More Is Better

The “Gun Free Zone” Logic
August 19, 2013
Bass impaled on bluegill
August 20, 2013

Much to my abject joy, and dare I say utter surprise, my arrow once again sailed squarely into the lovely crease on the unsuspecting herbivore yonder for yet another perfect kill on another perfect hunt for another perfect load of perfect venison.

Don’t think for one minute I will ever take such luck for granted, and this killing spree stuff could become addictive if this keeps up. I’m sure gonna try with all I’ve got, that’s for sure.

I have spent my entire 64 years busting my ass in a relentless pursuit to be the best marksman I can be. Like every shooter and every hunter I know, it is our deep, heart and soul desire and dream to be a killer “aim small miss” small sniper with guns, bows, slingshots, spears, knives, tomahawks, daggers, balls, spitballs, dirtballs, peashooters, rubber bands, rocks, and every other imaginable projectile we can fling, whip, shoot, throw, toss, blow, lob or sail yonder. Projectile management is clearly in our manly DNA.

These glorious good old days of big game hunting around the world provide more killing opportunities than ever since the slaughter of 60 million buffalo and a few trillion passenger pigeons. Good God that must have been fun. Really stupid and irresponsible, but insane fun I bet.

Now, mind you, there is proof positive that we learned our painful and embarrassing lessons well from the unregulated commercial slaughter of game back in the 1800s, and with strong “err of the side of caution” self-imposed modern hunting restrictions based on sustain yield science, there is no danger of that crazy decimation ever happening again. We will make damn sure of that.

For many, many years now, our annual game harvest approach of erring on the side of caution has paid off big-time, with most states offering increased bag limits and expanded seasons over the years, so those of us who really like to hunt a lot can really have the time of our lives each fall and winter.

Growing up as a gung-ho hunter in the 1950s and 60s, we were allowed to only kill one deer a year. I admit I rarely did, but after that one kill and a long season ahead of us, what the heck were die hard deer hunters supposed to do then? Go shopping? I don’t think so.

I always dreamed of hunting those states with liberal bag limits in hopes of extending my intense love of the hunt. Bought a lot of chicken and beef in those days and it wasn’t much fun.

So now days as I gear up for the fall, my mind races with gleeful visions of hundreds of days hunting with a serious flow of backstraps pretty much a sure thing. I cannot begin to adequately express how incredibly happy that makes this old deer hunter.

So with stacks of tags and long seasons to enjoy, we literally whack em and stack em, maximizing the sheer joys of hunting with the rewards of balanced herds and tons of pure protein for our families, friends, neighbors and charities galore where the gift of pure venison is appreciated beyond belief.

Of course, with the ever present lunatic fringe of ignorant people out there (they have a president for not-so-goodness sakes), there will always be the squawkers and denial goons complaining of “game hogs” and “serial animal killers.” You know: hippies and dopers on parade, clueless to the reality of game populations and the responsible and intelligent harvest necessary to bring about balance every natural season of harvest. Little things like that. I suppose you don’t have to smoke dope to be a dope, but it sure helps.

It’s actually fun to fan the flames of ignorance, as it brings a little humor and extra joy to the whole hunting, killing, sharing procedure. If you’re not upsetting goofballs, you are probably a goofball.

I can close my eyes anytime and relive each and every arrow, each and every encounter, each and every critter, each and every challenge of getting to full draw, each and every arrow, and each and every smiles for a job well done. A glowing Lumenok disappearing into that sweet spot is without a doubt one of life’s greatest joys. More greatest joys are better than fewer greatest joys, and I’m going all out to smile myself to death someday. Now that’s life! Less is not more. Don’t kid yourself.

All that nonstop hardcore practice is truly paying off for this old killer and I’m keeping it up. Arrow after arrow is finding its way home more and more often these days, and I am so very happy to report that the cleansing rages on, the balancing is damn near perfect, the blood trails short, the happiness thick, the backstraps ultra yummy and the Nugent’s and many hungry Americans are dining on God’s finest nutrition.

Thank You Lord. I truly love Your renewable resource thing. God bless renewable resources and lots of them.

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