Real Men of Genius #6

 

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Real men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Trail-Ultra-Scouting Hunter/Tracker/Poacher Dude.

{Mister grrrrrrreat old redneck fan of “The Deer Hunter” movieeeeee!!!}

You have no idea why runners do this, but you’re pretty sure that two-legged idiots in not much clothing attract lots of wildlife and probably big game. All you have to do is scout it out.

{Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!}

State parks? National parks? They’re just what’s left over from Indian treaties. God meant for YOU to have these lands, not *them*, and not runners, not brick-short fairies in psychedelic pantyhose. This turf’s for you, Wyatt Earp, because YOU got the guns.

{Whoa! Don’t shoot me, I’m only the guitar player!}

“No Hunting” signs? Please. Those are for target practice. The park land is for discovery, like: hidden meadows where the marijuana grows. And as the self-appointed Sheriff of Sherwood Forest, it is your obligation to harvest these plants, to bottle-up those hidden distilleries, and to confiscate all evidence from the meth labs. Your vigilance helps the economy.

{Don’t forget the fur trapping!}

How is it that after ultramarathons a skinny swath of bare ground gets smeared into some steep hillside? Must be game! And so you and your buddies build a deer stand. You just KNOW that a vast herd of 12-point bucks is about to come right into your gunsights, any minute now, sliding single-file for your rifling convenience right down that steep gouge in the mud–on their butts.

{Hope ya don’t run out of bullets!!}

So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Great White Hunter, or maybe five thousand, and you’d better send your buddies for more ice, because the next time you see a creature careening down that buttslide, one whole entire year will have passed, and it for sure WON’T be a 12-point buck. But have another drink. It could be a rhinoceros.

{Mis-ter Trail-Ultra-Scouting Hunter/Tracker/Poacherrrrrrrr Dude!}

Bud Light beer: we don’t care where it’s made, we just dig their commercials.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
We’re thinking Drew Peterson was also a Great White Hunter/Tracker/Poacher Dude, but he operated in reverse. His task was to hide stuff, and double-dog-dare the not-self-appointed sheriff to find it.