Saturday night … but our hearts beat strong for those bong-doodles, and our women wear thongs while singing that song about twerking …
We hunt the grease, we feed on the meat barnacles.
We are hunters.