I think we all know from previous posts that I am not in any way, shape, or form a hunter. I got very lucky in the blog I'm referencing, but that luck was helped by a very skilled hunter and a very nice location.
I've also made mention before that my Sunday School class is full of the "hunter/gatherer" type.
|This is actually my Sunday School teacher.|
Suffice it to say, I often get text messages in the following form:
"Hey, do you guys want to go kill *animal currently in season*?
"CAN WE USE THE REALLY BIG GUNS?"
And then I send a text back that usually goes something like this.
"Guys can I borrow a gun/bullets/gear/courage and do I need a license?"
"YES TRAVIS GEEZ."
So when I got a text message a few days ago asking if I wanted to go wild hog hunting, I asked the above questions, made the requisite plans with The Missus, and went to purchase a hunting license.
Here's the message I got.
"They're mean, so if one comes at you, make sure you kill it."
So here's what I expected.
|Someone get me a basketball sized apple.|
Slavering fangs, sharp pointy tusks, blazing speed, and a Sharknado-esque abundance. Basically Pumba on steroids and acid, without Timon there to calm him down and remind him about the Hakuna Matata and all that.
Three of us went, armed to the teeth and ready to kill pigs. Yours truly, the gentleman who invited me who I will call The Facilitator, and a gentleman who I will call The Snake Whisperer, because he had a particular set of skills.
We all loaded up on an ATV and headed out into what I thought were going to be flat fields of grass easily traversed, and stopped at something like this.
|The tiger obviously was missing. Otherwise we'd be eating tiger meat and heading to prison.|
So we hacked our way into the Oklahoma jungle and got more spiderwebs in our faces than anyone should ever have to deal with.
I hate spiderwebs. I am no Gwen Stefani, and I have a mini panic attack every single time one touches my face. You see I think if a web has touched me, a spider is on me, ready to bite, kill, and feast on my moldering corpse, while my younger brothers tell stories about how I "never really should have been hunting."
I thought briefly about shooting the spiderwebs when I encountered them, but figured that would have been counterproductive to the moderate stealth we were achieving while hunting our quarry.
To make a long walk into a short story, I will tell you now we didn't see a dang thing, with the exception of snakes. This is where having The Snake Whisperer was a very good thing, because he would spot them, and then naturally, since we were a bit trigger happy, we would shoot them.
But to set up the last part of the story, I need to tell you me and The Snake Whisperer were dropped off in a clearing, and The Facilitator said he would drive the ATV through the brush from the other side, chasing anything in said clearing out into the open for us to shoot at.
Again, here is what I envisioned:
|You know, with slavering fangs.|
And this is what we saw:
|Like a Dixie Chicks song.|
But The Snake Whisperer said he heard the ATV stop, then start again, but it sounded like it was not going very fast.
And then The Facilitator came driving back to us, only he was driving in reverse.
Apparently the ATV had suffered a crippling injury. It was stuck in reverse. Naturally, this made for a rather strained driving experience for The Facilitator, and to make things worse we were about three miles away from the truck.
After some discussion and kicking of the gear shift, it was determined that we would ride back in reverse, and seating arrangements were worked out.
I was to sit in the driver's seat, while The Facilitator would climb on the front, face me, and use the steering mechanism backwards. Meanwhile, The Snake Whisperer would sit with his back to me and face the rear of the vehicle, which was now actually the front.
I really didn't think facing backwards would be that big of a deal.
I was wrong.
You see, The Facilitator was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Not a normal sleeveless shirt either. This shirt had extra large sleeve holes cut out of it, so a lot of skin was exposed.
I will now give you an example of the view I had.
|He was somewhat perturbed about the condition of his ATV, hence the frown. And yes that's a nipple.|
His nipple was RIGHT THERE.
I didn't know how to politely ask a man who invited you on a hunting trip and provided you with transportation which just broke to put his nipple up, and after staring at it for about a mile I realized any chance I had in the beginning was now gone, because of the intense concentration it was taking for him to pilot us safely backwards.
So this happened.
|My world was slowly reduced to this man's nipple.|
|It was RIGHT THERE guys. In my eyeball.|
There was really nothing wrong with the nipple. It was a fine specimen, peaking proudly in the cool breeze, the healthy pink hue offset by the pattern of the camo gun strap slung across his shoulder.
But I have what you might call a vivid imagination, so it wasn't very long before I saw this.
|The nipple spoke to me.|
You know what I just now realized? The nose is the nipple of the face.
Did that just blow your mind?
Anyway, the nipple was there, it had a face, and it was speaking to me. My entire world, the entire trip, had now been shrunken down to a talking nipple.
I was faced with a choice. I could shut my eyes tightly and suffer the motion sickness, or I could introduce myself to the man's nipple, talk to it, find out if it had kids, and provide you, the reader, with much more information about it, sort of a sneak "peak" into the life of a nipple. Just sort of let my imagination do some really weird things, and risk actually saying something out loud to the nipple that would guarantee a solitary walk back to the truck and surefire humiliation once the story got out that I talk to nipples. I had a choice to make, and I had to make it quickly before things got even worse.
|My view for the rest of the ride.|