By David E. Petzal and Phil Bourjaily
There are two reasons I have a song in my heart and a spring in my step this morning. First, I don’t have to fly anywhere for 9 weeks. Second, on the way to work, I saw a non-functioning Bentley about to be lifted aboard a flat truck. A quarter of a million dollars worth of automobile broken down at the side of the road, with Fords and Toyotas zipping by. Wonderful.
But I digress. I have nothing against Pennsylvania hunters. I know a number of very capable ones, and we have three right here in the office who know what they’re doing. But for years, whenever I hunted in Wyoming, I’d hear stories about Pennsylvania hunters—guys who came out where the coyote howls and the wind blows free dressed in checkered red and black wool, carrying a .30/06 autoloader. And, of course, they couldn’t shoot worth a damn.
So I let it go at that. Pennsylvanians don’t do well in Wyoming. However, this past week, I was hunting in South Carolina, and heard exactly the same thing. One evening, as a dozen Secessionists and a couple of misplaced Yankees gathered around a fire to watch deer being weighed and skinned, one of the Confederates said:
“Y’all heah ‘bout the Pennsylvania hunter?”
And everyone smiled, because they knew what was coming.
Apparently, in this particular plantation, one hunter missed a record number of shots at deer, and another blew a dead-easy shot at the local LEGENDARY MONSTER BUCK who was standing in an open field, 60 yards away, broadside, looking at him. Both people were from Pennsylvania.
And what I want to know is, how far does this go? Are there Pennsylvania hunter stories in Kansas? Oregon? San Francisco? Well, no, not San Francisco. Is Hillary involved somehow? Is there a coverup? Who knows?