Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Life Lessons I've Learned From Buck Hunter
People here in Ketchum don’t fuck around when they shoot their simulated wildlife. These are no small-time Buck Hunter virgins. Nope. They hold national, if not international records for shooting animated elk, sheep, goats, deer, moose, antelope, caribou and assorted smaller wildlife.
Now I’m no novice to Buck Hunter. I’ve been shooting video game wildlife since high school, when we used to sneak into the dive-bar cop hangout Cork N’ Bottle and drink cheap beer and shoot mountain goats. And for years now I’ve wanted to dress up as the Buck Hunter chicks for Halloween.
One time, while nursing an overpriced martini at a trendy bar where men wear designer jeans and women where, well, pretty much nothing, I complained, “I’d rather be drinking PBR and playing Buck Hunter right now. In fact, I’d take PBR and Buck Hunter any day over this crap.” And besides being a kick-ass drinking game, Buck Hunter teaches from valuable life lessons with its hot hunter chicks and plastic guns.
Don’t shoot the cows. If you shoot the bitches your tour is over. And to make it worse, the game informs not just you, but the entire gathered bar crowd of your inferiority and mediocrity at shooting simulated wildlife. It scream, in big, bold letters, “YOU SHOT A COW!” In other words, you dumb fuck. Way to suck at this game. Moral of the story, don’t fuck with women. If you fuck with a woman, your tour is over. And then the whole bar knows that you suck at the game.
If It’s Tourist Season Then Why Can’t We Shoot ‘Em? Anyone who has lived in a resort town for more than one season has asked this question at least once. There is nothing like the onslaught of white-tennis-shoe-wearing, khaki-short-sporting, camera-clicking, direction-asking, fanny-pack-donning, get-the-fuck-outta my bar/coffee shop/restaurant/ski slope/river section/wave break tourists to make one contemplate this question. And a tourist in designer jeans with a wallet full of quarters who thinks that he is entitled, even allowed, to engage in this game, our game - don’t even get me started. Which is why Sarah brought this up the other night. She decided, “There should be a tourist shooting level. And it should take place in Sun Valley. And all the tourists should be wearing fanny packs.” And we raised our glasses and toasted to that.
Drinking Is Key To Life. I mean key to Buck Hunter. Well, anyway. Now I’m no expert. And I don’t claim that this holds true for everyone. But I’ve found that sober Buck Hunter is a lot more difficult than tipsy Buck Hunter. And that tipsy Buck Hunter is a lot less fun and rowdy than drunk Buck Hunter. And blackout Buck Hunter. There are no words.
Don’t Think Just Shoot. To really kick this game’s ass, you can’t think too hard. You just have to pull the trigger and shoot some shit. Oh, yeah, and don’t forget not to shoot the bitches. Lesson learned here? Go with your gut and don’t think too hard. Important life advice.
Anger Is A Good Thing. In moderation at least. Think about it. How are you supposed to blow holes in simulated wildlife if you’re sitting there gingerly clutching the gun and cringing each time a poor, little bucky-wucky goes down? You’re not. You have to get pissed. You have to want to GET IT DONE. Some of my best games have happened when I was really ready to fuck some shit up. And thankfully, animated wildlife served as a great outlet for this sentiment (Sarah – Bad Billys last summer). But this is where moderation comes in. You can’t get so pissed that, upon eliminating a cow and ending the tour, you slam the gun through the screen, pour your beer on that hot blond chick who turned you down and punch a hole through the bathroom door. That’s no good. And now the game is steaming and smoking and ruined for everyone. Moderation is key. Just like in life.
So there you have it. The benefits of playing a game of Buck Hunter while drinking cheap beer. There are life lessons are learned from this pursuit of happiness (and drunkenness). What life lessons have you ever learned drinking a $300 bottle of champagne and sitting at a too-hip-to-handle, overpriced martini bar engaged in a pointless conversation about some pointless celebrity with a pointless man who has nothing better to do than stare at your tits and talk about himself in between checking his Crackberry for emails (or more likely for Facebook updates about himself)? None. But Buck Hunter. Well Buck Hunter might just be the Socrates of our generation.