Hey Mec · 29 December 2002
A clement Sunday morning paired with the approaching end of hunting season means there’s no time like the present to pack away a few breakfast pastis, fill your flask with liquid warmth and, clad head to toe in military fatigues, head out with your yappy little dog to blammedy-blam the morning away in a vain but manly quest for scrawny pigeon and diseased rabbit or maybe just maybe a big smelly boar because that’s what you do, it’s what you’ve always done. And, putain, why not do it in my back yard you inbred hick, I mean, sure, there might be people asleep in that house, but that just shows at best a lack of initiative and at worst a lack of independent outdoorsmanship. Best let the timeless song of spattering birdshot nudge them to the correct path. If they don’t like it, bohrf, call the cops. But the nearest cops are ten kilometres away. Lunch!
* * *