Hemingway Responds to Modern Day Big Game “Hunters”
American assholes, it’s me, Ernest Hemingway, back from the dead once again. If you remember last time I came back as part of a contractual obligation I had with Jimmy Buffett’s Margaretville’s to endorse their line of rum-based nachos. After they replaced me in that effort with Luther Campbell and a parrot that knew all the lyrics to ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise’ I vowed never to return. But now tourists are killing animals in Africa and I’m getting brought up again and I figure better to come back and set shit straight.
Putting on a pith helmet and blindsiding a giraffe doesn’t make you a hunter. It makes you an aficionado of Michael Caine cosplay. And also an asshole. Big game hunting was the habit of tortured men who lived during a tortured time and enjoyed casual violence. We also enjoyed casual misogyny, casual racism and casual syphilis. Now it’s used as a form of social media one-upsmanship by people in cargo shorts. And what two things are more synonymous with virility than Instagram and cargo shorts?
And why would anyone want to be me anyway? Let’s be honest, Orson Welles and GG Allin thought I let my life go to Hell. I got into 15 fights with a vacuum cleaner before I realized it was a vacuum cleaner and not an Armenian guy. Thereafter we became best friends. I could, and would, drink my own piss because for the last 5 years of my life it was the highest proof spirit on earth. I lived in Idaho.
Don’t you people understand I spent my whole life insecure about my masculinity? That all of this hunting shit was overcompensation? Have you ever read any of my stories? Guy is impotent. Guy has gangrene. Guy is murdered by wife. More than one of my characters is afraid of the dark. I mean for Christ’s sake I killed myself. Have you seen that picture of me shirtless with a shotgun? Go Google image it. My life should be a refutation on the culture of violence. Not an endorsement.
Seriously if you’re hunting big game at this point and want to picture yourself as someone, picture yourself as Ted Nugent. Because that’s the sort of white trash moron that’s doing this. I understand that there are people more than happy to picture themselves as Ted Nugent. I also understand that there are people who still wonder how I can be dead and still an atheist.
I realize I’m probably just feeling sorry for myself, but outside of Meek Mill and the WWE I’m not sure anyone has had a worse summer than I have. Between these hunting pictures and the dialogue of the second season of True Detective I’ve been forced to completely reevaluate my creative legacy. At this point my most meaningful cultural contributions are a drink favored by potentially pregnant Arizona State coeds at Fat Tuesday happy hours and a beard contest that doubles as a gay pride event. I was the most annoying character in Midnight in Paris, an annoying movie that also featured Adrien Brody. The guy that played me was the villain in a super hero movie. The superhero? Ant Man! I wrote A Moveable Feast for this?
I was always a big fan of cats. Big cats. Little cats. I had tremendous respect for the creatures I was killing. You people, you don’t give a shit. You’re basically playing a really expensive game of “Big Buck Hunter.” I understand this idea that you respect something so much that you decide to kill it out of respect doesn’t make much sense. Because it’s nonsensical. You know what does make sense? Adopting a shelter cat. Want to emulate me? Want to be popular on social media? Go do that instead. And if that doesn’t feel virile enough to you drink a fifth while doing it.
Alright I’m getting out of here. And staying out. Though I may be back before long to kick Dan Bilzerian’s ass. He annoys me.