What the hell is it with guys who like to “hunt” for game? I can’t not put the word in quotes because it hardly qualifies as hunting in any meaningful sense. Several buddies getting together, drinking beer, hiding in the grass – or a tree stand – or a duck blind – and waiting until some unsuspecting creature “on the list” wanders along so they can send metal projectiles through it? Yeah, not hunting and certainly not “sporting.”

This is hardly a man vs. creature battle of wits and brawn. These buffoons drive out to their killing fields via truck and fossil fuel, they don their Cabela’s hunting outfits, and they point $500 rifles at passing animals. Clearly, it’s not because they need the food, as evidenced by the size of their bellies. Hell, one can buy a lot of groceries for five hundred bucks.

And don’t give me that crap about the need for “population control” of this or that species. That’s baloney and any thinking person knows it. If humans need to control an animal population, there are scientific and humane methods to go about it without the need to send out a mass of armed drunken morons to do the job.

So what’s it all about? Why do grown men find it rewarding to inflict pain, misery, and death upon elegant wild creatures? Inadequacy, self-doubt, and insecurity are no doubt at work here. My job sucks. My life is not going the way I envisioned it. I’m not good at anything. I have a tiny dick.

The more noble part of me wants to feel sympathy and pity toward these hapless idiots, but mostly I can only manage contempt.