Posted: May 15, 2012 in Publishing

I know this blog is or was supposed to be about my journey through my literary life, a retrospective of it’s landscape if you will. I am failing remarkably at that, because I keep shitting on about weather, the Olympics, the state of the public toilets in London etc.. True to this, this post has fuck all to do with the literary world.
Hunting. I am against hunting, in a violent way. As a vegan and animal campaigner, you’d expect me to be anti hunting. Oh, and for anyone who see’s vegan and animal rights campaigner and groans, you can go fuck yourself! This post is going to be about how one posh twat, shot his friend in the face. Who wouldn’t want to read about someone shooting someone, in the FACE?

I don’t like hunters. Killing things is one reason. Anyone who kills animals for sport is a cunt. The other is, well, they all seem to be just a bit cunty. My case and point was this weekend and a pheasant hunt that took place behind my land. Let me take a moment explain pheasant hunting. Posh people, the ones with the shiny Range Rovers, Barbour jackets & who, when they talk, it is like thy have a boiled sweet in their mouth, hunt pheasant. I want to clear up a small point. Killing pheasants isn’t hunting. If he were a Massi tribesman, with a spear, tracking a bison over the African tundra on foot… that’s fucking hunting. Every year Bison kill more people than lions. Take that fucker on with a spear, overcome the danger, that is fucking hunting. Not shooting a fat, flightless bird.

Pheasants are bread in massive numbers, as in millions of em. They are fat, to make them easier to ‘hunt.’ This is why if ever you are driving along a road and a pheasant hesitates before it gets out of the way, it is because it can’t be fucked, it’s too fat to move. So, again it is hardly hunting. It doesn’t end their though. They are released in private, fenced off land, and then these brave hunters get the poor people from the village to walk in a line waving plastic bags to scare the pheasants into their direction. They call these people beaters. I call them wankers. The Cunty posh hunters, don’t even walk. They get out of their Range Rovers, stand in a line, and slaughter the hundreds of birds being herded in their direction. It’s not like they track the little fuckers down. Hardly hunting is it? Shooting a fat, near flightless bird in a fenced off area. How can it be hunting if they go ‘Look – there is one… in the corner!But still, these genetic disasters, who live off Grandparents wealth, when surrounded by a sea of pheasant… miss them. One posh cunt got, well, frustrated that he couldn’t kill one. So he got his friend to pick one up and hold it, so he could shoot it… and he then shot him in the face!

I’m going to say that again, because it bears repeating. He got his friend to hold the bird, so he could shoot it. I know I go on about the genetic disasters the rich can be, and how they have bread out common sense through inbreeding. But fuck me they make it easy, I don’t even have to make shit up to make it funny. Cunty, couldn’t shoot a fat, tame, flightless bird, in a fenced off area, even when people are herding hundreds toward you. So he gets his friend to pick one up! If that doesn’t tell you how easy it would be to shoot one, when you can just pick them up? And they call it hunting? So Cunty is holding out a bird, and Cunty number two, I presume, couldn’t work out which one was the pheasant. And shot his friend, in the face.

Should you wish to know, he will be all right. He has however, lost a thumb. And I don’t even want to think about how, because I will get a brain aneurism. Did he hold the bird in front of his face?

I call it Karma…

Also. I love the picture of me on this post, it is a magic image. If you click on it & stare at it, it truns into a 3D image

  1. Holmless says:

    Oak it may be time for a surf… I like the picture to. I dont like the idea of hunting though I do love the meat.

    dat dat do do I may go have a poo poo

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