Today’s how-to tip is sure to cause some controversy. Or maybe not. Depends on whom you ask. Although, with the way our readership has been dwindling lately, we could use a little bit of a scandal. Maybe some naked hippie chicks will paint themselves up like Bambi’s mother as part of a PETA protest of RSM.
Most Southern men we know have done this at some point in their lives. And early on they decide on which side of the line they fall with regard to it, pro or con. But a RSM who is against it never judges those who are for it. It’s just part of the culture.
Today, we think you should…
Hunt, kill, clean and cook your own dinner.
I spent my Sunday evening listening to a couple of guys my age discussing their exploits hunting deer, turkeys, quail, ducks…you name it. I say listening, because I had nothing to add to the conversation. I hunted a few times as a kid – mainly squirrels. My dad wasn’t much of a hunter, so neither was I. It’s not that I’m morally opposed to the idea; I just never had any desire to do it. But ever since we started this blog, the lack of notches on my ammo belt has this particular Real Southern Man feeling not very Southern … or manly.
Describing the experience of deer hunting, one friend said, “It’s mostly a lot of agony until that moment when the deer steps out in the clearing then it’s … I don’t know. I think we were just meant to kill something.”
Given my lack of hunting knowledge, there’s no telling whether anything is even in season right now. So you may have to wait until later in the year to fulfill this one. And at some point this winter, I’m going to do it myself and give you the full low-down here on RSM.
While it’s typically done for sport these days, hunting is emblematic of the type of rugged self-reliance that once made this country great. And it only seems to live on in the South and some parts of Montana. (They also tend to harbor a lot of … um … characters with their own private armories out there in Big Sky Country, so we’ll not talk too much about them. Bless their hearts.)
Judge those guys with the gun racks in their pickups all you like. But when the scat goes down, they’ll be living it up – while the suburban Nancies are clamoring for the last can of Clamato in the ruins of the Walmarts. Now how do you feel about Bambi’s mother?