Posted on 11/16/2005 1:42:33 PM PST by girlangler
Dinner With an Anti-Hunter
November 15, 2005
by Humberto Fontova
I’d just hung the deer by its neck on the swing set for skinning and butchering when..... "Oh Hum-BERTO! Puh-LEAZE!”
I look over and it’s our new neighbor Freddie, wailing from his patio door, his face a mask of horror and disgust. "Humberto! How COULD YOU? Why that’s AWFUL!”
Freddie moved here recently from San Francisco. People didn’t skin deer in their backyards there. Freddie used to open his back door, prance to the fence, and discuss the screen and stage with fellow wine sniffers. Now he opens his back door and finds an assassinated deer dangling with its tongue hanging out, some guy in blood-spattered camo slashing at it with a skinning knife, between swigs from a sixteen-ounce Bud encased in crumpled bag.
I looked over after a hearty swig. "How could?” I belched. "How could I? It’s easy, Fred.” I wiped my bloody finger on my pants, held it aloft and curled it. "You do this,” then made trigger-pulling motions. "See Fred? See you easy? Bet even you could do it Freddie my boy. You’re good with your fingers aren’t ya? Aren’t...?”
"Oh! You... you...YOU!” —SLAM!
Good riddance. Then the door opens again and my wife, Shirley, storms out. "Haven’t I told you to do that SOMEPLACE ELSE! My GOODNESS! Can’t you... OH WHY BOTHER!” —SLAM!
Shirley’s always having coffee with that dizzy little queen. They get along famously. He’s a designer of some kind, designs Mardi Gras floats in fact. Always happens that way: straight women and gay men get along. Straight men and gay women.... well--I've never seem much of it.
But I was in no mood for sociological reflection. I was still giddy from the ego-buzz of a successful hunt.
Five hours later--sure enough-- there's Freddie's distinctive knock. I open and he dangles a bottle of wine from hand. Freddie looks primed to rip into the braised backstrap of the deer he denounced me for assassinating. Shirley had--naturally--invited him over for dinner.
He peeked into the kitchen where I slaved over a hot range. "Ummmm!” He exclaimed with an eye- flutter. "Smells heavenly in here!”
I gulped deeply from my whiskey, wiped my mouth with my apron, and turned around. "You’re in for a treat Freddie, my boy.” I rasped as the whiskey seared my throat. "See here?” And I lifted the lid. Thumper jambalaya... nice, hunh?”
"Oh yes certainly looks wonderful. But I...”
"And here!” I banged the spoon on the pot bubbling in the rear. "Donald and Daffy Gumbo Ya-Ya.” I pointed towards the microwave. "Bambi’s in there, on the serving platter.”
"Great!” He smacked his lips and rolled his eyes dreamily. I can’t wait!”
I turned quickly, shuddering with revulsion. Shirley balks, but I insist we throw out any silverware he uses when he dines over.
"Monica!” Freddie called to my teen-aged daughter upstairs. "Dinner’s served. Hurry before it gets cold.” Monica was home from LSU for the holidays. They get along well. Freddie helped pick her prom dress, did her hair, suggested a restaurant—the whole bit.
"Like your meat warm, do ya Freddie?” I said while pouring a hefty glass from his Chateau- something- or-other.
"Sure,” he twinkled. "Doesn’t everyone?”
"Of course we do!” I said while raising the wineglass.
"Oh brother,” Shirley sighed. "He’s starting already... Monica! Hurry down honey. Show’s about to start.”
"We all like it warm, Freddie, because that’s what fresh meat tasted like before the discovery of fire. Warm, the temperature of the blood of a living mammal. That’s how our primeval ancestors ate it, Freddie, like all predators.”
"Oh Humberto PLEASE!” Shirley huffed. Not now. Can’t you....”
"Carnivores, especially those lovable cuddly wolves your California buddies get so giddy over, start ingesting prey while it’s still alive, Fred!” I gulped again, emptying the glass. They hamstring or disembowel the elk to bring it down. Then dig in while it’s still moaning and writhing in agony. Those big furry puppies daydream about that when Cindy Crawford, Darryl Hannah, and Kim Bassinger nuzzle with them for the cameras.”
"That’s awful.” Freddie sighed. "And must we really hear all this while...”
"Your cat, too, Freddie.” I snapped. The effects of the wine and whiskey were beginning to manifest. "He knows that his claws...”
"It’s a she, for your information,” he corrected.
"Okay, whatever. I watched her by the bird feeder the other day. She grabbed a squirrel, Freddie. Shoulda seen that! It was...”
"No!” He gasped. "Little Muffin would never—”
The hell she wouldn’t, Fred!” I raved. She knows her claws and fangs weren’t made for that mush you give her in a bowl. She craves fresh blood. She longs to feel her fangs sink into a squirrels throat, to hear the piteous squealing as he scratches and thrashes, to feel the life slowly ooze out of it—then to rip straight into it’s heart and liver, smacking her lips, and licking her bloody chops in delight.... and that’s exactly what she did, Freddie. I saw the whole thing. Geezuz, and I used to hate cats.”
"Humberto!” Shirley glared. "That’s enough! Come, now. Don’t spoil...”
"We’re no different, Freddie. Look in your mouth—never mind! Point is, you have incisors too. And your eyes point forward Freddie, like those of all predators. Behold the hawk or falcon. His eyes point forward, unlike the duck or pigeon, his prey. Their eyes lie on the side of their heads. Behold the wolf and leopard and indeed, Muffin. Forward again. The deer, antelope, and squirrel, also on the side of the head. Hunting’s encoded into your genes Freddie, give in! Hunting made us what we are!”
I emptied my second helping of wine then leaped from my chair towards the bookcase, just as Monica entered.
" OH NO!” She wailed while rolling her eyes ceiling-ward. " Not again, mom! He’s grabbing that STUPID book of his again!”
"Stupid book?” I wheeled around and shook the dog-eared copy of Jose Ortega y Gasset’s Meditations on Hunting. A work of genius!” I yelled. Ortega was the century’s most acute philosopher!”
"Yeah, right,” Monica huffed. "My philosophy professor says he was a reactionary.”
"Figures!" I howled while turning to Shirley. "See? See what we’re paying for?”
"She won a scholarship.” Shirley said in her best Alice Kramden. "Remember?”
"That’s not the point.” Then I turned to my multi-earinged (but mercifully, still untattooed) daughter..."Tell me Monica. What philosophers are they teaching you about up there? Rosie O’Donnell or Courtney Love?”
"Alanis Morissette, actually” she said smugly. We’re discussing her lyrics.”
"Heaven help us!” I shrieked, then opened the book and read: "Man’s being consisted first of being a hunter.” I looked up with a Jack Nicholson-type leer. "Hear that folks. That’s not some editorialist at the NRA or Ducks Unlimited. That’s the man who wrote Revolt of the Masses—I don’t suppose they’ve assigned that for Philosophy class, huh, Monica?”
"No, Da-ad” she said with another eye-roll. "But in English they assigned Maya Angelou’s....”
"Silence! Before I puke! Now back to Ortega: If we imagine our species to have disappeared in the Paleolithic era the word man” would lack meaning. We would have to call him hunter.”
Then I pointed a white-knuckle fist inches from Freddie’s face. "And you.” Then I looked around the room with a lunatic leer, pointing. "And you... and you. You’re all killers! Every time you buy a hamburger you’re paying for the death of an animal, you’re putting a contract, a hit if you will, on a poor stupid cow. YES! It’s called the law of supply and demand—don’t suppose they’re teaching you anything about THAT up in college, huh, Monica?
"No, Da-ad, but we learned about Marx and Bakunin and—”
"Figures!” I snarled. "Anyway folks, I make my own hits, like Mikey Corleone. Remember Michael Corleone, Freddie? Remember when he whacked Sollazo and Police Chief McCluskey in that restaurant, huh? BLAM! I slammed the table with my fist. Right through the neck! "
WHATCHIT, you CLOD!” Shirley screeched. "You’re spilling the—!”
"Ooops!”
"And watch the lamp behind you! And the coffee table! And there goes the red wine all over the Damn RUG!”
"Ooops! Here, I’ll get the towel, nothing to it. Well, same with this deer we’re eating, folks. Poor sucker was enjoying his meal just like McCluskey, contentedly munching away on acorns. He hears my whistle...looks up – BLAM!” I slammed my fist into my palm inches from Freddie’s nose. Right through her white throat patch. Never knew what hit him.”
"Mom, tell Dad to shut up! Please!”
"We’re ALL killers!” I turned back to Freddie. "It’s encoded into your genes Freddie! Be true to your human heritage. Stalk the fields and forests, not public toilets!”
"HUMBERTO!” Shirley yelled as Freddie tried to leap to his feet. STOP IT! You’re...!”
"Yes! Freddie!” I seized him roughly by the shoulders. "I’m going tomorrow. Come with me and prey on deer and ducks, not boy scouts and altar boys!”
"Oh! OH! Shirley!" Freddie shook free and looked towards her for succor, nearing tears. "He’s IMPOSSIBLE!! This man is so MEAN! He’s simply IMPOSSIBLE!”
"More wine!” I snarled while holding out my glass.
Get it yourself!” Monica glowered. "Mom? Don’t! You’re not his slave!”
"You!” I pointed at Monica. You stay outta this, before I backhand ya!”
"Aahh-Ahhh!” Monica went apeshit. "Mom, did you hear that? Heard Dad? Ms. Rabinowitz, my Sociology professor says I can sue you for abuse!”
The HELL with that DINGBAT!” I raved. Probably a DYKE too! Now get me some more WINE!”
"Aaah-Aaah! Dad, you’re such a… a… a… fascist!”
"Oh Monica, hush-up.” Shirley said. "You know he’s never laid a hand on you. He’s just showing off in front of Freddie.” Then she turned to me and yelled: "Humberto! You know Freddie doesn’t do those type of things! You apologize this minute! And after drinking all his wine. Now you apologize! I MEAN it!”
But Freddie had already run home in a teary huff.
Humberto Fontova
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Humberto Fontova is the author of Fidel; Hollywood's Favorite Tyrant, described as "absolutely devastating. An enlightening read you'll never forget." By David Limbaugh. "A remarkable book," says Newsmax' Phil Brennan. "An eye-opener. Fontova explodes myth after myth." Congressman Lincoln Diaz-Balart says, "Humberto Fontova has done a great service to all those who wish to discover the truth about the only totalitarian dictatorship in the Western Hemisphere." David Horowitz says: "Humberto has performed a valuable service to the cause of decency and human freedom. Every American should read this book."
So is he going to make some jerky?
I have to agree with Freddie. It IS horrible and disgusting to hang a deer by the neck like that.
Pierce the hind legs below the knee, and between the bone and heavy tendon; insert gambrel hooks, and hang head down to properly bleed. If you don't have gambel hooks, insert something along the lines of a 3 or 4' piece of closet rod, and tie the legs spread apart.
Slit skin on inside of rear legs; peel skin off toward neck, like peeling a banana.
UNBELIEVABLE L-0-L!!!!!!
I LOVED THAT!!!!!
Vegans also have serious vitamin deficiencies, especially IIRC B12, which are directly related to brain function. Such deficiencies have symptoms similar to early onset senility.
Yes, that makes sense. Those deficiencies also make vegans, in my personal experience, rather aggressive and militant. I'm serious. At one point in my work, dealing with people in long conversations over the phone for interviews, I got so I could pretty well nail the vegans because of their veiled aggressiveness. Makes sense ... dairy bulls and hippopatami are both very aggressive and deadly and kill many people every year, more than lions and tigers and other carnivores. Also ... Hitler was a vegetarian. Not sure if he was a vegan, but it is common historical knowledge that he was a vegetarian. What a peace loving guy HE was ... NOT! Definite brain imbalance there!
What a wonderful story!
I want more!
Sounds like practicing veganism during pregnancy could be considered child abuse.
All we need to create some serious mischief are a few peer reviewed studies and someone to introduce the legislation.
; )
Hey, don't get me started (ooops ... too late! ;^) You say it tongue in cheek, but as far as I'm concerned, it IS child abuse. I had a friend (we've not surprisingly grown apart over the years) who insisted on remaining a vegan while pregnant; her doctor dumped her and said he wouldn't be responsible. Found a new doc who said she'd have to add hydrogenated vegetable protein to her diet (horrible faux-meat chips that chew like old shoe leather and taste worse). She was weak and drained her entire pregnancy, and the baby was born very small and at a year old, was STILL not doing things other one-year-olds do, like holding eye contact, making facial recognition, pointing, laughing, seeking independence ... instead, this baby clung to her like a little monkey, and his eyes had the dullness of an infant's eyes.
I thought the kid was possibly retarded, but after a few years it was plain he was normal in intelligence, but physically he was very, very small, and prone to allergies. THEN, as he got older, his stupid vegan (but I repeat myself) mother, whose doctor had said that the baby MUST break the vegan diet and have dairy and eggs while very young, started cutting out the dairy and eggs and made his diet more and more strictly vegan. The last time I saw the kid he was maybe six or seven, and -- as ALWAYS, every time I ever saw him -- he had dark gray circles under his eyes.
Yes, it is child abuse, plain and simple, of the worst kind -- imposing your own adolescent political agenda on an innocent child. Make no mistake, veganism is a political agenda.
airborne,
Here's some reviews on some of his books.
girlangler
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
Rousing tales of danger and wild pig encounters , September 8, 2004
Reviewer: Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA) - See all my reviews
Take a hunting and fishing adventure story, set it in the wetlands of the Mississippi River mouth, and add two middle-age participants with a passion for hell-raising adventure and an ounce of sense and you have The Hellpig Hunt, a rowdy hunting trip into Louisiana territory which will have even the most seasoned hunter on the edge of his seat. Rousing tales of danger and wild pig encounters are anything but boaring and come from a maniacal hunter, fisherman, and author alike.
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8 of 11 people found the following review helpful:
Hellacious, December 17, 2003
Reviewer: Steve Sailer (Chicago) - See all my reviews
For anybody on your Christmas list who thinks golf is for wussies too housebroken to engage in bloodsport, there's Humberto Fontova's very funny The Hellpig Hunt: A Hunting Adventure in the Wild Wetlands at the Mouth of the Mississippi River by Middle-Aged Lunatics Who Refuse to Grow Up.
In case that title's insufficiently descriptive, here's Humberto's previous book's title: The Helldivers' Rodeo : A Deadly, Extreme, Scuba-Diving, Spear Fishing Adventure Amid the Offshore Oil-Platforms in the Murky Waters off the Gulf of Mexico. The Hellpig Hunt resembles what you'd get if Hunter S. Thompson went hunting with Bluto and the rest of the gang from Animal House. Plus, Humberto tosses in philosophical asides on the predatory nature of the human male from Camille Paglia, Edward O. Wilson, and the head philosopher of hunting, Jose Ortega Y Gasset of "Revolt of the Masses" fame.
A couple of years ago I tried to explain to Humberto the appeal of golf to guys like me: "You see, it's a like a suburbanized form of hunting. It's a battle against nature played out in an ideal landscape for hunting." My little dissertation appears to have been refracted back through Humberto's twisted brain on p. 138 of his tome:
"'Then why don't more men hunt?' you ask.
"'Lack of opportunity,' I answer. "They turn to golf for the same reason men turn to sodomy in prisons.'"
Gee, Humberto, thanks for phrasing my idea like that.
LOL! Good timing. I just sent DH over to a friend's with the 50 lbs. of venison I trimmed off the other day to be made into burger tonight. The rest was rump roasts and tenderloins (which we would never think of sharing with the likes of a "Freddie") and steaks and some sliced thin for jerky. The fat was boiled down for suet cakes for the birds this winter, the bones and entrails go back out into the woods for the coyotes. Waste not, want not!
I'll be eating a fresh venison burger with fried onions and mushrooms within the hour. *SLURP*
I'm sure we'll have another one by the weekend, as the regular hunting season opens at daybreak on Saturday morning. I can't wait for the lakes to freeze so I can catch me a mess o' Yellow Perch, too! Oh, the Humanity, LOL!
I think I may need some heart pills. ROTFLMAO!!
Amen, my brother! That's the way I was taught to skin a deer!
I love FreeRepublic!
No problem. I have his Castro book but I haven't read it yet.
You know, I am going to put THAT ONE in memory for future use. We supposedly have a few terabytes of memory we are too lazy to use. Some things should float to the top.
Like good buttermilk, the cream should rise to the top.
This writer is just too good, funny.
I want to read everything this guy writes. He's good aint he? Did you see the post above where a freeper posted some articles of his?
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