So I’ve no disinclinations or aversions to hunting. I only object to the ‘all hat no cattle’ B.S. politicians bandy about to prove their testosterone proficiencies. But like the tall-tale-talking fish story-teller, the first liar never stands a chance. So I prefer instead what crotchety Old Walter Brennan used to say in that short-lived television show, “The Guns of Will Sonnett,” “No brag, just fact.”
Fish in a barrel.
Used to be shooting fish in a barrel was one thing. But then the idly indolent discovered that game hunting on fenced-in private property was the next best thing. Why work up a sweat to bag that exotic or native animal when they can be conveniently trapped inside an enclosure while the so-called hunt is on?
“Canned hunting,” “shooting preserves” and “game ranches” all refer to the same thing. They are private trophy hunting facilities that assure customers the opportunity of killing game animals that are trapped within enclosures. The only thing that might make this even easier would be to outfit a motorized recliner for the truly torpid trapper.
Hunting on a rail.
So short of tethering the animal to a post, I can’t imagine that shooting at a fenced-in game animal is anymore hunting than steering my Autopia car could be called driving.
Unbelievably, reports have even surfaced of facilities that allow the so-called hunters to recline back on their expansive posteriors to kill animals remotely via the Internet. So much for the thrill of the hunt.
According to http://www.change.org., “The animals killed in canned hunts may come from private breeders, animal dealers, or even zoos. These animals are frequently hand-raised and bottle fed, so they have lost their natural fear of people. In many facilities, the animals expect to be fed at regular times by familiar people—and the shooters will be there waiting for them.”
It’s kind of like holding game hunts for the petting zoo animals released on Chevy Chase’s Funny Farm.
And this finally gets me to the purportedly adroit hunting skills of former Alaska Governor/would-be VP/ full-time money-making machine and manifold media monger Sarah Palin. Last month, while hunting with her dad for her made-for-reality-television show, she diminished her made-for-t.v. frontierswoman bona fides by repeatedly missing a standing caribou a.k.a. reindeer she was trying to take down with a rifle shot.
Depending on who’s counting, she took 4 or 5 errant shots before finally putting down the equally clueless pre-Christmas reindeer. Paraphrasing, “If a shot is taken in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Not if you miss the shot in front of millions on reality t.v.
In any case, there’d be no sleigh-pulling for Santa for that Rudolph last Christmas.
Blame the tools.
Sarah exculpated her familial penchant for hunting by explaining that the nearest Krogers is miles away and besides, she eats what she kills, anyway. But as for her poor marksmanship, she blamed an unadjusted gun sight on her rifle.
But as a golfing buddy likes telling me when I fault my damn 7-iron for missing the green, “It’s a poor craftsman that blames his tools.”
So instead of blaming her rifle, I think Sarah just needs a refresher hunting course. And I have just the marksman in mind. I’m talking about that other crack huntsman who I’m sure is tanned, rested and readily available, why none other than attorney-shooting quail-hunting Deadeye Dick Cheney.