Adaptive Curmudgeon

Conditions the next day were wonderful. The weather was favorable and we saw glimpses of deer here and there; just enough to convince me we weren’t wasting our time.

Unfortunately, the outside world was relentlessly intruding. Dr. Mingo’s phone leapt from his pocket every few minutes to dump new atrocities from Facebook into his head.

“They’re rioting in Portland!” He fumed.

“That’s why I don’t live in Portland.” I reasoned.

A truth I’m only gradually understanding is that whiners faffing about for stupid reasons is not my problem. Moreover, thinking about it is not my responsibility. I don’t know why I ever thought it was?

I’ve nothing against Portland. Powell’s books, good beer & coffee… I hope the place thrives. But if they’re intent on screwing themselves, why should that rest on my shoulders? If I mess up with a chainsaw and drop an oak on my truck is that their problem?

Facebook (and other media) obfuscate the irrelevancy of recreational protests. Screaming fools don’t have the slightest influence on the chickadees in a spruce bow. Goods and services emanating from socialist asylums are increasingly irrelevant. Who cares about gay wedding cakes, bad music, inaccurate reporting, crime, and whining? Tangible components of civilization like spark plugs, power generation, food, diesel, beer, and bacon are more important. The hobbies of tattooed potheads fade compared what matters. Thus, I’m learning to avoid entertaining nitwit behavior as if it’s relevant.

Protests seem oddly masturbatory. Everyone protesting in Portland already voted for The Felon. Didn’t she win Oregon? Congratulations protesters, you successfully voted and registered your desires, that’s all you get in the real world. What’s left to get upset about? That they lost? Do they really want the violent overthrow of a lawfully elected president? If so, why are they protesting in their backyard? Why not a place Hillary lost? Texas perhaps? Until baristas and unemployed poets take effective action they’re just theatric nincompoops. Show some initiative. Get in their one operating vehicle and carpool to D.C.? But then they’d do what? Overthrow “the man”? Who’s “the man” and is that their end game? That’s the point; they don’t have the slightest clue what they want. They just prefer “protesting” to “adulting”. I get it: “adulting” sucks; going to work, paying taxes, changing the oil, fixing leaky pipes, raising kids, washing dishes… it’s hard

I berated Dr. Mingo; “put that goddamn phone away, it’s heroin with a battery.” It was no use. Dr. Mingo tried to ignore his phone but the infernal device rang; someone called with “have you seen what’s on the news?”

I heard about it from Mrs. Curmudgeon too. She reported mass crying among certain crowds. Really? I understand sorrow. Nobody likes to lose. But crying? I’d planned a shopping spree if Hillary won. It would be expensive and probably futile. It was my best guess as to what I’d need as we continued Venezuelan-izing the nation. Given the Hairball’s win I got to avoid the expense. Had it gone the other way I wouldn’t cry. Who cries?

I fought it off and returned to reality. The wind shifted and a squirrel rustled leaves in a way that sounded like a deer. The game was still afoot.

We hunted all day and accomplished nothing. “Nothing” isn’t a fair description. Hunting is such that you’ve absolutely failed at a major objective right up into the moment you succeed.

Eventually it was sunset. Dr. Mingo was in a tree several hundred yards away and I was in “the junk heap” (the rickety stand from which Dr. Mingo had spied a buck days ago). Maybe this year would be a wash. Last year I didn’t connect either; 2015 was ruined by “The Patchouli Incident”. My fault! No excuses! I suck.

I sighed, two years without a deer in the freezer? The sun was down; still light to see but time was short.

Holy shit! A nice buck materialized in the brush. Don’t see them often. Mingo definitely made a clean miss. This was obviously “his” buck.

My pulse doubled and I felt the adrenaline surge all hunters know.

I like to wait. Wait as long as I can. Take all the time in the world to aim. Savor the last minute of the hunt. (Sometimes this bites me on the ass!)

“Mingo, is gonna’ be crushed.” I thought.

A friend, a good friend, a really extremely amazingly awesome friend… would let this buck walk in the hopes Mingo would get the shot he craved. Jesus man, was I really thinking that?!?

There was a doe deeper in the brush. No chance at the doe.

The light was fading fast. I dialed down the power on my scope and it was plenty bright enough. I love my scope! I had slightly lighter bullet weight than usual and the buck was heavier than my usual does. Bullet placement is everything, time to put up or shut up.

I flipped off the safety. Took a breath. There was no more time to wait for the doe. Sorry Mingo, the freezer calls. Better drop the buck hard, the moon wouldn’t be up tonight and it would be a bitch to track.

Breathe out. Forget everything else. Squeeze.

The shot was true. I knew it as soon as the hammer fell. I watched carefully because there was no snow for tracking. The doe, much larger than I thought, tore off in my peripheral vision. Maybe Mingo would get her.

I needn’t worry about the lighter bullet. I’d connected well. The buck bounded straight up and came crashing down on his nose, but it quickly struggled to his feet.

I don’t like tracking. I cycled the bolt and aimed again. The buck bunny hopped twice more; I’ve rarely seen that kind of behavior. I must have hit something vital. I could put a round in his hind quarter; good target. But I waited. No need to panic and waste meat. He veered toward a nearby spruce and I got a glimpse of rear leg. I tried to take out the bony part. (A deer isn’t down until it’s really down.) The buck didn’t notice my last shot and disappeared from view.

I found him right behind that tree. I’d taken out a front leg, both lungs, and possibly the heart itself. (Hard to tell about that.) Bullet placement rules! There was a hole in one rear leg. No wasted meat but it probably didn’t matter much either.

Mingo heard my shot just as three does walked into view. One large and two small. All were legal. He was against a tree and couldn’t twist around enough to get a view of the large one. He drew a bead on a small one. New scope, easy close shot.

He hesitated. Too small. He had a few more days left to hunt. No rush. He waited until end of shooting hours and the large doe never presented a shot. All three wandered off.

By then I’d texted:

“I’VE GOT GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS.”

He waited for the next text…

“GOOD NEWS IS THAT I VERIFIED YOU MADE A CLEAN MISS OF THAT BUCK. BAD NEWS (FOR YOU) IS THAT I DIDN’T. SORRY.” (I wasn’t sorry.)

Life is like that. Mingo had his chance but I got the buck. He could have blocked the highway angrily demanding a recount, but that’s not what men do. Instead he grumbled most of the next day (which is what men do) before eventually admitting everything worked out as it should. He also helped me bring out the buck. I appreciated the help.

We hunted a few more days but weren’t overly motivated once the freezer was full. We got distracted fixing a broken garage door. As hunting seasons go… it was a good one.

A.C.

P.S. Dr. Mingo wanted to point out he didn’t lift a damn finger while I was dressing it (and smiled and drank my beer while I was asses and elbows deep in blood and guts) because it wasn’t his buck.

Eighteen minutes into the day and the plan had gone to shit! Rather than blissful unawareness of election results I knew The Hairball had prevailed. The news (despite being unwanted knowledge) made me buoyant. The same feeling you get when the Doctor says “that thing is normal, walk it off” instead of “the results came back and you died in 2008”.

I still wanted to avoid politics. The ugly wasn’t over. When the left side loses an election they fling shit until just before Christmas. (You can set a clock by it.) I presumed lawsuits (lawfare?) were in the works… or riots. It depends on whether their hated opponent (who is invariably called racist and compared to Hitler) won beyond the “ratio of cheat”. Useful idiots would get to work soon. Probably beginning with mass pants-shitting hysterics on Facebook and likely riot(s) in a place that votes to the left of Lenin (always riot in a friendly place?). They would continue until it gets cold or some fuckwit kills a cop or two. (Horrific prediction, if I’m wrong about ensuing deaths you may chastise me. Remember this, predicting the future is not the same as endorsing the madness. I don’t like riots!) I also dislike articles about the electoral college written by “journalists” who can’t do fractions. It’s like hearing a goldfish discuss thermodynamics. (If they were smart they’d just call up their bitch sessions from Bush/Gore 2000 and repost them.)

It was damaging my calm. I tried to shrug it off. All I wanted was to sit under a tree and watch chickadees but I couldn’t chill out.

Meanwhile Dr. Mingo was having a crisis. He had seen a nice buck, taken the shot, and…

I hesitate to say the word “missed”. In his mind, it was more like “failed myself and my family and my world and everything I stand for… thus dooming myself to an eternity of dishonor.” Doctor Mingo is a good shot and has high expectations of himself when it comes to shooting.  He spent a few years in the Marine Corps.  You get the picture.

He was blaming himself for having improperly managed his scope. Overnight his brain had downloaded guilt trips from sixty scolding Jewish grandmothers and mixed it with conditioning planted there by drill instructors. He looked pale. He was muttering to himself; “Where’s the point of aim? What happens if I see a deer?”

Time to resolve this. We abandoned our post and headed towards town.

This is where I have to explain something about living in certain rural areas; civilization has already started collapsing. Forget all about your survivalist, post-EMP, zombieland fiction. It’s a spectrum and my neighborhood is inching down the slope.

Dr. Mingo was confident that we could wander into any one of a dozen stores, choose from an endless variety of scopes, have it professionally installed, sight the rifle in at a clean and orderly shooting range, and get back into the forest. This is entirely doable in an advanced, industrialized, free-market, society. For example, in this very town a generation ago. Now, civilization is delivered via FedEx or not at all. It’s amazing the electricity stays on.

A 50-mile trip got us to the only place we’d have a chance; a store I’ll call Goose Hill.

I’ll say this for Goose Hill… it exists. Which is more than you can say about nearly anything else. There is no competition from megastores like Cable-lass, Sportsman’s Storage Facility, or any other chain. Nor is there much local competition from mom and pop gunshops. My favorite one closed a few years back. When I need something I usually resort to Amazon (and wait for FedEx), organize a road trip, or go without.

Goose Hill is for when you’re desperate. (Which we were.) That’s because the staff encompasses the speed of the DMV with the high end intellectual horsepower of watching a stoner drool. Plus, the selection is sparse enough to make a Soviet Central Planner cackle with glee.

[Editor’s note: Two weeks ago Goose Hill was sold out of 150 grain in my desired caliber. I have plenty of 150 grain but stocked up on 130 grain (might as well buy ammo before the election). I sighted in at the lighter bullet and reasoned that good bullet placement with a 130 was fine. Now they had 150 grain on the shelf. Dammit! Alas, the die was cast. I wasn’t about to re-jigger my scope in mid-season. It was bad enough that Mingo had to do it.]

The store was deserted. Just Mingo and a nice lady who’d already bagged a buck. (We hung our heads in shame hearing that.) She’d ordered a cute pink .22 many weeks ago. She was haranguing the sole gun counter guy to get the scope she’d ordered many weeks ago. Turns out it had arrived many weeks ago but gotten lost somewhere in the back room many weeks ago. He installed the scope at the speed of sloth. Friendly but slow. S.L.O.W.

The .22 was a Christmas gift. She was fretting in November over a rifle ordered in October to make sure it was done by Christmas. That’s all you need to know.

Time stopped. Continents drifted. I could feel them moving… faster than the gun counter dude.

Two fellows came in to look at guns. They looked around, assessed the situation, and bailed. Dr. Mingo was aghast that folks simply accepted terrible service. I shrugged, what are you supposed to do? In three instances I’d seen more or less what I wanted at this very store and got so frustrated that I left without buying. (There’s a store a couple hours’ drive away that’s excellent. I consider a 200 mile drive better than dealing with the sloths here.)

Another customer came in. He wanted an AR15. There were two or three to choose from. Two guys who had been doing God know’s what(!?!) in the back room charged out to make the sale.

Meanwhile slothman was examining Mingo’s scope… slowly. The scope was bent. (No shit!) Mingo suspected. I agreed. A new scope was selected… time slowed further. Apparently finding scope rings is difficult and takes the better part of an hour.

The AR15 customer didn’t like the front sight on the only reasonable AR. Mingo pointed out he could pull a pin and remove it; replace it with a fold down sight. The guy said, and this is a quote:

“Nah, I’ll probably just mill it off.”

Mingo shuddered. Use a mill instead of swap a part?

The shopper wandered off. The salesdrones vanished.

I sidled up. “You know how that guy said ‘mill it off’?”

Mingo nodded, still horrified.

“Look at that guy, you think he actually owns a mill?”

Mingo frowned. There’s more chance a houseplant has a mill than that guy.

“He means,” I paused for effect, “hacksaw.”

Mingo nearly had organ failure. Take a hacksaw to a perfectly good AR? Horror!

“These rings will fit. I can mount it. Free of charge.” Slothman showed signs of life.

Mingo agreed, I shrugged and the guy spent 10 minutes finding his screwdrivers. It took over an hour. Then he disappeared in the back to “boresight” it. To the sloth, boresight means “it’ll hit something in the same latitude… maybe”. Mingo or I expected “on the paper at 50 yards”. How silly of us.

Of course no ranges were open. Mingo couldn’t believe it. We compromised with a targed in my yard. (Probably scaring every deer for miles.) True to his marksmanship, Mingo dialed in quick.

Thankfully before sunset he was on post waiting for that buck.

Mingo was itching to redeem himself. The deer didn’t get the memo.

When the day was over, we celebrated Hillary’s defeat (or Trump’s victory?) by downing half a bottle of whiskey and watching Tucker and Dale versus Evil.

A.C.

P.S. Video of the gun counter guy is below:

No plan survives contact with the enemy. Field Marshall Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke

We had a plan. It began as intended: Mingo and I unplugged from the media (which had gone full retard for Hillary), Dr. Mingo (and his banjo) had bugged out to my hunting area, we had a wonderful day of nature and hunting on election day, and only peeked out of the foxhole long enough for me to vote. (Mingo kept me out of the bar after voting… well done sir!)

The plan was necessary. I needed to avoid media poisoning. The press is usually wrong but this has been an exceptionally reality free period. The media is an illiterate, innumerate, narcissistic, egotistic, otherwise unemployable stampeding herd of clueless Marxist lemmings. I hate their preening bloviations as they frame self-serving bullshit as the infallible word of God as reported from Gaia directly into their MacBook. I hate their imaginary glorious future of unicorn/rainbow joy in which I’m meant to be forever imprisoned (for my own good). If this election was to be a statist shitstorm I could hold back on the experience a few days. Anyone who must live in a rebooted America shoehorned into some egghead’s Utopian wet dream deserves a week hunting first. Why leap quickly onto the glide path which starts with an idea and declines until there are knife fights in the breadlines?

See what I mean? Who writes a paragraph like what I just typed? Someone who’s been kicked in the nuts too often; that’s who! All I wanted was to sit under a tree and enjoy the fact that I’m not in a re-education camp… yet. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

Unfortunately, the plan broke down.

As is appropriate during hunting season, I got up ridiculously early. Mornings suck.

Mingo grabbed a cup of coffee and was thinking about yesterday’s miss; he intended to assemble a crucifix and nail himself to it. (Missing the shot had bored into his brain. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it to lunch.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon was between me and the coffee maker. She was beaming. She knew how the election had played out. She was going to tell someone or explode.

“I have to hand it to you Curmudgeon, you were right when you said…”

“I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!” Mingo shouted as he fled from the room.

“Today is a politics free day.” I mumbled as I tried to pour coffee. (I spilled some on the dog.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon was practically vibrating with excitement, “I won’t tell you who won, only that Mexico…”

“I NEED TO GET INTO THE FOREST!” I shouted. It was still too early but I stumbled towards my hunting jacket trying to escape. I careened into Dr. Mingo (who was wandering around in circles), tripped over the dog, and reached for the door…

“I couldn’t believe it when he gave his acceptance speech!” Mrs. Curmudgeon beamed.

“He?” Dr. Mingo growled.

“I didn’t tell you who…” Mrs. Curmudgeon stammered.

“Pronoun.” I sighed. The plan had failed.

“Oh my God! You totally can’t keep a secret!” Dr. Mingo moaned.

I glanced at the clock. I had been awake 18 minutes. The secret of who won the election had lasted 18 minutes. I collapsed on the couch.

“So, the harpy didn’t win.” I muttered.

I wasn’t shocked so much as relieved. All along I’d thought Cheeto Jesus might beat The Felon but it was a lonely opinion. The vast difference between what I perceived in reality and what I had heard from the press had been dragging me down. Lies and propaganda take their toll. Hillary’s loss meant the press was just as wrong as I’d surmised. Reality had won in the end. A weight lifted from my shoulders.

“That’s a relief. All we need to do now is wait through the inevitable lawsuits.” I mused.

“I don’t think there will be lawsuits this time. He won well enough that…” Mrs. Curmudgeon was just itching to talk about it.

“I DON’T WANT DETAILS!” Dr. Mingo fled.

“I’d better get out there. Deer could be moving.” I chased after Dr. Mingo.

I should explain something about my last post. You know how I said “the deer won’t move in this wind”? Well they did. You know how I said “you won’t see a buck”? Well, Dr. Mingo saw a buck. You know how I said “Dr. Mingo never misses”?

Things happened…

It was one of those days. The same day the press insisted Hillary Clinton would complete her assured, inevitable, unquestioned, “on the correct side of history” march to victory. Deer don’t move in the wind and flyover country voters don’t matter. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about that. The point of hunting was to think about anything but the election.

I caught up with Dr. Mingo half an hour after he fired two shots. He had a puzzled look on his face. Actually, it was not “puzzled” so much as “anguished”. He had the thousand-yard stare of a man who is seen the impossible and who cannot wrap his head around that which should not be. There was no doe piled up in the grass. There was no buck piled up in the grass. There was no blood. He was shocked, stunned, flabbergasted…

He was wandering in concentric circles muttering; desperate to see the tiniest hint of blood. A single drop would indicate the unthinkable had not occurred. I questioned him at length about the behavior of the animal before and after both shots. The story, which I pieced together from Dr. Mingo’s tortured apologies and sentence fragments, was that a buck emerged from the forest precisely where was predicted to be and it was just as magnificent as I told him not to expect. When Dr. Mingo (a marksman far superior to me) took the shot, the buck merely looked around; as if wondering where the sound had come from. No interrupted gait. No bunny hop. No terrified headlong charge. No indication whatsoever of a connected shot. After the first shot, Mingo cycled his action, drew a careful bead, and took a relaxed shot. It also had no effect whatsoever. The buck simply turned around and stepped into the forest; unhurried, relaxed, and leaving behind an absolutely infuriated Dr. Mingo.

I was odd that he would miss at that distance. However the buck’s behavior indicated a clean miss. The absence of blood indicated a clean miss. I recalled Dr. Mingo had been fussing with his scope earlier in the day. Was there a wounded buck out there or had Dr. Mingo, who never misses, just plain blown it? I made a judgment call; “You missed. It was a clean miss. Life sucks. We’re done for now.”

Meanwhile Dr. Mingo was thrashing through the brush. He was looking for a trace of blood which wasn’t going to be found. He was also trying to wrap his head around missing the best shot he was ever likely to see. I assisted until it was pitch dark and then dragged the poor man out of the forest.

As we hiked out Dr. Mingo was wracked with guilt and uncertainty. “I never miss…” He muttered.

“You missed. Suck it up Buttercup.” I offered, exhibiting the kindness and support for which I am famous.

“No! I never miss!” He argued.

“Everyone misses.”

He was disconsolate. I understood his frustration. I also refrained from mocking him because I didn’t want to end up beaten to death.

“Maybe I’ll get another chance?” He was looking for a silver lining to this terrible event.

I was no help whatsoever, “it walked toward my neighbor’s property and it was dumb enough to let you get a shot. My neighbor will get it at dawn tomorrow.” I was sure of this. Each hunting area has it’s own “personality”. In this particular spot you must take the chance when it comes. You’ll almost never get the chance again. Not all places are so unforgiving but this location has very few do-overs (or bucks).

As we hiked past a stack of lumber I practically had to drag Dr. Mingo away from it. He was so wracked with guilt that he was about to build a crucifix and nail himself to it.

“This is awful!” He moaned.

“Speaking of awful, I have to vote. Get in the truck.”

Thus two deplorables, dressed in blaze orange, driving a vehicle the EPA would love to outlaw, and toting guns to which we apparently “cling” arrived at my rural voting station. Dr. Mingo had already voted by mail. [Note: Mingo wished to clarify this and I did so in the comments.] I like voting “old school”. The idea of 300 million Americans all getting off their fat asses and doing anything at all en masse is a good thing. [Also I think electoral college electors should don a tri-cornered hat and ride a horse all the way to DC to do their duty. I wanna’ see some goddamn commitment!]

Additionally, sweet little old ladies operate my voting station. (It’s always run by elderly ladies… they’re apparently unaware of the misogynist system that’s stacked against Hillary). Grandma types always have cookies. How awesome is that? When I vote I get a homemade cookie. (You must take the cookie. If you don’t they might chase you down and cram it in your mouth!)

Dr. Mingo fell into an animated conversation with several men standing around the sidewalk. First there was a brief support group moment about the unmitigated tragedy of a missed shot at a good buck. Then they broached subjects which make pussies run for their safe space. I heard words like “freedom”, “Constitution”, and “that bitch”. Meanwhile I filled out my ballot. Nearly everything local was “unopposed”. Twenty one of 28 choices were “unopposed” for boring stuff like “school board” and probably “dude who drives the snowplow”. It was refreshing to think of politics involving jobs and people actually doing them.

I fed my paper ballot into the magic counting machine it was locked in a box, and Diebold machines nationwide groaned with displeasure at the paper trail. The counter incremented by one. In 2012, I was roughly voter number 200. This time over 500 people had voted. The masses were pissed!

On the sidewalk Dr. Mingo and others were still using scary non-PC words like “federal debt” and “those assholes”. I had an “I voted” sticker in one hand and a cookie in the other.

Then Dr. Mingo slapped his neck. “Holy shit! Is that a tick?” Everyone knows ticks don’t last beyond the first freeze. There’s no way in hell a tick could be alive in November! But there it was, Dr. Mingo had captured a tick.

The Cubs don’t win, deer don’t move in wind, ticks don’t last beyond the freeze, and Hillary was up 5 points in every poll. I thought about counting campaign signs during road trips and the doubled number of votes this year.

Mingo threw the tick down and stomped on it. I was walking towards the bar. Every rural town has a bar. A rural town lacking a bar is officially a ghost town.

“Where are you going?!?” Dr. Mingo demanded.

“I voted for Trump. I need a drink!” It had been necessary. I had done what must be done. When Hillary’s reign of terror peaks with self-immolation due to her flawed character I would watch it all fall down like a Greek Tragedy and know… I had voted against the bitch. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to vote for Trump. I needed as many shots of tequila as the cash in my wallet would buy. That would burn my soul clean again.

“Oh no you don’t!” Mingo steered me back towards the truck. “The bar will have election coverage on the TV. Each time a state goes blue it’s going to be more depressing.”

“That’s why need a drink!”

“I know you. You’ll be doing a shot every time state turns blue. New England alone will kill your liver. By 3 AM you’ll need a stretcher.” He reasoned, “That’s why we’ve got the plan. You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. Shit will suck in the future, don’t make it come any faster. Get in the truck!”

Dr. Mingo was wise. If I was sitting on a bar stool during a Hillary sweep, the hangover would last till Christmas.

(More to follow…)

[Editors note: previous posts in this series were titled “I’m Back”. Lame! I went back and re-titled them.]

Dr. Mingo arrived, banjo and all, via the ritual torture called commercial airline travel. I was the extraction team. I swooped into the busy urban terminal driving a filthy truck and wearing a battered hat that said “Death Wish” (link). I savored disapproving glances from the other travelers. Dr. Mingo was waiting and I hailed him by shouting “did you bring the banjo?” More glances. Within seconds we were back on the road. We’re both probably on a banjo related TSA watchlist.

We rocketed through the multi-hour drive to my hinterland outpost but arrived late. I’d been on the road all week and didn’t even unpack my luggage. Mingo had been working overtime right until he stepped on the plane. We were both beat. Someday I’ll start a vacation rested… maybe next year.

There was scarcely time for a few hours’ sleep before the alarm clock went off. I hate alarm clocks. I hate mornings. I hate alarm clocks in the morning. Dr. Mingo is a morning person and was chipper. Mutant! I grumbled angrily as I marched at zero dark thirty into the forest.

While I fumed about the hour, Dr. Mingo had his own concerns. Somewhere along the way his scope got jostled. He fretted over this while I offered encouragement; “ain’t my problem, good luck”. The scope looked fine to me. It wasn’t loose at all. He was overreacting. Plus, what the hell are ya’ gonna do an hour before dawn?

I left him sitting under a tree, in the dark, in a place he didn’t recognize, along an unmarked path. Mighty trusting. Maybe I’d left him near a deer trail. Maybe I’d left him in a minefield. Luckily, I’m a good host and had parked him in the best spot I could identify. I settled in several hundred yards away and promptly fell asleep. The deer showed more common sense than us and slept in.

Hours later the sun came up and that brings you back to the part of the story I posted a few days ago. (Telling a story in simple chronological order eludes me.)

As we drove to town I did NOT turn on the radio. I didn’t get any news from the waitress. I avoided anyone that looked talkative. I was not about to get sucked into the election day vituperation.

Back in the woods the weather was sunny but cold. The wind wasn’t doing us any favors either. Several times I suggested that we “pansy out” because I figured the deer weren’t moving. Dr. Mingo is made of sterner stuff and talked me into holding tight all day.

Once I glanced over and saw him fiddling with his cell phone. Consorting with the enemy! “Are you checking the news!?!” I demanded. (Freebasing news media was not part of the plan!) I snatched the infernal device from his hands. It wasn’t Fox or CNN or Facebook… it was an image of some woman’s rack defying gravity in a camouflage bikini. My brain melted. “Oh! Very well, carry on.” I handed the phone back. After several hours of staring at trees while Dr. Mingo happily browsed through all sorts of wonderful images I began to crack… maybe I need a better phone. I snoozed again; dreaming of women in camouflage bikinis.

There was a little woodland activity but no deer. Just the usual; monster woodpeckers, irrationally pleasant songbirds, chipmunks that sound exactly like a walking deer, and squirrels that may be lesbian and possibly wielding mind control technologies.

Shortly before sunset we shifted positions. Magnanimously, I offered Dr. Mingo could take over a ratty, home built, deer stand that I affectionately call “the junk heap”. The “junk heap” is decrepit, rotten, and loaded with nails that exist only to draw blood but it’s ideally located. It’s my place of highest success. In particular, it’s best at sunset (it’s only marginal at sunrise).

Since Dr. Mingo hadn’t hunted in this area I kindly offered some local advice before he ascended the rickety mess. “You’ve got an either sex tag and my freezers aren’t as full as I like. Also, everyone in the county (myself included) takes a hell of a toll on the bucks. This isn’t a good place to find a trophy. If you see a doe take the shot. If you see a spike horn take the shot. If it has fur and it’s bigger than a Greyhound take the shot. Don’t hold out for a buck because you’re not going to see one.”

Secretly I didn’t expect to see anything given the gusty wind.

There are many different kinds of hunters. Some like adventure, some seek trophies, I’m in it for the meat. Bucks are impressive but you can’t eat antlers. A nice fat doe in the freezer is all I need. I felt sorry for Dr. Mingo. He had visions of a trophy buck and they just don’t happen around here.

I took over a tree stand some distance away. This spot is an experiment. Weeks ago, in a fit of optimism, I’d bought the stand and worked myself to the bone hoisting it into an oak. It seemed rock solid when I installed it but felt like a rickety deathtrap in the wind. From a hunting point of view it was perfect. From a “not falling on your head” point of view it sucked. Swaying like a pendulum didn’t help my concentration and I botched the stifling process of putting on the safety harness. If I fell, I’d be strangled. My corpse would wind up upside down. At least someone else would have to tear down the temporary stand. I pined for the “junk heap”.

Nothing happened for hours. The wind continued and I alternated between wondering if I’d freeze my balls off or I’d fall out of the stand. Around sunset I texted Dr. Mingo. “FUCK THIS. NO DEER WILL MOVE IN THIS WIND. LET’S BAIL.”

There was no answer. Even the squirrels and songbirds had sought shelter from the wind. The forest was dead. “He’s probably leering at hunter babes” I thought jealously. After five minutes with no response I reached for my phone and…

BAM!

Huh? No shit.

BAM!

I stand corrected. Surely Dr. Mingo had just clocked a fat doe. I know the guy. He doesn’t miss. The first shot put it down. The second was just insurance. Both Dr. Mingo and I take immense care when shooting. I’ve missed twice in the last 15 years. He’s a better shot than me.

I sat tight but saw nothing. The sun set and soon shooting hours were over. Dr. Mingo had connected while I’d seen squat. The deer (or at least a deer) had moved in this wind. I was super wrong.

(More in my next post.)

I’m telling this story backwards. I started with the day of the election… its dénouement. That’s not the start of the story. What you did on election day is your business but I planned for not only election day but several days before and after.

As The Felon and The Hairball lurched towards the finish line (and the press lost its shit), I withdrew. The last few days I counted campaign signs and celebrated the Cubs. Then I slipped out the metaphorical back door to go hunting.

My last post outlined how election day began; a clear crisp dawn of leaning against a tree listening to squirrels running through the leaves. One could do worse.

It was according to the plan. (And Dr. Mingo’s plan too.) I’d erected a mental wall between myself and the coming tsunami of bullshit masquerading as news. Should the nation elect The Felon this might be the last moment of peace. After a year (a lifetime!) of having propaganda shoved up my ass I needed one full week of peace.

This might be the last chance for several years. If it happened, who knew when the scandals would end? Weeks? Months? Years? Would The Felon survive in office four years? Eight? I doubted it. I thought the Hairball had a shot but nobody else did. I partitioned that tiny hope to a corner of my mind and girded my loins for the endless flow of scandal and misinformation that always drips from The Felon.

If you vote for a candidate with a demonstrated history of dishonesty, cheating, “lost” documents, inflated bank accounts, and secret deals that’s what you’ll get. Would it end after the first pardon? Or would it require several pardons? Would there be a pardon for Weiner? What freak would pardon a pedophile?

What if it was a close race? More hanging chads? Partisan hacks divining “voter intent” from dimples in paper?

What would happen when Hillary’s next crime emerged? (There is always another crime with Hillary. Her turtles go all the way down.) What was left? What rule hadn’t yet been broken? Convenient suicides? Secret messages? Tossing scapegoats in the clink? Selling access? Blaming everything on Russia? IRS audits of deplorables? Professionally funded riots?

There would be retribution too. The FBI is already in disarray. Like all thugs, Hillary gets caught committing crime and hurls insults at the source of incriminating information. “If the cops hadn’t found my stash I wouldn’t be in jail. It’s the cop’s fault.” It’s bad enough hearing it from Jethro the methhead or a fence selling jewelry out of a van. Could I bear it from the oval office?

What would be unknown during her secret rule? Would she be perfectly healthy until she keeled over three days ago? Incommunicado during a coma? Making private deals and shuffling between donors while claiming she was jogging in Manhattan? How could anyone know what she was actually doing? With the press gone full retard how to know what’s true and what’s not?

I don’t remember Nixon’s final months in office. I doubt they were pleasant. She would lead to the third run at impeachment in my lifetime.

The Meyers Briggs test sorts people into classes like E for extroversion and S for sensing. Classes add up to personality types with codes like ESPF or ENFP.

When I take a Meyers Briggs I get LMTFA. It means “leave me the fuck alone”.

Observing my personality profile, the third-year psychology intern administering my Meyers Briggs test begins to cry. She has seen the dark side. Having been exposed to my cruel and unforgiving mind she knows… knows beyond a shadow of a doubt… she will never pay off her student loans. My answers have shown not my mind but her future. Nine years as a barista until the new iLatte vending machine by Keurig/Apple is perfected and she’s replaced. Then slowly fading until she dies alone in a room full of cats. Retirement without a job to retire from. Pining for the glory days (2013) when Miley Cyrus’ twerking was as new as Madonna’s missile tits had been in the ‘90s. Mourning lost youth; when life was glorious and bearded freaks from the hinterland stayed away from innocent psych students. Tears stream down her face. I notice nothing. Her laptop bursts into flame. I’m thinking about bacon. She runs for a safe space where she’ll spend hours sobbing and hugging a teddy bear. I shrug my shoulders and leave. What can I say? I’m not a people person.

OK fine, I’m exaggerating. But I’m comfortable with solitude.

The upshot of this is I hunt alone. It’s just a thing that happens. Everyone else hunts with a group; old buddies, friends, and relatives. They hang out in deer camps, play cards in the evening, and form long lasting bonds of comradery. I don’t. I pet my dog, hug my wife, grab my rifle, and leave. Except 2016 is a year of change and I was joined by Dr. Mingo.

Dr. Mingo, a good friend, lives in a liberal paradise where he has a 35 mile commute to work and gumdrops grow on trees. He has suffered for it. I live in the middle of nowhere and am allergic to Facebook so I’m spared the endless circular firing squad he sees daily. In particular, the Republican primary shitfest was so revolting he quit his party (link). Shortly after the primaries he called me:

Dr. Mingo: “I need to get the hell out out of here for the election and go offgrid. Let’s go fishing during the election.”

Curmudgeon: “Why?”

Dr. Mingo: “Everything! You’ve seen the candidates. I can’t bear that much stupid.”

Curmudgeon: “Bad timing for fishing. I’ve gotten iced in before and it’s sketchy. Let’s go hunting. Guns are better than fishing poles anyway.”

Dr. Mingo: “My place is out. Your place?”

Curmudgeon: “Sure, it’ll be fun. I’ll stock the beer fridge and thaw some meat. We can grill steaks and act like whiskey is a food group. It beats the press shitting in our pocket and telling us it’s a dime.”

Dr. Mingo: “Can I bring my banjo?”

Curmudgeon: “Hell yeah! It’s going to be a freedom vacation and that means banjos are welcome! If you want to stand naked on the porch at 2AM with a bottle of whiskey and a banjo go right ahead. Think of it as ‘Freedom and Stupidity, the Theme Park’. We’ll hunt and drink and ignore the end of civil society. Mrs. Curmudgeon has been after me to take a few days off so she’ll approve. I’ll make sure she tells us absolutely nothing about any news.”

Dr. Mingo: “I’m in.”

Thus, it came to be. I always hunt solo except when I don’t. Dr. Mingo always watches social media except when he doesn’t. Even if the nation imploded we’d have a good time.

[There are many ways to experience election day, this is one.]

With timeless unhurried grace the sun rose. It was cold. I wanted it to rise faster. The sun doesn’t give a shit. I sat there and shivered. I was cradling a rifle and leaning against a tree; I may have fallen asleep a few times (it’s hard to tell).

I was hunting, or rather lying in ambush near a well-situated tree. I’d been there since before dawn without seeing the slightest hint of a game animal. A large portion of hunting is waiting for hours or days followed by ten seconds of high pressure. There are no do-overs. It’s like life.

On election morning freezing my balls off for several hours had been for naught. Oh well, sometimes it works. I stood up and stretched. The sun felt good but it wasn’t warm.

Fifty yards away my hunting partner (who I’ll refer to as Dr. Mingo) sprang to his feet. I was dressed like the Michelin man and a little chilly, he was dressed lightly and was probably an ice cube.

The lure of the truck heater was irresistible. Soon we were hiking for the road. Just a couple of hunters hoofing it through the woods. You know the kind. Generic men clad in blaze orange and camouflage, evil Second Amendment assault weapons of doom slung over their shoulders (guns to which, according to our current President, we fearfully cling), we had non-ironic wool hats, non-metrosexual beards, boots with actual mud on them, and represented the entire package of rural lifestyle which screams “deplorable” to pasty upscale urbanite elite shitheads. All we wanted was bacon and eggs for breakfast but our presence seemed symbolic on election day.

Soon we were basking in diesel fueled heat and rolling towards the nearest greasy spoon. Dr. Mingo asked the question that was weighing on both of our minds: “Which one of the two idiots are Americans going to elect today?”

I had no idea. I turned off the gravel road onto a state highway, passed two “Trump” signs and a passel of state or county election signs. (“Smith for dogcatcher.”) I ignore most of the local stuff, half the time they’re unopposed and the rest of the time I’m happy with whatever the hell they do… which is not much.

“You are riding in a truck with the only blogger that has deliberately logged off Wi-Fi on election day. I haven’t got a clue.” Actually, I had a theory, but it’s hard to be certain of yourself when the media screams the opposite day after day.

I shrugged my shoulders. I have faith in competition. Faith doesn’t come easy. Yes, it is true that Americans periodically choose badly. (FDR had no ability to rein himself in, Buchanan couldn’t avert the coming civil war, Carter stepped on his own balls, etc… Institutions of men are always fallible.) But in general, we at least select from those who are competent enough to steamroll their opposition. Trump had entered Thunderdome and emerged having defeated literally a dozen opponents. The elites and the NeverTrumpers and George Will and his precious little bowtie can get pissed off at Trump’s vulgarity but the bastard left a trail of severed heads behind him. I can respect that. After John McCain and Mitt Romney I was ready for a candidate (male or female) with some fucking spine. Trump entered fair competition and won hard.

Hillary competes in a different way; if you think you’re in a fair fight with Hillary you’ve already lost. She taught a generation of idealistic “Feel The Bern” nimrods all about math and collusion. A lesson that will serve them well in the future. Could I make peace with the concept that a corrupt felon that puts away her opponent with misdirection and scheming is merely using a different kind of competition? Is not mastery of the dark arts a form of competency? Is it not skill and acumen to have your hired monkeys in the press poison your opponent? Was she a winner simply because she could lie on a pile of money while Bernie and then Trump were shredded by her minions? I didn’t like it but you don’t get to pick who emerges from Thunderdome. Just as competition brings out the best competitor it brings out the best cheats. Maybe this is a time in history when America needs a cheat?

I sighed. I have faith in competition and I have faith in democracy but sometimes I see a Che Guevara shirt at a Starbucks or an addled land whale in WalMart and lose the latter. Faith ‘aint easy.

We enjoyed our greasy breakfast and went back to the woods. My blog post went live without me. I avoided all media. The grid stayed on, the nation continued functioning, the sky was still blue… This election day, as with all election days, the media was hyperventilating about “the most historic election in the history of ever” but I didn’t hear. I leaned against a tree and tried to sort out the sounds of rustling leaves. Was that a squirrel or a trophy class buck? If Washington D.C., New York, and LA were all smoking radioactive craters I wouldn’t know of care for hours. The wind shifted to the west and we changed hunting plans.

Elections matter but the wind mattered more.

(To be continued when I get around to writing it.)