So I guess Stanford and Berkeley are duking it out on the gridiron again. Whoop-de-doo. A team with a 3-6 record is going up against a team with a 3-7 record and a bunch of twenty-somethings are gonna cry about it either way. Supporters of the winning team will probably say stuff like “it was the thrill of a lifetime.” You want real thrills? You really wanna make millennials cry? Make ‘em shoot a goddamn moose.
Everybody asks me how I could be so heartless and take an animal’s life for no reason. Well let me tell you, I’ve got a reason: the sheer fun of it. It’s not like I’m making these animals ram their heads against each other until their brains are so fried they can’t walk straight; I’m not a monster! I just want to watch nature’s peak physical condition sufferin’ on my behalf, like anybody else would.
That’s not even to mention the food. Your so-called “Big Game” brings you $15 nachos from a jar, maybe some wings that are half bone, and a 30-rack of Bud Light. And, well, the Bud Light is good, actually, but that’s not the point. My Big Game brings me a fresh-hunted chili, just like my dad used to make: simultaneously undercooking the beans and overcooking the meat I spent all day tryin’ to kill.
So enjoy your “Big Game.” But while you’re out there hot, sweaty, and wishing you could sit down, you could be with me instead: hot, sweaty, wishing you could sit down, and about to kill something.
Image by the Bureau of Land Management Oregon and Washington, Animal Database, and Wikipedia.