Kill ’em all and keep Colorado wild
I’ve never been able to reconcile those Keeping Colorado Wild commercials you see on television, the ones that feature shot after pristine shot of all the beautiful, bountiful wildlife in the region. There’ll be a few seconds of bighorn sheep scurrying across some steep cliff, then the ad will cut to a moose and its baby or a cutthroat trout or ducks quacking loudly as they take off from a pond. It’s all so perfect and serene, the way nature was intended to be. Then some septuagenarian limps out from the brush, resplendent in his Day-Glo orange vest, and mutters something to the effect of, “You see all these here purty critters? Guess what? Huntin’ makes this possible!”
Even though those aren’t his exact words, the sentiment is clear: Hunting funds preservation. And I get that. I understand that the bulk of the money used to preserve wildlife comes from fees charged for hunting and fishing licenses. Still, I’ve never really bought into that whole do-gooder façade, like them noble hunters just can’t believe nobody else is out there saving nature with ’em. It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothes, and if you ask me, the bulk of those heroic hunters would rather just shoot both the wolf and the sheep, dry them into some sort of wolf-sheep hybrid jerky, and call it a fucking day. This is, of course, a generalization and certainly there are moral, responsible men who go into the woods to commune with nature, who sing “Circle Of Life” after every humane kill, then eat every part of the animal and tan the hide for his friends. But I’ve always believed those are the minority.
So I set out to the International Sportsmen’s Exposition—which comes every year to Denver—for a more informed look at the folk funding my outdoor experience. Because if there’s one thing What’s So Funny? is about, it’s fair and balanced journalism. And if it’s two things, it’s locating large gatherings of people to mock.
Walking into the Colorado Convention Center, I immediately notice two things: Almost everyone is wearing camouflage and the long line at the pro-life petition table. It strikes me as ironic that these would-be signatories have no qualms terminating the family tree of a mule deer, but when it comes to a woman making the same decision for her own bloodline, not so much. Then it strikes me that this is the exact type of liberal logic I’m trying to shake by coming here, so I quickly call myself a queer and proceed.
Then I see the booths. Company after company hawking hunting and fishing trips all over the world. Picture an animal, any animal. Got it? Good. Someone here can take you to kill it. Every kiosk features giant photos of men in neon jackets proudly holding the limp heads of elk, deer, and bighorn sheep. The further in you go, the more elaborate the offerings become: hunting safaris to terminate water buffalo, impala, and warthogs; a few kiosks down, cheetahs and zebras; a few more, elephants and lions. I get the feeling that eventually there will be some booth chartering an expedition to slaughter an entire Masai village. Of course, I could never afford it, so I’d have to go with the company offering trips to hunt Ice-T.
I stroll by the stuffed head of a grizzly bear and overhear (quite possibly) the greatest conversation ever between two people: “Dare you to punch it.”
Dare you to punch it! The stuffed head of a grizzly bear! But the friend didn’t dare. Pussy.
There are some offerings to mitigate the unmitigated killing: dogs dock-diving; wild raptors from the Colorado Division Of Wildlife; chesty fishing-rod models signing promotional calendars for all the Jethroes and Huckleberries queuing by the heartsick dozen. But such offerings are far outnumbered by unfettered bloodlust: knife-sharpening kits, Rambo-style ammo vests, “Real metal on real skulls!” It’s all so violent, so deadly. It doesn’t feel like preservation; it feels like termination. I happen to catch a brief second of a promotional video for a safari-hunting trip out of the corner of my eye. A gun is being held only several feet from a hippopotamus’ head. The trigger is pulled. BLAM! The hippo drops, and I nearly puke in my mouth.
Fuck this.
I leave immediately. On my way out, I notice the convention center’s conspicuous giant blue bear statue. I want to tell him what’s going on in there, what all those Van Damme fans are planning to do to his brethren. That would serve those hungry hunters right, I think. That blue bear would be so pissed, he would bust in there and raise holy hell. Of course the expo-goers probably wouldn’t even bat an eye. They’d just dare each other to punch him in the face.
