So I had no problem with calling Sarita out on her avian excursions, sitting in a helicopter with the rumble and tumble of the helicopters over head, piercing the flesh and hearts of unsuspecting snow lupus with rifles equipped with silver-bullets in case they were werewolves.
But Mrs. Palin brought up an important point. If I never tried it, how could I judge it.
I started thinking about other things I judged unfairly, like slavery and driving drunk. I take that back. Driving drunk IS crazy. But it feels so good to speed down the interstate 5, headed south-bound on my way out of the Liberal hub towards San Diego, watching happy cows eat grass and pollute our air with their ass ... not knowing in three weeks they might be my next burger.
So I decided to take Sarita up on the challenge.
"Fine," I didn't say, since this didn't happen. "Let's go. Give me a rifle and take me up there, lady. I want to get high."
And there we were, slicing through the air in this machine, throwing ice cubes at the sea-otters as they barked at us. And wow. I can't explain the feeling of shooting an animal from the air for the sake of the sport.
It's kind of like killing an animal to eat it, except way more Backwater.
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