This post must be prefaced by a confession that comes by way of an admission.
I’m not an innocent within the realm of animal cruelty.
When I was six, I had a dog named Magnum. He was this skinny, brown hybrid, and by ‘hybrid’, I mean: gorgeous, but dumb. Much like a high school P.E. teacher, he was an appealing oaf. I adored him.
Early Saturday mornings, I’d crawl under the house and we’d hang, Mags and I. One day, out of curiosity, or mischief, or some dreadful combination of the two, I put a yellow scrunchie around Magnum’s nose. He gazed at me with what I recall to be betrayal, pawing at his snout with an adamant futility. I felt horribly guilty, cried, pulled it off (
Much like a high school—), then fed him a bowl full of milk as an apology.
This was an important lesson. Dogs are lactose intolerant. Did you know that? I do. Now. Back then I spent the morning biting my nails, wondering why the poor bastard was staggering through the backyard, shitting through a soup strainer and sneezing in my general direction. I had no idea what was happening. Is this because of the scrunchie? Or is he angry? Is this what dogs do?
I used to give the poor bugger chocolate as well. It’s no surprise he wound up eventually suiciding. After one too many milky enemas, ol’ Magnum threw himself under the wheel of a car. It was in park at the time (gorgeous but dumb), but five hours later—when Great Aunt Bonnie was sober enough to drive, but drunk enough to miss the furry wheel stop—Magnum became nothing more than a story about a yellow scrunchie.
A few years later, I would be told that giving chocolate to dogs puts them in ‘Chocotosis’. This would become a fact that I’d parrot with meticulous confidence—until last week, when I started writing this post and had to google how to spell it. That’s when I finally learnt that it doesn’t really exist, and that Wendy from class 6B was a total c*nt.
Anyway—speaking of!—Kendall Jones! The proud, Texan ‘Huntress’ with an Instagram following of roughly 180 thousand. Her account looks like a bonus round of Big Buck Hunter, where dead animals mingle with cute blonde gashes toting guns. I started following her after a particularly intoxicating Louis Theroux documentary on big game hunting. Her special brand of gun-porn gussied up as pseudo-feminism intrigued me: “Women must not depend upon the protection of a man, but must be taught to protect herself.”
Protected from what, Kendall? From the deer? From woodcocks?
Predictably, she waded into the Las Vegas quagmire. It was a generic “Pray for Vegas” post—alas, not the ‘Prey for Vegas’ that I was hoping for (#itsneverbadpublicity)—so I had to get my kicks in the comment section.
Someone pointed out the hypocrisy of a gun-happy huntress mourning the victims of a senseless gun crime that occurred in a senseless, gun-soaked nation. Kendall’s follower’s were outraged. And, if there is only one reason to follow Kendall, it’s her followers:
“Whoa, whoa, whoa now. This isn’t the gun’s fault, you crazy hippie. If he ran down the strip killing folks in a truck, would you ban trucks? Someone get this guy a bottle and a pacifier, he believes guns kill people. They don’t. People kill—”
SOMEBODY SHOOT ME IN THE FUCKING HEAD.
What the fuck, America. We’re still using this argument? That guns don’t kill people? For shit’s sake. Let me exterminate this once and for all.
Somebody could kill me with a paperclip and a length of cotton if I sat still.
A gun makes things a lot easier, efficient, and expansive.
Good luck trying to kill me with a paperclip from a hotel room window.
This is the problem with guns.
Instead of a lone MacGyver laboriously extinguishing the life of a pretty, blonde sorority pledge after raiding the office supply cupboard at Sun Pharmaceutical, we have
Now, let’s move onto the real issues.
The “mental health issues”, that were mentioned on what I was rapidly becoming to think of as Kendall’s forum. Some wedge of putty in a sleeveless checked shirt said that mental health issues are the real culprit, because “mentally healthy people don’t do this sort—”
WELL WHO’S THE DUMB C*NT THAT GAVE THEM ACCESS TO 47 ASSAULT RIFLES?!
Or the c*nts that gave them shitty mental health care?
Don’t bring the mentally ill into your pro gun arguments.
Listless with this, I began to skim her account. There was an image of her in a field, hands stretched to the sky, ecstatic. She’d captioned it “God is good!” My comment? “How does he feel about you killing all of his creatures for no real reason?”
I was sooo fucking chuffed with myself after this. It was nauseating. Okay, so I’d assumed the gender of God and that shit ain’t cool, but this constitutes clever for me. And so, aroused by my own intellect, I began scrolling her posts, randomly commenting “C*nt” on pictures of her with a dead animal. Scrolling had degenerated to trolling. However, I could only made it through two before I had to put my phone down and pay attention to the lamb roast because something was about to be set alight.
Fifteen minutes later, her loyal fans began to troll back, like Play-Doh zombies summoned forth, they peppered my account with the banal to the vitriolic. Over in Alabama, Curtis Beale Jr unsheathed himself from Billy Bob for just long enough to call me a uncensored proper c*nt. I checked Curtis’ profile. He’d simply put “Genesis 27:3” in his bio—
—and I laughed. Paused. And laughed again. Then I flung him a genuine compliment about his grammar, because I didn’t expect an inbred who’d graduated from the Alabama education system to know the correct ‘you’re’ to use. Good on you for book learnin’ when your mates were all out frog giggin’!
“There’s big words for a big bitch”
“And I think you’re just a jealous, attention seeking whore. But don’t worry,” he continued, “you’ll get whats coming to you.”
Finally! Was I about to be recognised for my contribution to the online world by being awarded a meritless blogging Pulitzer?
But hold on, an attention-seeking whore? Really, Curtis? So, if I’m doing this for attention, aren’t you just playing into my little trap by responding to me? And being a hunter, I’d have thought that you’d know about traps…
Someone got blocked after that was pointed out.
Next, a girl in Glasgow called me a “degenerative little child”. I found her tone so pregnant with whimsy that I couldn’t resist in pointing out that she probably meant a degenerATE child, because a degeneratIVE one is a child that is experiencing a progressive loss of function from a disease. Not that she can be entirely blamed—she was Scottish, so English wasn’t her forte.
Anyway, the whole thing has stirred up some sort of farcical indignation in me. I’m sitting here like a bloated pheasant, googling ‘where does big game profit in Africa really go?’ Which is ridiculous because my initial interest had only been an appreciation of the irony of a reserve of nitwit predators seriously discussing gun control. I never had a problem with hunters. Or hillbillies. I had a problem with entitled white American’s taking annihilation tours through poor countries where the lives of (often endangered) animals are traded for social-media selfies and lined pockets because, when you break that down, it’s fucked up:
“Dear African man, if you shoot this rhino, it’s called poaching. It’s illegal and you’ll wind up in jail, with an anus roughly the same circumference as said creature. However, because I have enough money to purchase your soul if I so desired, when I do it, it’s called ‘big game hunting’.”
Okay, so poachers kill more animals than big game hunters ever could, and poaching doesn’t receive nearly as much media attention, which is also fucked up. We need to hook these motherfuckers up with Instagram accounts.
What other pro-big game arguments are there? That money from the hunt gets filtered back into the economy for conservation efforts? Actually, around 97% of the revenue is often siphoned off by corrupt government officials and the hunting elite. And is it really good for conservation efforts? Sure white rhino numbers have increased, but remember Cecil the lion? You know, Walter J. Palmer, crossbow, wounded and suffering for forty hours, final gun shot to the head, Ricky Gervais commentary, angry riots outside a Minnesota dentist practice? …Yeah? Well, with the head of the pride gone, Cecil’s 24 cubs have probably been slaughtered by other lions. Also, lions are extinct in some parts of Africa now.
How about ‘the meat feeds the poor’? Sure, I’ve read that. However I’ve also read that big game hunters only shoot older, non-reproductive males.
“Here, African child, eat this mutton dressed up as old fucking warthog that’s been baking in the sun of the Serengeti for three days while my children eat apple pie, French fries and healthy self esteem in America.”
If hunters stopped trying to justify their actions and just said, “I need to track and slaughter a lesser being because if I don’t, I may punch a hole in a Las Vegas hotel room window and shoot folks at a concert”, then I’d have a bit more tolerance for them. But they don’t. So I’m calling them a c*nt, which potentially makes me a c*nt as well. And—speaking of!—we’ve come full circle. Much like the big game hunters that feed their quarry to children who masticate and assimilate big game meat which then gets shat onto the ground to fertilise the earth that feeds little game animals so they grow big and strong and gamey enough to get shot in the head by…
Kendall Jones. Let’s fucking troll her! Yes! You and me, baby, you and me! We’re going to change the world!
Well, just you, because I’ve been blocked.
Pause and consider that. This chick has tracked and killed lions. Cheetahs. A fucking hippo. But I’m too much for her? I jumped when a butterfly flew too close to my face once. That’s absolutely true, by the way, and if you ask me in person I’ll tell you the story.
For the past few weeks I’ve been spooring Kendall’s sticky pheromones across the internet. She’s locked in my sights. And I have to track and slaughter things online because if I don’t, I might punch a hole through the barrier between dark humour and evil by starting a #metoo hashtag for “I think poor ol’ Rose McGowan has lost her fucking mind”. So I propose one of two things:
*Pick up thy rod and thy staff and c*nt Kendall out on Instagram.
*Photoshop rifle cross hairs over images of her dog and private message them to her.
It’s what God would want. Now let’s take us some Kendall.