Just read this on the net and figured I'd drop in and share, kinda funny.
Hunter: You want dinner?
Urbanite: I think I'm entitled.
Hunter: You want dinner?!
Urbanite: I want the brisket!
Hunter: You can't handle the brisket!
Son, we eat in a world that has wild game and that game needs to be harvested by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Arianna? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Bambi and curse the hunter; you have that luxury of dining at Spago with Chef Wolfgang Puck. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Bambi’s death, while tragic, fed humans and that my hunting, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, feeds humans. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties you want me processing that buck, you need me processing that buck. We use words like shank, breast and loin. We use them as the backbone of a life trying to sustain something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the sustenance of the very tender loin I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said "thank you," and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest that you pick up a thirty-aught-six and sit in a blind. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to. -----
Urbanite: Did you order the cordon bleu?
Hunter: I did the job I had to do.
Urbanite: Did you order the cordon bleu?!
Hunter: You're God damn right I did!
Hunter: You want dinner?
Urbanite: I think I'm entitled.
Hunter: You want dinner?!
Urbanite: I want the brisket!
Hunter: You can't handle the brisket!
Son, we eat in a world that has wild game and that game needs to be harvested by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Arianna? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Bambi and curse the hunter; you have that luxury of dining at Spago with Chef Wolfgang Puck. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Bambi’s death, while tragic, fed humans and that my hunting, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, feeds humans. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties you want me processing that buck, you need me processing that buck. We use words like shank, breast and loin. We use them as the backbone of a life trying to sustain something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the sustenance of the very tender loin I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said "thank you," and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest that you pick up a thirty-aught-six and sit in a blind. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to. -----
Urbanite: Did you order the cordon bleu?
Hunter: I did the job I had to do.
Urbanite: Did you order the cordon bleu?!
Hunter: You're God damn right I did!
