We're Number ONE! According to the Fund For Animals

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There
they go again. Louisiana shortchanged again! Louisiana
once again vilified by Beltway pecksniffs. “If Louisiana is the
Sportsman’s Paradise as its license plates boasts,” writes The Fund
For Animal in their recent Cavalcade of Cruelty, “it’s
also an animal’s hell.”

Yes
folks, an “animal’s hell.” You see, employing the Fund For Animals’
logic, if us bloodthirsty, beer-crazed Cajuns don’t blast Bambi
and Thumper and Donald and convert them to our Jambalaya, Gumbo,
and Sauce Piquante, they’d live happily ever after like in a Disney
cartoon.

The
Fund For Animals (a rat is a pig is a dog is a boy) compile an annual
survey called “Body Count” where they rate states in a “Cavalcade
of Cruelty” based on the number of animals assassinated by hunters,
as reported by wildlife agencies. And this year: “Louisiana LEADS
ALL THE STATES in the Outdoor Cavalcade Of Cruelty with 7,376,541
animals killed by hunters.”

At
last! We’re number one in SOMETHING! And the honor shines more brightly
when we consider the state’s puny population. But I said we were
shortchanged. Here’s why: the 7,376,541 number should be higher – way
higher.

Neighboring
Mississippi, a sorry eleventh in the Cavalcade with 4,667,091 animals
wacked-out by its hunters, is actually getting credit for Cajun
blood-lust. Yes, it sells 25,000 non-resident licenses a year to
Louisiana hunters. And we mow-em-down mercilessly while over in
the Magnolia state. So we want the credit for that slaughter too!

Ditto
in Alabama, a shameful twelfth in the Cavalcade with 3,800,269 animals
“terminated with extreme prejudice” by its hunters. Thousands of
Louisianians hunt in Alabama. So probably a quarter of their carnage
is ours!

And
our Texan neighbors? Well, Texas, with three times our population,
is a sorry fourth. Those big-hatted boot-scooters massacred a mere
5,737,584 animals. For shame. For shame, my Texan friends. Let’s
get with the program. I know you guys CAN DO IT! Break out those
motivational videos you always send your co-workers over here. Hire
one of those motivational speakers with the pompadour and shiny
suit you always bring to sales meetings to annoy and sedate us.
You CAN do it! Next year I wanna see you guys “AT THE TOP!” A free
week-end for the winner and his (her) spouse in New Orleans! Go
For it!

And
again, that Texas figure includes the carnage by Louisianians when
we go over there, before we cross into Boys Town – oops! Never mind.
Anyway, we want the credit.

So
listen up, Fund For Animals: Next year try to get the figures right.
Next year we in Louisiana wanna be so far up that “Cavalcade Of
Cruelty” nobody will even THINK of touching us. We want the competition
to look down the barrel of a lead like the Saints in the third quarter.
Okay? But it’s nice to see that most of Dixie made it into “The
Dirty Dozen,” what the Fund calls the top twelve in the Cavalcade.

And
speaking of “profiling.” Louisiana hunters in these neighboring
states have been putting up with it for years. The cops in New York
and Philly have nothing on the game wardens in Mississippi, Alabama,
and Texas. The latter see a Louisiana license plate or hear a Cajun
accent and that’s it. They’re pulling us over. Always hassling us
because the deer we shoot never have any of those “antler” things
on their heads. Picky, picky, picky. All these damn details.

Can’t
eat antlers. We’ve tried. And you don’t see us whining
like Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton about how this profiling constitutes
” discrimination” and a “violation of our rights” and all that claptrap.
Hell, no. You see us learning the back roads to avoid the road-blocks

I
loved the Fund For Animals (Or was it PETA’s ?) Anti-Fur campaign.
The posters showed Cindy Crawford, Kim Bassinger, and assorted airheads
nude but strategically covered. “I’d rather go nude than wear fur,”
read the caption

Come
again? I scratched my head when I saw it. This is anti-fur?!
Aren’t they implying that the more fur on the market the more likely
they are to go nude? Am I right here? And this is how they propose
to STOP trapping?

Methinks
these gals have been spending too much time around the fellows who
do their hair and photography. Listen up, Cindy, most trappers are
male. Most fur coats are bought by husbands and boyfriends. Outside
of New York and Los Angeles males of the human species are EXTREMELY
FOND of gazing at the unclad female form. When this form looks like
yours, this fondness can manifest itself in a form of delirium.
So if you want to stop these gents from trapping animals
and buying the end product, you do not promise to reward
them for the opposite…. Geezum!

PETA
was even planning a demonstration last year at America’s oldest
fishing rodeo, Louisiana’s Grand Isle Tarpon Rodeo. But, alas, they
wimped out at the last minute. We were devastated. The fun we had
planned. Oh well.

Okay
so in per-capita income, educational levels, health-care, infant
mortality – the indices used by prigs, nags, and pecksniffs – Louisiana
always look like crap. So what? What the hell do the fussbuckets
who look at that kind of stuff know about fun? What the hell do
those things have to do with “Quality of Life?” Remember, that’s
the same crowd always rhapsodizing about the “health-care” and “education”
in Fidel Castro’s Shangri-la. They confuse education with indoctrination.
Health-care with health. A cardinal belief of the Pinko creed is
that in the 1950s Cuba was a ghastly hellhole of political repression,
violence, backwardness,and poverty. Only millionaires and mafiosi
and tourists did well.

Then
kindly explain why in those days Cuba experienced net immigration.
Not only where there no balseros (rafters) back then;
people went in the other direction. Cuba had a higher standard
of living in those days than southern European countries. It’s infant-mortality
rate was equal to Germany’s and Holland’s – on top of France.

Yes,
people flocked – from neighboring Caribbean nations, from Europe,
and yes, even from the US – TO Cuba and not for child sex like nowadays.
They went to LIVE there. And anyone who wanted to leave the island
could do so. Go. Fine. Bye. Good riddance.

Ever
notice how “right-wing dictators” never put travel restrictions
on their citizens? They know their economy is better off without
the type of chronic whiners and unemployable malcontents who typically
oppose them. And ever notice how the few enemies of such regimes
who do seek exile – Fidel Castro and the Ortega brothers of Nicaragua
for instance – are generally vermin utterly useless in a market economy?
Check it out. You’ll see. Chilean exiles from Pinochet are a perfect
case in point.

Put
that in your Pinko pipe and smoke it.

And
speaking of Ernest Hemingway…. He came to mind while I was wrestling
with a hundred pound Amberjack 100 ft. under the Gulf last week
with 500 lbs. of air left in my scuba tank. The fish had a spear
through it’s flank but was plenty lively, trying it’s damndest to
drown me. So I was reaching for my ice-pick (standard gear for Cajun
Divers. Better penetration than with a dive-knife) for the coup
de grace, while tightening my grip on his gills.

I
had the brute in a vice grip….white knuckles, bulging
biceps, my teeth chomping down on the regulator mouthpiece about
to bite it off. The fish’s face inches from mine…had him like
the big Kraut had the poor kid in “Saving Pvt. Ryan,” as they wrestled
on the floor, grimacing and snarling at each other, right before
he stabbed him…. Point is – his ass was MINE!

So
Hemingway in Death
In The Afternoon
came suddenly to mind: “A great killer
must love to kill….he must have a spiritual enjoyment of the moment
of killing. When a man is still in rebellion against death
he has pleasure in taking to himself one of the Godlike attributes
– that of giving death.”

That
fat, pinko drunkard knew just how I felt. Amazing. To think there
was a time when the guy who wrote those bloodthirsty lines, a guy
who posed smiling with his rifle resting on blood-dripping lions
and leopards, a guy who machine-gunned sharks for the sheer hell
of it, a guy who had a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on his
Yacht – to think such a notorious “gun-nut” was once the hit of fashionable
literary circles and the toast of café society.

How
times change. But his politics more than compensated for his firearms
fetish. He was always safely, predictably, and fashionably, Red.
Beet Red, the surest career-move for a writer then as now. Tom Wolfe
coined Radical Chic in the 1960s. But limousine leftism
was much more in vogue in the 1930s – “the Red Decade,” the “Low
Dishonest Decade” as a few reactionary mavericks called it.

Hemingway
whooped it up for the Reds in Spain, the Reds in Cuba. Then Pappa
got a brand new bag alright; the fat bastard got singed by the very
flames he helped ignite. His Finca Vigia outside Havana was confiscated
by his heroes. Actually he was lucky. If his protagonists in For
Whom The Bell Tolls
had won in Spain a generation earlier,
Hemingway would have never seen another bullfight and all his Spanish
drinking buddies would have wound up with a bullet through the nape
of the neck. Many did anyway. Jose Robles for instance.

The
Red cause in Spain sucked in the literary elite from all points
of the compass. Dos Passos, Auden, Spender, Orwell, Hellman, Malraux.
”Everybody was there but Shakespeare” according to another literary
volunteer for the people’s cause.

The
honest ones occasionally left the hotels and the guided tours, got
a whiff of Bolshevism, gagged, and turned violently against it,
Dos Passos and Spender particularly. And unlike the rest of the
literati, Orwell actually enlisted in the Republican forces and
fought, long, hard and bravely. He was wounded and barely escaped
into France after learning that the Commies had him marked for a
bullet in the neck and an unmarked grave, the fate of hundreds of
his Anarchist chums.

But
despite his Bohemian bluster, Hemingway was too much the go-getting
Yankee careerist to let unpleasant objective facts interfere with
his ambitions.

“Dos!”
he told a disgusted John Dos Passos as he was crossing the French
border out of the cauldron of murder and treachery known as Republican
Spain,”If you write negatively about the Communists the reviewers
will ruin you forever!”

Ernest
was proved right. Passos’s literary career crashed and burned after
his return. Never mind that he wrote the truth. He’d seen too many
of his idealistic (but non-communist) acquaintances disappear into
unmarked graves with a bullet hole in the neck, Russian style.

Orwell
got back to England hell-bent on exposing the Commies and paid dearly.
No one would publish him. Animal
Farm
and 1984
were rejected repeatedly by the major publishing houses. I grew
damp on the forehead and hollow of stomach when I read how close
those two masterpieces came to being buried forever by the very
elements who constantly screech and blather about “freedom of expression.”

Pappa’s
sometime friend John Dos Passos said Hemingway “had one of the shrewdest
heads for unmasking political pretensions I’ve ever run into.”

That
so? Here’s a few examples of that shrewdness: “Castro’s revolution,”
Hemingway wrote in 1960 was “very pure and beautiful…. I’m encouraged
by it….The Cuban people now have a decent chance for the first
time.”

Shrewd
indeed. What insight. With a head like that he belonged in the US
State Department. And actually, he was employed by the
US government for a while. During WWII in fact. Hemingway, that
champion of the people’s cause, that pikeman in the holy crusade
against fascism, wasn’t about to let the severe gas rationing of
the time interfere with his fishing. Hell, no. So he convinced the
U.S. government that he wasn’t so much fishing from his
yacht, Pilar, off Cuba, as hunting Nazi submarines,

Oh,
he might occasionally troll a few lines behind it but he was actually
defending allied shipping against those marauding U-boats dispatched
from afar by the wicked Hun. FDR saw to it that Hemingway got 160
gallons of gasoline a week and a .50 caliber machine
gun mounted on his yacht. Hemingway missed the boat if you ask me.
He did alright as a writer. He’d a made more in sales – tons more.

But
I bet he had a blast with that machine gun. Picture that boatload
of sloppy drunkards staggering around the decks of Pilar
off Cuba. “Hey Manolo!” Ernest would shout from the bridge. “Is
that a periscope over there?… Looks like one!…”

“Ah
yes, Ernesto!” Manolo slurs after spilling half a bottle of red
wine on his shirt. “Sure does….might be a school of dolphin though.”

“Can’t
be to careful, Manolo!” He growls while jerking back the carrier…”just
like them Krauts to disguise themselves as Dolphins – RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!!…”EEEEEE!
HAAAH! Lookit em run!” Eat lead you Nazi swine! – RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!!

“Hey,
I wanna turn, Ernesto! Come on! You’re hogging the gun!”

“I’m
WHAT?!…WHAT!?” He sways and looks down crosseyed, his
hands still on the gun…”What was…? – Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat – plink-plink-plink – poooft!
poooft! bang! pow!!poooft! poooft!! plink!

“Hey
WATCHIT! MAN – -WATCHIT!” Manolo and the crew jump overboard just
ahead of the flames that erupt as ole Dead-Eye Ernesto splinters
the deck and blasts the engine with a surprise burst. “COWARDS!”
Pappa howls while shaking his fist at his chums bobbing in the waves.
“Candy Asses!…What the hell am I doin out here with this buncha
lily-livered Maricones! ”

Yes
sir, over in Berlin, Admiral Doenitz must have sprouted six ulcers
agonizing over this new and deadly threat to his submarine fleet.

There
were hints that shortly before his suicide, Hemingway’s infatuation
with Fidel had started to ebb. Was it when several thousand Cubans
in his province were dragged from their homes in those proverbial
jackbooted midnight raids that Hollywood and New York tell us only
Nazis mount, tethered to stakes, and riddled by firing squads?

Hell,
no. That was Hemingway’s “necessary murder,” the kind his heroes
in For Whom the Bells Toll performed ritually. No, it started
ebbing when old Ernesto found that this “pure and beautiful” revolution
made it difficult for him to repair the pump on his Cuban estate’s
swimming pool.

Naturally,
that sort of thing will sour parlor Pinkos on a revolution every
time.

Anyway,
after boating the Amberjack, I was bushed. We repaired to our campsite
on a nearby island (a glorified sand-bar, actually) for a siesta
under the tarp. The breeze was heavenly, the gentle lapping of the
waves fifty yards away a soothing lullaby…. I drifted off in seconds.
with a Gulf breeze caressing my face and the soft serenade of the
surf….Ummmm.

No
beating a nap. Just ask us Cubans. Sadly, for many of us the traditional
siesta was another of those things Fidel stole. A nap lets you actually
feel the sleep..it lets you savor the slumber.
It’s a lighter form of sleep, with more vivid dreams…with dreams
you remember… zzzzzz….Ah yes…zzzzzzzz… So PETA made it out
here after all………

“This
is Matt Lauer reporting from Grand Isle, Louisiana. President Gore
took a break from his impeachment proceeding today to declare a
state of emergency near this ramshackle port in coastal Louisiana
where PETA was staging a peaceful demonstration against a locally
popular spearfishing event. PETA’s activists arrived in boats and
followed the divers on their way to the oil platforms, trying to
divert them off course while employing bullhorns to broadcast readings
from the teachings of Mahatma Gandhi.

“This
serves to enlighten the divers in the ways of vegetarianism and
non-violence.” According to PETA spokesperson Paul McCartney. With
his right eye swollen shut and 21 stitches in his mouth, the ex-Beatle’s
appearance horrified his fans in the press. “These blokes certainly
take spearfishing seriously,” Paul sputtered painfully into a spittle-flecked
microphone held by a snuffling Cokie Roberts. “Nothing like this
happened in California or Hawaii. Remember, friends, All You Need
Is Love.”

Rocker
Jackson Browne, sporting a neckbrace and holding an ice-pack to
a plum-colored nose, was also among the celebrity-studded activists.
He stood nearby, consoling a sobbing Woody Harrelson. “We came in
the spirit of Gandhi,” blubbered Woody who nursed a grapefruit sized
ear and several facial welts. “And were met by that of George Patton!”
Mr. Harrelson then collapsed in sobs into the arms of his friend
Alec Baldwin, who tottered at his side on crutches.

“Get
up Goddamit!” K.D. Lang and chum Melissa Ethridge yanked Woody up
by the collar and seized Alec roughly by the shoulders. “You’re
lucky we ran those yahoos off! They’d a killed ya, ya freaking wussy!”

A
heavily-bandaged Sting, stood near an ambulance, weeping openly
and locking arms with Shirley McClaine, who clutched the filleted
carcass of a Queen triggerfish to her breast. “This was my grandmother!”
she wailed.

In
a strange twist, songstress Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders who
many feared was lost, or worse, was finally located. Ms. Hynde,
long known for her chronic scowl and hard-edged lyrics, as well
as her militant vegetarianism, turned up among the tents smiling
dreamily while strumming “Do It To Me One More Time” by Capt’n &
Tenile. Later she posed for cameras wolfing down a platter of a
local favorite, Blackened Amberjack, while surrounded by several
grinning divers. “These Louisiana boys sure know how to…um…cook!”
Was her only comment.

Meanwhile
at a local tavern, Warren Beatty and Leo DiCaprio attempted to disrupt
a cockfight – this barbarity remains legal in this peculiar state – by
stepping into the ring itself . “The roosters immediately pounced
on us!” stammered a still shaken Leo. “And I don’t even eat chicken!
And their owners incited them with blood -curdling whoops!”

Beatty’s
and Di Caprio’s flailing arms and wild screams were scant protection
against the birds’ sharp spurs and vicious beaks. Observers report
that rather than attempting to help the frantic and terrified victims,
the few beer-crazed spectators who hadn’t collapsed in hysterics
quickly set several more roosters on the hapless celebrities whose
screams “sounded like Yoko Ono sitting on a sea urchin” according
to one howling and badly convulsed bar patron….

August
1, 2000

Humberto
Fontova’s book entitled Helldiving
– about cajun-style undersea lunacy – will
be out this winter.

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