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Stats & Data

February 15, 2013

A 10-point buck reminds deer hunters of their utter failings in killing him and in life.


By a 10-Point Buck


Season’s greetings, pussies -- "season” being the operative word here, since you baby-dicks went another whole deer-hunting season without shooting me, a majestic 10-point buck.

Nice to meet you. My name is Your Manhood's Worst Fucking Nightmare. My  turn-ons are long walks in the woods, sugar cubes, bright lights, and, oh yeah, having 10 gleaming, alabaster horns sitting on my head because you peach-fuzz gumps can’t seem to hit me.

No biggie.  It’s not like you wanted to get me or anything. Oh, wait, that’s right.  You did want to get me. I'm all you wanted to get and more.  You wanted to get me so bad you took off work, dressed up in oversized, neon orange fat suits and wandered around the Appalachian muck for weeks, trying not to catch frostbite or get shot by another wheezing, Skoal-slathered “hunter.”

Do you chumps still call yourselves that? "Hunter"? You drag a studio apartment into the middle of the forest and blast high-powered guns like you’re pulling off the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, but you still can’t get a fucking kill. You’re not hunters, you’re tourists, and I’m the exotic native who’s going to bang your bored wife. She wanted a man.  Instead she got you.

Oh, does that make you mad? Maybe you should shoot me. Hell, you have enough options: archery season, then rifle season, then archery again because – let’s face it – you didn’t get a deer during the first two. And you won’t. You’re going to walk out of these woods like you walked in: clutching nothing but your own limp dick. 

This is my fucking house.  Hike back to your own pathetic little suburban home.  Gaze desperately at those bare-ass walls in your "game room" where you got a stuffed squirrel posed on a log right next to the 7-inch trout you mounted because they were all you could fucking get. Look out, Teddy Roosevelt, it’s the Bass Master! The Serengeti’s got nothing on the Yellow Breeches Creek!  Why don’t you just mount some caviar while you're at it?

You want me in that room. You need me in that room. My rack would lock that room down like a fucking hypno-wheel for all your shit-stained redneck buddies, ogling and slobbering over me. When they saw my head up there, they'd be moaning, “Ohhhh, Cletus, is that what I think it is? Is that ... a 10-point!?” HORN-GASM, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

But you can’t get me. Those walls are staying empty. Maybe you can get a few more Thomas Kinkade prints to take up the space, because you’re not getting these magnificent porcelain spears any time soon. You couldn’t get them when they were two little spikes. You couldn’t get them when they were four marshmallow roasters. And you damn sure can’t get them now that I’m a 10-point stud at the top of his game. You’re a twerp, an ant. I’m the Jay-Z of these woods. I run this town and I brush dirt like you off my shoulders, which, by the way, are absolutely ripped from carrying around this 10-point masterpiece all day.

I’m king, and heavy lies the crown. Literally. How big of a target does this rack have to be, you feckless piece of shit? Do I have to grow a 38-point horn bush on my fucking head? Do I have to be dragging that top-heavy cluster through the weeds, twisted in on itself like a skull-mounted ball and chain, just so you have a chance? 

Are you having fun with this charade? Because it’s not even a game for me anymore.  This is too fucking easy. I’m playing chess, but you simpletons aren’t even playing checkers, you’re on “Hungry, Hungry Hippos” – probably because you can’t tag a real hippo. It’d still be too fast for you.

I’ll tell you what. Let’s make this interesting. Here’s a deal: I’ll give you one clean shot. No tricks, no gimmicks, no you fumbling around with your mittens and poncho while you try to grab your rusty-ass rifle without spilling your hot cocoa. Meet me at the old oak tree in the game lands. Just you and me. I’ll be the one with the 10 fucking horns on my head. Feel free to wear a rose, because it’s the only red you’ll see unless you look in the mirror after crying yourself to sleep tonight.

We’ll square off at high noon, which means you’ve got time to let your balls descend. I’m going to get a head start, maybe watch “Les Misérables” while I’m waiting for you sissies. I heard Anne Hathaway’s song is fucking exhilarating – anything to get the blood flowing, because being scared for my life sure isn’t going to happen.

Hmm. Is this a new road? That’s weird, I haven’t crossed one of these in a long time, probably since you nancy boys were getting your asses powdered by Mommy – so I guess that means last year! Heh. Whoa, what’s that bright light? It’s really bright and … and mesmerizing … almost as mesmerizing as my horns. Makes me wish I had a sugar cube to enjoy the view. Oh, there’s two lights! That’s so cool! And they’re getting bigger! Bright lights! Bright lights! Bright …