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Sadaam Hussein, beware! Another newsletter from Jonesy is hot off the press.
A few years ago the State Department contacted me and asked me if they could
use my newsletter for a “Top Secret” operation. It was in the middle of
Operation Desert Watch, so, being a patriotic sort, I let them use it, free
gratis. (that means I didn’t charge them for it, for those in Rio Linda) They
printed millions of copies and dropped them on the Iraqi troop positions.
When Desert Watch turned into Desert Storm the Iraqi troops surrendered in
droves with little resistance, old crumpled copies of my newsletter clutched
in their demoralized fists. Sadaam subsequently filed a protest with the UN,
claiming that the distribution of that newsletter violated the provision in
the Geneva Convention prohibiting “Psychological Warfare”. Once again the
State Department has contacted me, which, to astute political observers is a
precursor to war. If they could just get an original copy into the hands of
Sadaam himself it might eliminate him, as it tends to drive the sane insane,
the insane over the edge, and makes hopelessly addicted hunters do irrational
things like get up at 3:30 in the morning, rain pouring down the back of our
necks, ride out on a horse in the sasquatch-infested darkness, freeze our
buns off all day, and then call it fun. Talk about the worst kind of
insanity! Your only hope is to throw this newsletter in the round file
immediately, although if you do so it is programmed to explode, thus taking
out the northwest corner of your bathroom including the paper holder and
towel rack, and possibly doing irreparable harm to exposed portions of your
anatomy. It is perhaps best that you dispose of this properly by calling the
EPA, OSHA, FBI, CIA, and all others whose job it is to keep Amerika safe from
wackos of the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy who might pollute our minds and
resources with eeevil and devious hunting newsletters which are replete with
guns, blood, gore, and suggestive stories. You remember my last newsletter
wherein I helped a sweet young thing overcome her new husband’s bad case of
trophy buck fever by getting her to don a black filmy negligee, which cured
his buck fever but may have given him some other kind of fever? Well, Kenneth
Starr is now investigating the discovery of a copy of that newsletter in the
trash of the Oval Office with Monica Lewinsky’s fingerprints on it.
Ban Nauga-Hide!
A couple of years ago I had the Sierra Club send me an invitation to join
them and subscribe to their magazine. I checked the box "bill me
later" I soon got my first magazine. I returned their bill unpaid, and
wrote, "I decided not to join Sierra Club, because when I read your
magazine I see that you like mean and evil animals like coyotes and wolves and
bears and lions that eat other poor helpless pretty animals like bunny
rabbits and deer. I think if we killed all the bad animals that we would have
more good animals that only eat grass. Please don't send me any more
magazines. It is depressing to know that you like animals that kill other
animals."
When I was in college, Cleveland Amory and his Fund For Animals came to
Arizona State U and had a big rally. I was majoring in Game and Fish
Management that year ( I had a well-rounded education). Me and a couple of
other turkeys got the bright idea to join the crusade. We made big signs and
carried them around in front of the meeting place. Our signs said "SAVE
THE NAUGAS! BAN NAUGA-HIDE!" People would ask us what a Nauga was. We
would tell them it was a very trusting furry little animal, kind of like a
woodchuck, and the capitalist pigs were butchering them, tanning their hides,
and using it to cover everything from chairs to auto upholstery. We got a lot
of support for our cause, and even got a couple of donations, although they
were regrettably small, like maybe 17 cents.
Guest Story:
My younger but bigger and not-at-all-tougher brother insisted that he be
allowed to tell this story in my newsletter. I protested vehemently but
he thumped my head until I relented.
A Cautionary tale, By Doug Jones: I'm sure that some of the hunters
reading your hunting stories that I just finished reading are sure that you
are either half a sandwich short a picnic, riding with only one foot in the
stirrup, or a complete liar. To try and set the record straight I have to
tell of my own experience deer hunting with Maury. I finally was able to draw
a permit to hunt Wyoming, and looked forward to spending a few days with my
crazy brother, and also my other brother, Greer. The first day found
Greer and I watching a beautiful hillside while Maury made a circle,
attempting a "drive' to scare the monstrous deer into the open.
After about an hour I saw the most awful and scariest sight I have ever seen
in the woods! Walking straight towards me was a bare hunter!!!! My
heart 'bout fell into my socks as my binoculars revealed the naked ape was
actually Homo Crazilis, (murry jonesalii) or in other words, my crazy brother
- clad only in the camo that he was borned with!! He explained that he
was trying out a theory that the reason we hadn't seen any of the monster
bucks was that our green camo clothes were scaring them, as every time
camo-clad hunters were seen the woods were filled with booming noises and one
of their dear friends ended up not reporting in for cavorting duty that
night. So Maury theorized that the deer had never seen a naked hunter and
would be caught with their pants down, so to speak. Alas, the theory was
unsubstantiated, as the only thing caught with its pants down was my crazy
brother, Maury. However, the hunt did have a happy ending as some of his
other theories were fruitful, meaning both of us visiting brothers went home
with nice deer. (I still say the big one was mine, since I called the neck
shot! but that's another story.) (editor’s note: The
reports that the theory is unsubstantiated are not in the least true.
What prompted the impromptu disrobing was the discovery of a 5 point bull elk
which hadn’t seen me yet. Many times I have told hunters that if they
would strip naked they would see more game, because I’m sure the game has
never seen a naked hunter and they are bound to pause and gape, just for the
novelty of it. So I quietly disrobed, except for my boots, and then
walked in the buff straight toward the bull elk. He paid no more
attention to me than if I had been a buff,(alo) until I got within 30
yards. Then he suddenly jerked his head up, started to run, then
stopped and stared (with an expression of envy, I might add) for at least 10
seconds, plenty of time to kill him had I a mind to. He then slowly
trotted off, pausing now and again to crane his neck back and stare.
This proves the validity of my research. This hunting season, instead
of bringing all those warm and wooly clothes, just show up with a smile!!
:-)
Cowboy Jonesy: I started out as a child, and it wasn’t long before
I decided to either grow up or do something foolish to get killed. You see, I
found that by being hurt, the women in my life would feel sorry for me and
cuddle me and kiss me better. Ah-hah! My diabolical little brain concocted a
plan to get sympathy. If I was really really hurt, then I would have it made
with the girls. The problem was, it just seemed that every method I tried to
get hurt ended up making people either laugh or pity a poor fool that would
do something so foolish. For example, I tried falling out of a window on the
back of my head, but just got a bald spot with stitches. No life-threatening
injuries and hardly the kind of thing that girls wanted to kiss better. I tried
walking a pipe across a deep ravine, imitating (I thought) the high-wire
walker who went across Niagra Falls. He had lots of women going ga-ga over
him. Again, just stitches. I tried hitting my sisty-ugler ‘cause she poured
hot water down my back. Got a broken knuckle and a cast for my efforts, which
was better, I thought, but actually was an object of ridicule when the whole
story was told, and unfortunately it was told often and loudly. Trying again
to make it big in the sympathy department, I hit my cousin because he threw
my basketball in the weeds. Since his chin was way too high for my short
fists to reach I aimed for his gut, expecting him to double over in pain. He
didn’t play fair, putting his elbow out in front of him to ward off the
crushing blow. Do you have any idea how hard an elbow is? Again, a broken
hand, another cast, and excessive mirth among my peers, especially the gals.
I then thought I would try novel approaches to the art of self-destruction.
In the shower after gym class I dropped a brand new bar of soap on my foot.
Another cast and humiliation. Try again. I was a tennis star (really! Most
Valuable Player 1964) and one day while pursuing an errant tennis ball I
stopped too quickly and the end of my rotted tennis shoe ripped out and left
my great toe to test the hardness of the concrete. Another cast and a great
deal of pity, but no hugs and kisses from the cheerleaders. This
self-destruction thing wasn’t working out like I thought it would. I was
voted "Most Likely To Fall Apart Before Age 20". Then I discovered
horses. Eureka!! A great way to get fame, fortune, and sympathy. I fantasized
about a gorgeous blonde Rodeo Queen picking me up out of the dirt, holding my
bleeding head to her bosom, and kissing me gently before they put me in the
ambulance. Yep! A horse is the way to get that sympathy. I found that before
actually riding in a rodeo a cowboy has to have the proper attire and also
has to practice. I bought a nice new shiny pair of boots and a straw cowboy
hat from K-Mart, put on my best 501 Levi’s and went to a local riding stable.
In what I hoped was the proper cowboy drawl I asked for a horse they might be
having a little trouble with. By the stable-hands’ reactions I could see they
were pleased with my request. A rather short, yellowish-colored pony was
dragged out of the corral and the guy said, "Trigger here has been a bit
spoiled lately. Needs someone to teach him who is boss." Trigger! Had to
be a good horse with a name like that. Just a bit spoiled? I can handle that.
I had visions of making Roy Rogers proud. Maybe Dale Evans, or her
look-alike, would be the one to clutch me to her ample bosom and kiss me
better for trying to discipline "Trigger". We learned in a hurry
who was boss, but unfortunately, I just acquired some bruises on my bum and a
high tenor voice from landing on the saddle horn. No visible heroic damages.
With the laughter of the wranglers ringing in my ears I retired in
humiliation. On several other occasions I tried the horse route to sympathy,
empathy, and comfort at the bosom of a beautiful blonde rodeo queen, but
without success. Now I carry a permanent grudge against horses. They can
sense it, as they are always stepping on my toes in front of female guests
and grinning as I scream at them and beat on them with my fists to get them
off.
Din Kneads My Knee
We all have humbling experiences in life. I have always prided myself
in being physically tough. I'm not big, being 5'8" and 160 lbs,
but I can out-tough men half my age, right Warren? Then just recently
stepped in a hole while loading hay and developed a knee ache. Stupid
knee. Got worse and worse. Finally on crutches I went to the knee
specialist and he said torn medial meniscus (fancy kname for knee
cartilage). Arthroscopic knee surgery was scheduled for July 8.
Then my lovely wife, Din, rose to the challenge. She has always been
into herbal medicine and natural healing methods. She will try the
"herb of the week" on me for various ailments. Once we were
walking down the street and she said, "Look, some wild
Yarrow!" She insisted that we go pick it, even though I pointed
out that it was private property and they were probably raising it to sell at
fifteen bucks a pound at the health food store. "Nonsense!"
Was her reply. "It's just growing wild and they won't miss it a
bit. They probably think it is just a weed." I started to
point out that they weren't the only ones who thought it was just a weed, but
I figured it was best to pick the stuff and run. Anyway, she started
pouring the potions down me and rubbing them on my knee. One
particularly noxious concoction tasted like it came straight out of the Tar
Pits of La Brea, complete with all the critters that had been entombed.
When I gagged and coughed she said, "It might be a little strong, let's
try a bit of Golden Seal to flavor it up." I personally think some
Ajax Cleanser might have "flavored it up" immensely.
One morning as I was lying in bed, knee propped up, feeling sorry for myself
and bemoaning the fact that I may never again be able to beat Warren to the
top of Whopper Peak, Din came in and said, "Here, take some of
this," pinching my cheeks to open my mouth and spooning some
yellowish-brown liquid into my protesting maw. "I'll have you up and
around in no time." Well, she was right about that. I was
peg-legging all over the house like a one-legged grasshopper in a flock of
Robins, knocking over the furniture, bouncing on the cat, and generally
trying to mercifully destroy the rest of my body to put me out of my misery.
It was a reaction worthy of being written up in medical journals. But
you know what? Four days before the surgery I called and
canceled. Knee was feeling good, combination of Din's witches' brews
and a magnetic knee brace, courtesy of Tom Hruska, one of my guides.
Knee feeling better and better, getting to the point I can even run again,
and run darned fast, too. Look out, Warren! Just get out of my
way as we go up Monster Mountain or you'll get run over.
Nags join Wags; The National Association of Gals (NAGS) don't hold
a candle to Women Against Guides (WAGS) for sheer ability to strike fear into
the hearts of peace-loving men everywhere. An unsuspecting young man
falls in love. His bride vows to "honor, cherish, and obey, and
not interfere with his frequent hunting trips." (that line was in your
vows, wasn't it?) She forgets all about those last few words and hits
high volume the first time her husband mortgages the dog and the kids to go
on an elk hunt in Wyoming. She joins with other WAGS to form chapters
nationwide, then they get with the anti-gun lobby and form Women Against Gun
Shops (also WAGS) to try and eliminate the tools of hunting. They
succeed in eliminating guns in Australia, severely curtailing guns in Canada,
and introducing wolves into the wilds of Wyoming so they may eat either all
the elk or all the hunters, and not necessarily in that order.
Meanwhile, back in the jungle, er, suburbs, the poor naive newly-married oaf
goes on about his business of preparing for that once-in-a-lifetime elk
hunt. Every day he hauls out his 700 Nitro-Express Eargesplitten
Laudenboomer, "Old Whomper", and lovingly polishes the stock.
Of course he doesn't shoot it, having learned that lesson shortly after he
bought it, but he figures in the heat of the moment, with a huge 6 point bull
in his scope, he won't feel a thing, and hopefully the elk won't
either. On a crisp morning in mid-October he carefully packs the rifle
in the airplane-proof gun case ...... but where is the bolt?!! He
didn't ever remove the bolt! "Honey! Where's my bolt?" he
screams in panic. "What's a bolt?" his sweet young wife
innocently asks, a malicious smile playing around the corners of her mouth.
"It worked!" she inwardly exults! For a certain
"donation of various gun parts" she is now an Honorary
Vice-President of the local chapter of WAGS. Her unsuspecting husband
frantically ransacks the house, makes a frenzied phone call to his outfitter,
and is assured that they have a back-up rifle he can use. Of course the
sweet little woman doesn't realize he now has an excuse to buy a new
elk-slayer, probably at top dollar on this very hunting trip, but for the
moment she and her fellow WAGS are happy at thwarting the eeeevil hunters,
temporarily.
Don't laugh, guys! Truth is stranger than fiction. I, myself, am missing a
bolt from a rifle. Been missing for years. Not making any
accusations, but do you know where your innocent little wife is
tonight? Think about it. I personally think women and horses are
a communist plot!
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