Monthly Archive for December, 2008

Why are these notoriously fickle warlords smiling?

When the winds blow gently out of the south of a winter’s morn, a spinster aunt’s thoughts turn to Viagra, and how hilarious it is that CIA operatives are using it to bribe old Afghan horndogs into spilling their guts about secret Taliban stuff.

And by “hilarious” I mean “repellent.”

There isn’t much that isn’t repellent about this piece in last Friday’s Washington Post, but the thinly disguised chortle in the writer’s tone is pretty much the eel’s eyebrows. The American spy dudes are congratulated on their creative solution to an intelligence-gathering problem. “Using sex as a motivator” (blamer translation: “pimping out women receptacles”) has a long and colorful history in the espionage biz.

The KGB used “honey traps” (rapeable females) with great success, so why not turn Afghanistan’s “notoriously fickle warlords” into “grinning chiefs” with heretofore unavailable American sexual performance drugs? Apparently it works a treat: “Aging village patriarchs were easily sold on the utility of a pill that could ‘put them back in an authoritative position’.” The old bastards buzz along home, maul the harem, and come back singing like canaries.

Wink wink, nudge nudge, puke puke.

The heart bleeds for the multiple wives of these old farts; after a lifetime of conjugal duty, these women were undoubtedly basking in sweet relief when the old warlord finally couldn’t get it up anymore. Naturally it couldn’t possibly occur to either the CIA operatives or prurient Americans reading this amusing article clapping the CIA on the back for its good old American ingenuity that some woman somewhere was gonna have to pay the price in this “crucial battle.”

As always, women are the invisible casualties in men’s stupid wars.

[Gracias, Famous Soviet Athlete]

By way of resolving an important patriarchy-blaming point

duffelcoat.jpg
What Paddington Bear and unfashionably angry feminists are wearing to protests these days

This duffle coat retails for $533.29, but you can get it on sale here for just $142.47. It is “flawlessly crafted in England [and] offers handsome, classic style and warmth to block freezing gales. Duffle coats carry a long tradition of practical style, originating with the Royal Navy.”

No wonder women aren’t allowed to wear them.

Always leave’em wanting more

Or

Spirulina Nation

A blamer recently reminded me of the Voluntary Human Extinctionist Movement, and boy am I glad she did. Since discovering it a few years ago, it’s been one of my very favorite human extinctionist movements! Because I suffer from chemo-brain, my obstreperal lobe had temporarily misplaced it, but its impact on the Twisty Weltanschauung is undeniable; I crib ideas from it constantly, without even blinking. I am, in fact, a Voluntary Human Extinctionist myself. Maybe you are, too! The Voluntary Human Extinctionist Movement (VHEMT) isn’t even an organization, which is a great part of its appeal to us non-joiners. It’s a “state of mind.” All you have to do to get in on the action is not procreate.

In light of a remark I made in a recent post (in a smallish diatribe exhorting women to examine the patriarchal origins of motherhood, I blurted, almost as an afterthought, that women should just quit having babies), which remark sparked a bit of a culturally-conditioned flare-up, I thought it might be fun to revisit the Voluntary Human Extinctionist Movement (see an earlier post on this topic here).

The VHEMT manifesto is contained in a delightful website maintained since the late 90’s by an Oregon high school teacher named Les Knight. The gist of Les Knight’s argument is this: that the biosphere, for reasons of which we are all only too painfully aware but usually prefer not to dwell on too much, simply cannot sustain human beings in any way, shape or form; the only responsible action is to gracefully admit this and bail out now, through attrition, before we’ve completely obliterated what was once a pretty nice planet. As long as there remains a single breeding pair of humans, Knight avers, the danger of a destructo-human flare-up exists, so the only acceptable number of human inhabitants is zero.

The VHEMT site is chock full of A material. Among voluntary human extinctionist critiques of religion, culture, and politics, Knight lists every possible excuse a person might give for breeding, briefly exposes the flaws in their reasoning, and genially offers eco-friendly alternatives (adoption, therapy to address host of unresolved issues, environmental activism, hanging with existing kids, critical thinking, “be nice so that people will come to visit you in the home,” etc). Check this out:

Think there’s a biological imperative to reproduce? Think again! The biological imperative is actually to boink. Take a swig of your latte and reflect a moment. “If sex,” says Knight, “is an urge to procreate, then hunger’s an urge to defecate.” He then invokes bonobos, the dear man. And coyly points out that “institutions await those who cannot control their biological urges.”

Some of the other common breeding excuses Knight adroitly addresses:

Want to give our parents grandchildren.
I just love children.
I just love babies.
Pregnancy and childbirth are life experiences.
We want to create a life which embodies our love for each other.
I just want to.
Being a mother is a woman’s highest calling.

In response to that last one, Knight delightfully suggests that holding such a view means you’ve been “beguiled into believing compliance is noble free choice.” The exposure of which exact bogosity is pretty much the thrust of this entire blog. He actually gets it that reproductive freedom means the freedom not to reproduce (as opposed to the “freedom” to “choose” to reproduce, or, as it is more accurately described, state-sponsored coercion to reproduce). I just love this guy.

The most sobering aspect of Knight’s views is this: we’re going extinct, all righty, by hook or by crook. By not volunteering to “live long and die out,” the inevitable result will be our involuntary extinction.* The unthinkable suffering and despair that will obtain via the latter contingency makes the former much more appealing, unless you are a bloodless sociopath.

Knight’s position centers on the notion that there is inherent value — to, say, the millions of species that will not be destroyed by us, not to mention the 40,000 children under the age of 5 who won’t die every day from starvation and disease — in preserving the earth in a human-free state.** Certainly this is an idea we can all (except the bloodless sociopaths) get behind. We’re all romantics. We all dig nature. We appreciate rain forests and bonobos and sunsets on the beach. Does our “right” to reproduce trump all of nature’s right to exist? I mean, come on. We’ve had our shot, and we blew it. Next!

Of course, there are no guarantees that, once we’ve graciously stepped aside, some other, even more scourgeous, monomaniacal species won’t spring up in the vacuum and plunge the planet into a nuclear winter. Or that a comet won’t smash down on New Jersey and initiate a whole nother die-off. Or that a bunch of aliens won’t show up proffering deadly-pathogen-infected sexbots.

But at least then it wouldn’t be our fault.

And there’s always the possibility, remote though it may seem, that there might evolve some species whose constituents just sit around all day, contentedly pulsating, absorbing sunshine, not killing or raping or oppressing anybody at all.

Wait a second! That species already exists!

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* This is more or less indisputable [1].

** Clearly, this whole preserve-the-earth thing is a justifiable and rewarding pursuit only if you assume there is some inherent value in life, period. But I think I’m not dangling too far out on a limb when I proceed on that assumption, since love of life is the implied penultimate interest of those who procreate.

I make no claims for the attitude of the cosmos generally toward life, but, based on personal experience, am inclined to believe that it is one of cool indifference.

“New” feminism: plump, luscious, and kissable

An acute reader once informed me that “the ideas on this blog are not new,” which remark I was apparently expected to interpret as a real take-me-down-a-peg zinger. Old ideas? Bo-ring. Entertain me with some new analysis. Preferably something more fun.

This sentiment is echoed by a bunch of “new” feminists profiled in the lifestyle section of the December 21 Sunday Times.

Screw political activism. “New” feminism is a lifestyle.

The “new” feminists are embarrassed by the old-school feminist protesters at a beauty pageant; those old bats “looked a bit silly, a bit like a stereotypical idea of what a feminist should be.” The beauty pageant in question, a new feminist maintained, was not about men. It was for “girls.” I mean, what were those protesters thinking, pointing out that sexist bullshit? Those “girls” were in the pageant of their own free will.

You’re hardly gonna fall off your chair when I aver unto you that the feminists in this article don’t, alas, live up to the hype. They’re not “new.” They’re old, so old, so painfully, oldly old. They were old when they were Tallulah Bankhead, and when they were Madonna, and when they were Suicide Girls, and when they were on “Sex and the City,” and they’re not getting any younger.

That’s right. They’re choice feminists, the gals who say “I choose it, and I decided I’m empowerful, so it’s feminist!” They’re fun feminists, the gals who say (and I quote from the article) “As a woman, you can’t not buy shoes and wear dresses. Plus all of that stuff is fun — it doesn’t take away from your power as a woman.” They’re 12-step feminists, the gals who say “Take what you want and leave the rest.”

Seriously! It’s all there in the soon-to-be-published The Noughtie Girl’s Guide to Feminism. Quoth author Ellie Levenson, “In the past, you had to subscribe to a whole set of beliefs to be a feminist, including how you should look and behave. But Noughties women have made it their own. It’s like a pick-and-mix feminism, where you can choose the bits you care about yourself.”

Like when you choose an outfit! For yourself!

Scratch a “new” feminist, and you’ll find an empowerful girl whose lipstickin’, shoe-buyin’ ideology springs fully-formed from her immaculate, politically-neutral, sexyfun, patriarchy-free choice-lobes. Her “choices” are her very own brilliant ideas. Her behavior proceeds from her own empowerful personal desires. Her rights, including the right not to call herself a feminist because it’s too embarrasing, revolve chiefly around her right to resemble a male fuckfantasy to whatever degree she “chooses.” The “new” feminist weltanshauung seems a little light on political theory, a little insouciant about the global ramifications of femininity, but you know what? Us old radfem prunes should just respect that and quit being so judgmental already.

Hence the sub-headline: “Yes, you can wear lipstick and be a feminist. The F word is being rebranded.”

Rebranded, apparently, as a cosmetics marketing gambit (again). If it doesn’t involve lipstick, you can count these hipster chicks out. Because lard knows a political movement should have glowing skin if it wants to maintain its market-share in this day and age.

I wish they would rebrand funfeminism as “I Heart Patriarchyism” and be done with it.

Mothers and blorts! Fight the power!

An excerpt from yesterday’s discussion, which veered off into a sort of stay-at-home mothers vs career-girls tangent.

Blamer Hedgepig: I understand your frustration with the situation of parents, but why are you directing it at people who are pointing out those frustrations and their underlying causes?

Blamer Tinfoil Hattie: I’m aware of the underlying causes of my frustrations and of the frustrations of many other mothers. I am responding to people who have said less-than-kind things about motherhood on this thread. One other mother and I felt attacked by some comments here. I responded from the trenches. I am asking for support from fellow feminists, while at the same time shaking my very tired fist at patriarchy.

O, Tinfoil Hattie, you do have the support of your fellow blamers; no true blamer would –

Yikes! Looks like I’m about to wander down Fallacy Lane. I’d better start again.

Post-revolution, things’ll be different, but currently in our culture motherhood is not just a matter of pregnancy followed by childbirth. It is a big ole set of behaviors and expectations and consequences and connotations and allusions and obligations and dogma — what I think of as nuclear motherhood — that is so deeply entwined with patriarchal praxis it is almost impossible to see the forest for the trees. Thus do some feminists take issue with the concept of stay-at-home momming, and do some stay-at-home mom feminists take issue with being conceptually taken issue with.

I do not now and have never advocated blaming women for what some of us radical feminists may experience as their capitulation to or collaboration with the dominant culture. Some blamers may, in a unguarded moment, express frustration with patriarchy in a way that seems to take aim at women who look to be cozied up with the Man. Lap dancers. Women who lurch down the street in 4″ heels. Fun feminists. Workplace-rejectin’ mothers.

We need to cut that shit out.

Except for the BDSMers. I’m still gonna make fun of you guys.

But anyway, check it out: we’re all of us cozied up to the Man in one way or another. Turn over the keyboard you’re typing on right now and read the fine print. Mine was made by slave labor in Malaysia.

Yo, mothers, we really understand. Really, we do, because our fists are tired, too. The maddening antifeminist zeitgeist is exhausting us all. It’s just that we — and when I say we, I mean those blamers who see the nuclear family as an enormous obstacle to liberation — are desperate for women who are living the status quo to challenge the status quo. We are desperate for women to reject the specious narrative that within the nuclear family we have “choice,” when in fact the “choice” (regarding motherhood) is between doing one full-time job (stay home and raise kids) or two full-time jobs (do paid work and also raise kids).* We are desperate for women to stop buying into the patriarchy-sponsored message about women’s fulfillment — that is, the notion that you are a selfish blob of failure, or worse, that you are missing out on life’s greatest joy, if you don’t martyr yourself to home and family and totally subsume your identity in the process. We want women to reject marriage and the nuclear family. We want women to not have kids in the first place. But above all we want women who do have kids to realize that, despite our critique of the traditional feminine behaviors in which they are encouraged — by forces larger than feminism — to engage, we’re on their side, because ain’t they women? And ain’t we for the liberation of women?

A feminist revolt will improve the lives of all women, and all kids, too.

So, even as mothers need the support of the — whaddya call us? Non-mothers? — we need the support of the mothers, goddammit!

That’s right! We want the mothers to step up.

I know, I know, they’ve got a lot on their plate. But we need them. We need them to confirm the notion that the thankless, unpaid drudgery of nuclear motherhood is a product of the astonishing degree to which everyone hates women. We need them to affirm that the nuclear family system doesn’t work. We need them to cop to the fact that nuclear mothers are in an untenable position, often stuck between poverty and either some crap marriage or some crap job or, holy shit, both. We need them to affirm that, as an oppressed class, nothing they do is without political significance. And we especially need them — this one, ho boy, is the biggie — to quit defending nuclear motherhood, because when they defend nuclear motherhood, they are defending the primary method by which patriarchy replicates itself.

Of course we forget how much we’re asking of these women. Some of us are not, perhaps, as keenly sensitive as we might be to the extent of such women’s investment in patriarchy. This investment is often substantial — in many ways more so than that of non-mothers, and it is often invisible to them. So often they’ve married men, changed their names, totally immersed themselves in the nuclear motherhood identity. Of course they have; it’s been expected of them since the cradle. And of course it’s a lot more complicated than that; their husbands are abusive, or they suffer from depression, or they’ve got a special-needs kid, or they’re finally in a pretty good space at the moment and don’t want to rock the boat. Because of the bogus set-up, even the consciousness-raised feminist mother’s survival, and that of her kids, more or less depends on playing nice with the dominant culture. So what we’re asking is no less than a voluntary rejection — ideologically, if not practically — of pretty much their entire reality. Heavy-duty.

This might be a good time to remind the group of the official position of this blog: that neither women as a class nor individual women are to blame for their own oppression, or for implementing such survival strategies as they have found necessary.

So, blamin’ mothers out there, you go girls. We know it’s tough in the trenches.

As an aside, I would like to point out that there is no word in the English language meaning “woman who doesn’t engage in human reproduction” which does not involve the prefix “non-” (“non-mother”) or connote some negative medical condition (“barren”) or express the condition in terms of negative space (“childless”). Even the attempt to turn it into a positive — “child-free” — is clumsy and kind of smug, and defines the person in question in terms of another entity. I mean, there’s no antonym for “mother.” You can’t, because bias is built into the language, write an essay using the phrase “mothers and blorts alike enjoyed a pitcher of delicious margs on the Lido deck.”

I blame, it will come as no surprise, the patriarchy.

Speaking of “support,” another aside: You know, although coping strategies often pop up in the discussion, this blog isn’t really a support group, per se, in that its primary focus is on patriarchy-spotting rather than on survival tips. I sure wish somebody would write that blog, though, because everyone sure gets tired of me de-transparentizing their oppression without offering any handy solutions that don’t involve the word “revolution.” I’m such a goddam downer.

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* UPDATE: A communiqué from a long-time blamer reminds me that there is, in fact, a third “option.” She says, “There is the third, and for me most depressing, permutation of doing one paid job and paying another woman daily only slightly more than you pay for a meal – and in many cases considerably less than a meal – to raise your own kids.
These paid kid-raising women of course are most often doing 2 jobs themselves. The patriarchy has the slavery loop well sewn up.”

Father of the year

Blamer Sofia was kind enough to depress the crap out of me this morning by sending along this repellent bit of news from Saudi Arabia. The gist: Creep runs low on dough, marries off 8-year-old daughter to another creep (aged 58) for a consideration of $8000. Mother of 8-year-old petitions for divorce, but it’s a non-starter. Court says mother doesn’t have legal standing to initiate divorce proceedings for someone other than herself, so kid stays married. Girl can, court rules, petition on her own behalf when she reaches puberty.

So: a kid can be sold into marriage at 8, no prob, but 8 is too young to be liberated from sex slavery? And how, I’d like to know, will the court determine that she has pubesced? DNA from her first tampon? Her subscription to Teen People? Armpit inspection?

According to the article, the kid is still living with her mother and has no idea that she has been auctioned off like a pork belly. She has her loving father to thank for that great kindness. This sterling example of human magnanimity apparently persuaded his daughter’s middle-aged purchaser to agree, via a “verbal contract,” not to take formal possession, i.e. rape her, until she’s 18. Man, when she finds out about this, no doubt she will shower him with “World’s Best Dad” coffee mugs.

I can’t get behind marriage of any kind, but arranged marriages really add that extra little whiff of crapulence to the whole kaleidoscope of misogyny. If a kaleidoscope may be said to possess whiffs.

Spinster aunt’s fake internet name rejected by Australian authorities

While traipsing along on one of those absorbing jaunts through the comments section, a couple of articles about baby names came to my attention this morning. Blamer Orange thought this item about the Queensland government cracking down on goofy baby names isn’t particularly blamey, but I disagree. I’ll explain why in a second. Here’s the gist:

In Queensland AU there exists a government authority called the Queensland Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. It apparently has the power to dictate to adult humans in its jurisdiction whether or not they may sign their tax returns as “Sex Fruit” or “Fish” and “Chips.” In other words, the Registry can reject proposed names, whether it’s adults changing their old ones, or parents inflicting new ones on helpless babies, based on nothing, it appears, but a subjective sense of community orthodoxy.

I’m not saying such authorities are unique to Queensland, but they are unique to cultures of domination. Unless there are hierarchies to appease and permanent records to maintain, why give a crap about anybody’s name at all?

Human nomenclature, it turns out, is a rich tapestry of tradition, pop psychology, society’s crushing demands for conformity, parental control, and — that’s right — copyright infringement (just try to name your kid “Coca Cola” in Queensland).

Couriermail.com consulted child psychologist Paula Barrett, who concedes that “strange names” engender “social anxiety” in kids. A New Zealand nine-year-old, Talula Does The Hula, was traumatized by her jokey drag queen sobriquet to the extent that she appealed to higher authorities to change it.

I do not argue that slogging though life as Talula Does The Hula is a contumely devoutly to be wished. Au contraire. My views on this are twofold. One: in a world free of domination, nobody would be penalized for being known as Talula Does The Hula, but patriarchy requires that its communicants assimilate and accede to arbitrary standards of normalcy which are rooted in social control, thus making Talula Does The Hula an intolerable designation. Two: if, as in ours, a culture wherein names are of such importance to a person’s mental health — to the extent that “unusual or hard-to-spell names” can inflict “serious psychological damage” — the last people on earth who should be entrusted to confer them are a person’s biological parents.

Which brings me to the second article, which did not, as I had momentarily supposed, escape from the Onion. In this insane scenario, occurring in an obscure corner of the US called Holland Township, a family is upset that the local ShopRite supermarket has refused to inscribe a kid’s birthday cake with the name “Adolf Hitler Campbell.”

Adolf Hitler Campbell is a 3-year-old girl. Young Adolf has a sister named JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell.

Lehighvalleylive.com invites readers to weigh in on the topic. It isn’t long in the comments before one astute reader points out that the kid in the photo has a mullet.

Most readers side with ShopRite, although one straddles the fence, opining that the Campbells are “racist biggots” [sic] unless there was “some family heritage”; having an old Aunt Adolf Hitler presumably trumps racist bigotry. There is also some talk about “parents’ rights.” That parents have inalienable rights over their offspring, including the “right to share their beliefs with their children” is not questioned, yet there is consensus that the Campbells are abusive “backwoods hooligans.”

Which brings me to my underlying thesis: the way the system is set up, where kids are in thrall to adults and everybody thinks this is perfectly natural and dandy, it is practically impossible for children not to be abused, even by parents who never lay a hand on’em. Richard Dawkins, for example, has asserted that inflicting religion on children is abuse; he’ll get no argument from me.

One wonders what the Queensland authority would have done with the Campbells. As blamer speedbudget [correction: blamer Spiders] notes, Queensland put the kibosh on “Twisty Poi,” but naming your kid “Violence” is apparently A-OK with them.

Spinster aunt has aromatic neighbors

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When I’m not swatting adorable bluebirds out of my eyes or forcing deer to pose with garden implements, I’m partying with these bad boys. Mephitis mephitis striped skunk (short-striped version), Blanco County, TX, December 2008.

Will I ever blame the patriarchy again? Sure! In fact, at this very moment, brewing in the stinkpot down at Spinster HQ, is a post about the cold, clammy fist of antifeminism and how it’s socking it to my favorite rural pastime, which is horses.

Domestic horses, as you know, are the product of eons of patriarchy, and horse culture — by which I mean the human culture that focuses itself on horses — whether it’s racing, roping, jumping, dressage, driving, or any of the numerous other wacky equestrian subcultures, is possibly one of the most fucked up cultures there is. Which sorely chaps the Twisty hide, because dang it, horses are fucking cool.

But I will dissect the whole horse dealio at a later date; pressing spinster auntly business will force me to delay that gripping essay until I sober up. I am pleased to report that my ex-sidekick Stingray will saunter through the Rancho Deluxe gate tomorrow, fresh from her educational stint as a pump-over* artist in some Napa winery. It is likely that we will be flitting about the countryside, reveling and lounging in coffee shops, for a couple of weeks or so, and that blog posting may be even more erratic than usual.

In the interim, I leave you with this crappy skunk photo. Damn the cheap-ass camera in that iPhone. To hell.

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* I don’t know what a pump-over is, but apparently (a) they are gruelling, and therefore butch, and (b) you can’t make wine without doing them about eight-five times a day. Supposedly Stingray now has biceps the size of crocodiles.

Spinster aunt has red wheelbarrow

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I know you ladies can’t get enough of these photos of garden tools with deer cavorting in the background.

Spinster aunt likes deer

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Run, Bambi’s mom, run!

No deer were harmed in the making of this photograph. My dog Bert was chasing her, though. He does this all the time, but so far the only mammal he has successfully run to earth is a skunk, and needless to say the skunk had the advantage in that stand-off.

I awaken on Saturday mornings to the dulcet tones of gunshots echoing through the valley. It’s deer hunting season here in the Texas Hill Country. Manly men from Austin and San Antonio buy hunting leases in my hood. They get a gang of bloodthirsty pals together, outfit themselves in dudely camo drag from Cabela’s, ditch the missus, and infest the hills with their guns’n'ammo for the weekend.

The usual procedure, as I understand it, is for them to hide in small structures called deer blinds. They throw corn around in front of the deer blind. They swig bourbon from hip flasks and suppress homosexual yearnings until some hapless ungulate wanders by and starts eating the corn. Then they blow its fucking brains out.

Years ago, before it came into the Faster family, El Rancho Deluxe was used for hunting. “It’s almost certain,” said the ranch seller guy, “that LBJ once hunted here.” No doubt! That LBJ was pretty ubiquitous. According to people around here who tell you stuff, there is not a centimeter of Central Texas that was not personally trodden upon, owned, sold, lost in a poker game, or peed on by LBJ.

Anyway, on the oaky knoll behind my house lies a relic from those good old gun-totin’ times: an ancient deer blind. It’s got a hell of a view. I call it LBJ’s Vacation Lodge. Spinster aunts are typically expert archaeologists, so it was for me but the work of a moment to unearth the rusting remnants of the barbed wire death trap that used to surround this deer blind on 3 sides. The deer, one surmises, were lured in by the corn, trapped by the barbed wire, and murdered like gangsters. Boo-ya.

A guy I know who is in the process of leaving his wife of 20 years (he “loves” her, but she’s really let herself go, so sayonara fat old wife!) takes solace, in this troubled time, by absconding to the Hill Country to shoot deer on weekends. He offered me some venison. He has “more than he knows what to do with.”

I declined with curled lip. We went back and forth with the whole conservation argument, which basically says that hunting is good for deer because it keeps their population in check.

Oh, please. Hunting is good for hunters because it gives them something to shoot when they can’t shoot their fat old wives, and for corporations who sell guns and camouflage beer coozies, and for taxidermists. However, I happen to know that the deer don’t appreciate it one bit.

Through my trusty binoculars, I’ve gotten to know quite a few deer since moving out here. Because nobody at El Rancho Deluxe is psychotic enough to shoot at’em all weekend, the joint is more or less crammed to the canopy with refugees from the bloodbath. They’re pleasant, harmless little things who, take it from me, vastly prefer being deer to being more venison than some dude knows what to do with.

I’m no weepy sentimentalist — OK, yes I am, bite me — but bloodsport? Come the fuck on.