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by RIP RENSE

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KERRY IS IN THE HUNT!
(Oct. 22, 2004)

"If it flies, I'll shoot it
If it runs on the ground
If it lives in the forest and it makes a weird sound
I'll kill all the bears and the lions and goose
With my telescopic site, you know I'm feelin' real loose
I'll kill all the ducks and the geese and the quail
Just for a weekend of fun out on the Wilderness Trail."_
---Country Joe McDonald


        Kill a goose and become president! Honk if you hate buckshot! Oh, murther most fowl. . .murther most fowl. . .
        How is it that in this country, killing animals is a "guy thing?" I think it's just a die thing. How is it that using fine precision weaponry to launch a metal projectile at superspeed into the innards of a dumbass defenseless bird is considered manly?
        "I'm a hunter," proclaims John Kerry, over and over. Translation: "Hey, middle-American NRA-member gun-owning defenseless-animal murderers, we're birds of a feather."
        Well, I say go flock yourselves.
        Native-Americans were hunters. They used stealth and skill, and had enormous respect for animals they offed, mostly with knives or arrows. What's more, they needed to hunt. No one needs to hunt any more.
        Well, I take that back. John Kerry does. He needs to get out there and gun down some winged migrators---some miracles of quill, bone and DNA-encoded behavior---in order to become president. Every candidate does, if they want to goose the NRA vote. It's either cook a goose you personally shot or your political goose is cooked. It's a rite of passage not all that much unlike like those Al-Qaeda guys who disemboweled dogs in order to prove they would make good little terrorists.
        Sing it with me now, "I believe I can fly. . ."
        Not if there are any bigshot candidates around, you can't.
        Just what kind of thrill do two fat guys like President Dick "Vice President" Cheney his buddy Chief Justice Antonio "Nino" Scalia get by hiding behind a duck blind in stupid military camoflague outfits, firing massive amounts of metal into the air when dozens of captive mallards are released overhead?
        Are they imagining that it's Maureen Dowd up there, quacking for her life, and Paul Krugman and John Daly? You know:
        "Heh heh, nice shot, Nino---ya bagged a major league asshole. Big time."
        Nah, nothing that sophisticated. They simply enjoy tapping into their inner werewolf and ripping into some warm animal flesh via high-tech machinery now and again. Lots of flabby guys who haven't had sex in decades do.
        I mean, I'll never forget watching the tube once in Northern California, late at night, half-viewing lovely panoramic shots of azure sky, open marshland, and waddling ducks who'd stopped to rest. Gee, I thought, a nice, bucolic nature program to put me to sleep! Then some of the ducks---noble avians with almost incandescent mauve and purple markings---took to the sky with a few pumps of their muscular wings. They soared hither, they soared yon. And then. . .
        "Waaaaaaaak! Waaaaaaak!" A fake-sounding duck call. Followed by whispering. Why, I wondered sleepily, are the ducks talking? Something about "They're coming this way."
        I was just dozing off when the ground opened up.
        Yes, the very ground turned into two moss and weed-covered doors that flung wide open---fwap! What was this, the gates of hell? For the ducks, yes.
        Two fat middle-aged guys in full camoflague stood up and began furiously pumping shotguns into the air, riddling the formerly lyrical horizon with more lead than was launched at the Red Baron. And poor Daffy and Donald and company, who had been lured by the sexy duck songs, hoping to find a female with which to do the rumpy-pumpy tango fandango, instead found. . .fat guys with guns.    
        They stopped in mid-flap, plummeting to earth like somebody had just turned the gravity back on.
        Waaaaaak. Waaaaaak.
        Kerry adviser Mike McCurry said the other day that it's important in the final days of the campaign that voters ``get a better sense of John Kerry, the guy.''
        He meant John Kerry, the goose killer. The fact that Kerry spent six months as a sitting duck on the rivers of Vietnam, where "swift boats" had a 90 percent casualty rate (!) doesn't sufficiently convey the man's "masculinity" to Middle Ameriguns. The fact that he is a fine father, and has responsibly held down the distinguished job of U.S. senator for over twenty years--- powder puff stuff. The fact that he opposes private ownership of such dazzling killing machines as assault weapons. . .
        Wimp city.
        So Kerry and the geese are backed into a corner, where they must play out their inevitable adversarial campaign roles to the death.
        All to mollify the birdbrains.

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