Beer Hunting
Skeeter’s headed for the hills…. That’s muy correcto, amigos, he’s vamoosing to the mountains of Rosylyn for the annual Beer Hunt, no license necessary. And no, we’re not going politically correct. Meaning, we do NOT catch and release. I know it sounds cruel to some, but sometimes tradition outweighs compassion. Ask a white southerner crying over their rebel flag. “My great grandpappy fought those damn Yankees so we could have states’ rights. I just want to honor his service.”
Sure, it’s a proud tradition, fighting for the right to keep human beings as slaves … or at least the right to keep them from voting now that the traitor Lincoln freed them. Traditions like that are, as Scarlet might say, gone with the wind. If they ban the Confederate flag, what’s next, a ban on swastikas??
Beer hunting. A whole different animal, trust me on this. We’re thinning the herds is what we’re doing. It’s not like we’re Nazis, killing them because we’re superior. It’s not some kind of foamy genocide. Jeez…. We respect the ales. We honor them if you want to know the truth. Someday, when beer hunting is deemed as uncivilized and immoral as slaveholding, our progeny will stand up for us, one last rebel yell!! “My grandpap fought those bottles to a standstill up there in the coal hills. If you want to take down that statue in the square of Skeeter standing mightily in front of two dozen dead ales, you’ll do it over my dead body.”
Course, Skeeter hasn’t got any grandkids….
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