In the brouhahahahaha (ha!) over the recent misadventures with Dick and Buckshot I noticed some discussion of the canned hunt, a term which brought back memories. There was some liberal chatter about how while I don't have anything against hunters in general canned hunting is particularly grotesque and not manly, blah blah blah. I think I even said the same sorta thing.
James Wolcott's piece snapped me back to my damn senses. Hunting is an unnecessary blood sport whose exercise proves two things: bullets are indeed tougher than the outer skin of lots of animals and, men engage in this ritual to manifest themselves as mini-gods, with the final say on who lives and who dies.
Wolcott is one of the absolute bestest writers on the blogonets. I'll leave you with this snippet.
Rich guys pretending to be Jeremiah Johnson is one of the many fascimile editions of rawhide authenticity being successfully peddled in the media with no one willing to stop and say that inflicting unnecessary pain and suffering on animals should be a source of sin and shame, and that the decent thing to do would be to break Cheney's shotgun in two before anyone or anything else is harmed by his buffoonery.