Why I Don't Hunt

I don’t hunt. Now, I’m no animal rights activist, though I don’t believe in being cruel to animals--including ex-spouses, so my reasons for not hunting don’t stem from what some might call moral or ethical reasons. No, my decision not to be a hunter is less complex than that.

First and foremost, I have too many enemies (I don’t hate my enemies; after all, I created them) that are expert hunters. I can hear one of them now saying to the authorities, “Gee, Officer, I don’t why he was wearing that brown furry coat and wearing antlers on his head.”

Plus, there are too many crazy people out there who shouldn’t be trusted with a gun. I know, I’m one of them. Those who have taken me on the few hunting trips I’ve participated in are aware of this fact too. I remember one such trip with my grandparents when I was 15 years old.

I was sitting in the back seat of the car, directly behind Gramps who had the unfortunate task of driving us out to his coveted duck blinds. Don’t ask me why, but for some illogical reason, I thought of a prank (which at the time seemed funny) I could pull on Grandpa.

We were traveling down the interstate at about 70 miles per hour when I grabbed a pillow and, in a flash, put it over my grandpa’s head, completely covering his face and greatly restricting his air intake.

Talk about panic. If you were to look up the word “panic” in the dictionary you’d see a picture of my grandfather behind the steering wheel of his car, arms flung out, grabbing air, with a pillow pulled tightly against his face.

I’ve never seen a person sweat so much in such a relatively short period of time. I mean to tell you, after he somehow maneuvered the car to the side of the road, shakily climbed out of it, and regained control of his now spasmodic body, we noticed a good sized puddle of moisture where he had just been sitting. Now, would you put a loaded gun in the hands of someone who would pull such a prank? I didn't think so.

That was just the beginning of a most memorable trip. It seems that in the excitement of being invited along for the hunt, I forgot to put water in the leaky radiator of Grandpa’s car and, of course, our vehicle broke down—but not until we were miles off the main road.

A couple of hours passed, when at last, an older couple in a truck rambled by and stopped to offer assistance.

Between both of our parties nobody had a thing to tow us with. So we all scrounged around until someone found an old inner tube, from a tractor tire, hidden in the weeds of a nearby field.

What a carnival ride! The amusements parks around the world should have such a ride. After we tied both ends of the tube to our vehicles, our new friends proceeded to pull us to the nearest gas station.

As the old gentleman and his wife slowly began driving forward, we could see that old tube begin to stretch further and further until all of a sudden—whoosh!—like a rubber band stretched to its limit and then let go of, we were pulled at neck-break speed directly toward the rear bumper of the old couple’s truck.

Up to that point in my life, I’d dreamed of becoming an astronaut, but after being thrown back into the trunk of our car by the “G” force from our takeoff, I decided I was better suited for a slower paced job (perhaps something in the field of science—like observing the mating rituals of the snail).

“We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!” Grandma screamed over the horrid screech which enveloped the car, that is, it enveloped the car until Gramps reached back and slapped me silly in an effort to help me regain my senses and quiet down.

Gramps yelled, “Hang on!” And our eyes widened to the size of silver dollars as we smacked the rear bumper of the truck towing us.

Well, that momentarily stopped our car…and lulled us into a false sense of security. No sooner had we gathered our wits when our towing friends moved forward and the whole thing started over again.

It was 40 miles to the nearest help, and you can well imagine the looks we received from the two “good ol’ boys” leaning back in a couple of chairs against the gas station wall, whittling on a couple of sticks, when all of a sudden they heard vaaaroooom-smack, vaaaroooom-smack as we were being towed down the road toward them.

It took us a good two and a half hours to cover those 40 miles, and all the Dramamine in the world wouldn’t have prevented the awful stomach wrenching which took place after crawling out of our car at the gas station.

Recovering from falling over each other with laughter, the two guys, sitting in the chairs, took one look at us, sobered up some, and said, “You folks is a lookin’ like you seen the inside of a sausage grinder.” I guess they noticed our bluish-green complexions.

“Thanks,” I said between convulsions, “after what we’d been through, I’ll take that as a compliment.

I don’t know, but I think that particular hunting trip did more to Gramps than just make him nauseas. You see, after that outing, when I’d mention something to him about taking me on another trip, he’d act like I wasn’t even there and mumble something about remembering to pick up new hearing aid batteries the next time he went to the drug store. Heck, I didn’t even know he wore hearing aids.

Life's Little Annoyances

There are a lot of things in this world that I could do without. Take a look, for instance, at those annoying dryer sheets. Now I’m not a man prone to violence, but whoever is responsible for their creation should be forced to wear them under their armpits as deodorant shields—that’s where many of them have turned up in my laundry.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it must have been some inexperienced man who invented the dryer sheet; no realistic home-maker would have made such a nuisance. Or maybe the development of dryer sheets started out as a bad joke that got out of hand. All I know is, when I put one of them in the dryer, with a load of clothes, it disappears—only to turn up in the strangest places.

Let me tell you something. It’s not all that fun to be undressing in the school locker room for gym and have the whole class bent over in laughter at the dryer sheet stuck to the left cheek of your derriere.

On the flip side, I have to admit I have found some good uses for those sheets. For one thing, by dropping them behind me, they serve as trail markers for finding the path back to my laundry room. Who knows? I might hit my head some day while doing the wash and suffer from a case of acute amnesia.

Dryer sheets can also be used as deodorizers. I once knew a woman who put used dryer sheets in her shoes. The manager at the local thrift store was always happy to receive her discarded shoes, and personnel never had to worry about scrubbing them to get out bad odors. In fact, her shoes were always the pair that sold the quickest.

Another useless invention is scented toilet paper. The way I figure it, if a guy is going around sniffing people’s rear ends he ought to be arrested. Of course that’s if he’s still alive after the person he’s smelling kicks the bejeebers out of him.

On the other hand, think of the money we could save on aftershave and perfume by stuffing scented toilet paper in our shirts and blouses. Shoot, if I owned a perfume company I’d be worried. Someone should scout the different scents available in the toilet tissue business. Personally, I’d enjoy snuggling up to a woman who smelled like a Carolina pine forest.

I know a guy who invented a toupee for bald eagles. When he made a sweater for a cold duck, his family became concerned. I try to visit him at the “home” no less than once a week.

For years now, I’ve been trying to figure out the reasoning behind the invention of leaf blowers. Were they designed as a tool for getting back at your neighbor for some atrocious offense? It seems to me that ridding your yard of fallen leaves by blowing them into your neighbor’s yard has been responsible for more feuds than moonshine, boundary disputes and shot gun weddings.

Thousands of years from now, archaeologists will be digging up our ruins and will come to the conclusion that the demise of our culture was caused because we were a warring people. They’ll declare that our main weapon of war was a gas-powered machine with a long tube-like trunk, our friend the dreaded leaf blower. They may not determine exactly how this machine was used, but evidence will show that it seemed to be the root of many tribal conflicts—such an ugly scene.

Throughout history there has always been those “flash in the pan inventions,” or as some call them, the “here today, gone tomorrow” contraptions.

The electric lawnmower was one of those. Now there was a winner. “Save on gas, buy a plug-in mower.” Just suppose you had an accessible electrical outlet near your yard. You'd have to have had a very small yard or a lot of extension cords and plenty of electricians tape for the thing to have been of any use.

Now, in every neighborhood there’s always at least one resident who has to be the first to buy the latest gadget on the market. He’s the one who doesn’t want to just keep up with Joneses; he wants to be the Joneses. This was the guy who after seeing an advertisement for the electric lawn mower ran right out and bought one. Six months, 15 extension cords, and miles of electricians tape later, he reverted back to the trusty ole gas mower, after providing the neighborhood with a half a year of good laughs.

They’re part of life; there’s no escaping them. Useless inventions will always be around as long as there’s people to dream them up and others to purchase them.

Maybe I’ll start working on an electric belly button lint picker. Who knows? It just might work—it just might.

One Dynamite Father's Day--Another Skunky and Me Adventure

One memorable Father's Day happened when I was about 14 years old. It was the time I helped my childhood friend Skunky Wilson surprise his dad with a special gift.

Now, Skunky got his nickname on account of--well, let's just say that when Skunky left home the State's natural gas resources were depleted by one half.

The Wilsons lived on an old farm, and over the years no one had ever taken the time to scrape the cow waste out of the barn. After two or three generations the pile of cow patties began to be a problem--the barn doors wouldn't shut and Mr. Wilson had to duck when entering the building to keep from hitting his head on the door frame.

So, Skunky dialed me up one day to ask if I would help him with his Father's Day gift of removing the patty pile.

"I don't know," I said, "I'm already committed to something else."

"Like what?" Skunky asked.

"Like sitting on the porch with my little brother and watching the grass grow." Hey, anything was better than shoveling out an over-filled barn of manure.

"I've found some dynamite for the job," Skunky said in a sing-song, teasing kind of voice.

"I'll be there!"

In the early hours on the Saturday before Father's Day I met Skunky in front of the Wilson's barn. He stuck a piece of a dynamite stick in the center of the mound of manure and lighted it.

Now, rarely do the minds of 14-year-old boys work in a logical mode. Skunky and I were no exception. It never dawned on us that when the dynamite exploded, all that stuff had to go somewhere. It wouldn't just dissipate into thin air.

We took off running toward the corral gate, just a few yards away. We were almost there when we heard a loud KAAABOOM, followed by a hot blast of stifling air and manure, which swept us up into the air and deposited us against the corral fence.

After peeling ourselves off of the fence, Skunky asked, "Booger [that was me], you all right?"

With a loud ringing in my ears, I shook my head in the affirmative. "But you really should stop banging that bell. It might draw your father's attention and ruin the surprise. By the way, when does the plane land?" I was just a wee bit disoriented.

Well, we gathered ourselves together and sauntered toward the barn to inspect our workmanship. "No need worrying anymore about the barn doors not shutting," I said. They were no longer there.

Entering the building, we were blinded by the bright morning sun. "Yeeeeee haaaaw!" yelled Skunky. "Betcha we're the only family in the county with a sunroof in their barn." Even an idiot couldn't argue with him on that one.

As we stood there a moment, admiring our handy work, we suddenly felt cold, calloused hands-of-steel wrap around our necks--Mr. Wilson! For some reason he none too pleased with his Father's Day gift.

Just Say Neeeeeiiiiiiiiigh

It’s come to my attention that people will go to no end to improve (or so they think) their looks. Just look at what we do to our hair and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

Back when I was married, I was in the bathroom when I noticed something that got me to thinking, and we all know how dangerous that can be. I noticed that on one of the shelves was a conditioner the “Mrs.” had bought for her hair. What’s strange about buying conditioner for one’s hair? Nothing, except for the fact the conditioner, MANE-N-TAIL, is a product used on horses!

Now, I wasn’t too worried when she began having cravings for carrots and Quaker Oats, nor was I worried when I asked what time she’d be returning from the supermarket and she stamped her foot three times. Heck, even the night she snuggled up to me in bed and whinnied in my ear caused no worries, but it was a real blow to my male psyche when she left me for Mr. Ed (in case you’ve forgotten, that was the old 1960s TV show where Ed, the horse, talked)!

As you might guess, this incident stroked my curiosity a bit, so I began taking a closer look at hair products. Needless to say, I had a good laugh or two at what I discovered.

The label on one of the shampoo bottles in our bathroom claims, in big bold letters, that it is PURE AND MILD. Is that a shampoo or a sermon? It sounds more like something taught in Sunday school than a claim on a shampoo bottle.

We used to have a shampoo at the house that claimed to be a “hair salad.” Now, I’ve heard of a fruit salad, a potato salad, and a garden salad, but a hair salad? Is that served with a drink or what?

Speaking of salads, there are shampoos on the market whose ingredients include jojoba, honeysuckle, kiwi, mango, coconut, apple pectin, wild cherries, vegetable oil, soy protein, corn, pineapple, cucumber, garlic, carrots, tomatoes, bitter orange (and what’s wrong with using a sweet orange?), peppermint, and Paraguay tea (as opposed to what, English tea?), reads more like the menu of the salad bar at a Shoney’s or an Olive Garden restaurant, doesn’t it? I mean, which do you do, eat the stuff or put it on your hair? Also, seems to me we could grow most of these ingredients in our gardens and make our own shampoo, easing the house-hold budget a bit.

And did you know there’s a product that claims to be a botanical hair humectant conditioner? A what? I can hardly say “botanical hair humectant conditioner” without tripping over my tongue let alone explain what the heck it supposedly does for your hair.

There’s also a product which is supposed to provide therapy for your hair. So, if my hair is out of control does it get a 45 minute therapy session? I’m not sure my health insurance covers that.
You know, this just begs the questions; exactly how does one go about getting a degree in hair psychoanalysis and what kind of questions would a therapist ask your hair? “So, when do you feel you started losing control? Were you fine as a child or have you always been a bit on the kinky side?” And would the therapy session include a check of your roots in search of ugly behavior patterns throughout past generations?

Yes, it certainly seems society’s obsession to obtain “perfect” hair has risen to a whole new level of bizarre, and . . . oh, oh, I have to end this little tirade now; the timer just buzzed, indicating it’s time to rinse the motor oil out of my hair.