Family Day At The Turkey Shoot

Deer season is upon us in the flatlands, friends.

Yes, all across this American piece of tundra, hundreds of armed rednecks are scurrying through the woods in search of the quintessential twenty-point buck. And nearly every afternoon down at the watering hole, one camouflaged bastard or another is bragging about the fearsome animal he brought down with a .360 Weatherbee or medieval crossbow or whatever projectile weapon he sleeps with in the treestand. But before you Heartlanders set out with your rifles and beer cans on this fine morning, pay heed to the tragic tale told here and take careful aim.

’Twas the wee morning hours and “Big Ronnie” McKenna and his 33-year old son, “Little Ronnie” saw hoof prints in the backyard. Eager to find the source of this natural phenomenon and snuff its life out for venison burgers, father and child immediately set out to hunt down this fierce beast. Never mind the dad has poor vision from his diabetes, or had forgotten in his bourbon-soused amnesia that his only child was wandering around outside on the self-same quest to kill Bambi. Armed to the teeth with pump action and one eye closed, Big Ronnie heard a noise within earshot of the house. What could that noise be? I’m sure he wondered as he brought the scope to his bleary eye. Could that branch swinging in the morning breeze be a sign? Better shoot than be sorry about the missed shot, and with the glory of his American forefathers, Ronald III put Ronald II to the ground.

Now before I digress into the many possible endings of this sad story, just let me inform all of you judgmental pricks that I am no anti-gun activist, and have nothing but empathy for this poor old fool that accidentally murdered his son. I mean, what father out there hasn’t thought at one point or another about killing the little shit that ruined his life, locking him down in holy matrimony and costing him the better portion of every paycheck garnered after long hours on the assembly line? Guns serve a very distinct purpose, and if you’re not able to use them to rid us of those scoundrels and mouthy housewives, you might as well play Vietnam with your own kin. That said, the game goes on…

So here we are, standing over the fatally wounded Little Ronnie with Big Ron, and we must give pause. Such questions as What am I going to say to the cops? How am I going to break this to my wife? And where am I going to find somebody to mount his head on a wooden plaque? must cross the mind. But no time remained for an answer to form, because in the time in took for dad to drape his shirt over the recently deceased, the Big One kicked him in the chest and stopped his ticker dead. Massive heart attack, so says the coroner. That’s one hell of a guilt trip, so says your daily writer.

Here’s act 3 in this contemporary rendition of some Shakespearian tragedy. The wife of 37 long years, Marie, hears a solitary gunshot and wonders what sorts of trouble the boys are making. Wary of leaving the kitchen without permission, she peeks out the window to see the love of her life lying beside a shrouded corpse. Now in other parts of the world such as war-torn Iraq or the lush foodland of Ethiopia, perhaps this sight would be greeted with a bit more of that everyday shrug. But under the Stars and Stripes, a simple woman just isn’t equipped to deal with that sort of trauma. Thank the Good Lord above for support groups, Valium, and term life insurance

Take heed before you faithful killing machines pull the trigger, fellow rednecks, because not every trophy can be skinned, and some will cost you than a hot spent cartridge in the sand.