Northern Valley Beacon

Information, observations, and analysis from the James River valley on the Northern Plains----- E-Mail: Enter 'Beacon' in subject box. Send to: Minnekota@Referencedesk.org

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

 

Eating pussy

The open season on hunting mountain lions closed in the Black Hills today because the limit on killing fuckable females was reached. Er, ah, in wildlife biology parlance the term is breeding-age females.

The hunting season on mountain lions is based upon the testimony of some folks who claim they predate upon lambs, calves, children, and intelligent designers. Predate is a verb that does not relate to putting a date on a check that is earlier than the day on which it was written or having a trial date with a member of the opposite or same sex to see if they have present-date potential. It relates to one creature eating creatures it regards as prey. Few people are willing to admit that we have a mountain lion hunting season because some people get immense enjoyment out of blasting the ass off of big frigging felines.

I have no problem with paring the asses off of predators with buckshot or bullets. I was raised in farm country. When the chickens gave their restive cackles in the middle of the night, I experienced the drill of rushing outside, grabbing the 12-gauge off the rack in the bath house, and blasting some predatory raccoon or skunk through the chicken-coop wall, knowing that the wall would have to be replaced first thing in the morning. Or when the angry barking and squealing of sows came from the hog pasture (we kept hogs in fields in those days), I knew the drill of grabbing a rifle from the bath house rack to dispatch a fox or two that had dinner plans for piglets.

You ask, why were firearms kept in the bath house? And what the hell is a bath house? Well, back in those days we had utility sheds, not utility rooms. The utility shed had one room for the cream separator, one to store the woodstoves in during the summer, and one for doing laundry and bathing. The latter had a very efficient woodstove for heating up water for laundry and bathing. In the summer, the house was kept much cooler by doing those chores in the bathhouse. In the winter, it provided privacy during the weekly acts of cleansing one’s private parts, because the house did not have a bathroom.

The guns were racked in the bath house because they were regarded as agricultural implements, which need cleaning and to be kept in a clean environment. The bath house was the unit closest to the gate to the barnyard, so as one ran out of the house, one could grab a weapon with no time lost. I still recall that the smell of cleanliness that surrounded one while bathing was a mixture of grandma’s lye soap and gun powder. I think the fire arms were stored in the bath house, also, because grandma’s soap could take the skin off your ass as efficiently as a load of upland game shot. Too much time in the galvanized tub took a toll on the epidermis. Bath houses were set up to discourage the wasting of time and water. Not until my brothers and I hooked up a shower over the basement drain in our house in town did we luxuriate with deodorant soap and dreams of how our irresistible fragrance would subdue the world. Well, maybe a date or two. Predated or not.

When we did lead to the demise of a predator, we disposed of the remains by burying them in the garden or the orchard. I remember the strawberries where we had a mass burial for a whole bunch of ravenous raccoons as winning purple ribbons and gluttony awards throughout the county.

But that departs a bit from why people shoot mountain lions. That they are predators, no one can quarrel with. Mountain lions are carnivores. A cattle herd or a sheep flock is like a 7-11 convenience store to them. As one who likes veal and lamb, I cannot fault them for patronizing their local 7-11.

However, I wonder how many people who filled their mountain lion tags this year were out there defending their calves, their lambs, their piglets, or their children from a big ol’ nasty-assed kitty.

Another reason for hunting is trophies. I have seen few mountain lion heads mounted on trophy walls. Trophies are boring. Few people are impressed by how many dumb animals someone with the latest in optics and firepower can take out. I wish those hunters who claim to be a part of the balancing act in nature would aim at the f-wording face flies that invade my cabin every fall.

And the final justification for shooting mountain lions is food. Thank God, I have no fellow hunters who have called up and said, “I just put a mountain lion steak on the grill. Would you like to come over?” Most of my friends who shoot deer do not know how to cook the steaks into something edible. They make bridge girders out of them. If we could pave the interstates with their deer steaks, we could have a road surface that would last into the 22nd century.

Is there any circumstance under which I or anyone else in the semi-civilized world of South Dakota would eat a wild pussy?

That question is one for the linguistic professors like Noam Chomsky to take on.

May the big kitties who lost their lives this season rest in peace. I hope their spirits are not vengeful.

Comments:
Old professors never die. They just get raunchier and raunchier.
 
Bet that blog post title generated a lot of hits here...and the actual content probably surprised a few actually looking for "Eating Dear".

Of course, one might also stumble onto a newspaper with a story about George the minor mentioning the favorite topic he and Bush the elder discussed.

But not in the RC Journal. Bill Harlan thought that unsuitable for Mt. Blogmore.
 
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