Saturday, May 3, 2008


I'm three days into the season and I have no blood under my fingernails nor feathers in my beard. The weather's been shitty and although I've had action and seen birds, I've yet to have a shot at a gobbler. Here's the update.

Each morning I've started my hunt at 5:30 am in the back left corner of my neighbor's farm. Aside from it being outdoors and early in the morning, it's kinda like showing up early at the disco. The smoke machine has been set on high and the dance floor is covered in thick fog. I find a spot at the bar where I can peruse the whole scene. The place is empty. A cardinal is yacking in a far off tree. Then a murder of crows start up. I wait for a response. Sometimes the caw of a crow will shock gobble a turkey. Nothing. When the sun is up I make a few calls. Nothing responds but out of the corner of my eye I catch three birds crossing the field right towards me- a hen and two jakes. This would be like Angelina going out with Doogie Hoowser and the kid from Malcolm in the Middle. They damn near crawl in my lap. But I'm not interested. I'm waiting for Brad or George Clooney.
Also like the disco, turkey hunting is all about sex. I put on the stretch pants, tube top and stilettos and do my best female turkey impression. This bitch is hot! The hen gets a bug up her ass and goes in the woods. Then I hear a strained gobble coming from the bathroom. I call and he answers- more forcefully now. George? That handsomish guy from Grey's Anatomy? I can't tell. It could be Cartman putting on the beard.
For the next three hours I chase that bird, but all I see are jakes. I can't tell whether it's Deniro down in the woods or a jake with a thyroid problem. My girdle is binding and my dogs are killing me. I don't know how you girls do it. In the end I give up and just like at the disco, I go home empty handed, wash the glitter out of my beard, and take a nap. Tomorrow's another day. Maybe if I bring a little coke with me....


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