The Hottest New Show

“This momentous convocation of my highly esteemed Cabinet has been called solely to advance a particular priority for the upcoming challenges of 2025. Namely… my very own, spanking-new, can’t-miss OUTDOORS TV SHOW!”

Not bad for rousing the troops, eh? My Cabinet, I mean. All of however many actually show up. And let’s get this clear right off the rip, boys: no kicking, gouging or spitting, and keep the screaming to roughly rocket-launch levels.

There happens to be a merry band of compatriots that has supported my hunting and fishing and trapping and writing and editing and photographing—you get the picture—over the years, the opinions of whom I value highly and trust totally. Tempered only by the facts that they nearly got me jailed or killed upon occasion…

The first to arrive is Marnell, son of Marcus and Avonell. (And both need a severe slapping for hanging such a monicker on him.)

Chewbacca—because he DOES, added to the fact that he never met a razor—sidles in, pomp and circumstance fair oozing from a new pair of overalls. Thumbing the galluses every couple minutes reminds all of this gathering’s gravity.

Drip—always carries four handkerchiefs—is assured of at least one empty chair between him and any neighbor.

Jake The Hermit is around somewhere—a scary thought in itself—and may or may not grace us with his presence. OK, drop the gavel, and keep it simple…

“Boys, I’m thinking about starting up my own outdoors TV show!”

From the looks on their faces, you’d have thought I’d just told them I’d proposed to Elton John. This was a whole new level of dumbfounded.

Marnell was first to recover.

“Uh, where’s Jake?”

Nothing like being on the ball.

“Last time I saw him he was in the midst of serious archaeological excavation under and around quite a few chicken houses in the southern part of the county. Why?”

With a start, a leap, and a minor splash, Drip spluttered. “I gotta go!”

“Not your part of the southern part, Drip. Now sit down and y’all  help me out here. Where do we start?”

At least Chewbacca seemed engaged: “Sponsors. You gotta have a shot of all them baits you use, every bow in Creation, arrows, range finders, your brand of boots, what clothing you wear, them gigantic box stands with lemmen winders, this call, that call, can’t-miss knock-em-dead squirt spray—like Drip…”

It took a few minutes to restore order and bandage up a couple of Cabinet members, but he kinda had a point there. Except for the fact that I don’t hunt over bait, I wouldn’t know a good bow from a bad hoe, never saw the need for a range finder—in a south Georgia creek bottom. My boots and coveralls are so old both companies are out of business—that’s always the way when you find that ONE product. Shelling out several grand to sit in something when I can’t sit still never seemed to make sense. My grunt call likely rests quietly at the home of whichever son I last hunted with…

But that spray, now… I’ve only used Tink’s for 50 years, so it’s still in the development stage. Put it on the list.

Marnell chimes in again: “If you’re not going to use a bow, how about all them rifles? Ought to be good for quite a few companies. Just how many you got now?”

“Well now, let me see,” I replied, mentally going over them all. “Approximatelyyyyy, ONE.”

“One??? You telling me there’s only one deer rifle in your possession?”

“No, I’m telling you there’s one RIFLE. Deer, bear, hog, moose, mastodon… if I do my job, that Winchester Model 70 .30-06 takes care of the rest. It’s been said before: Beware of the man with one gun, because he probably knows how to use it.

Winchester; write it down, scribe.

“Pishpishpishpish…”

What in the cathair is that?

“Yo, we got a rat?”

“No,” Drip splashes, “Chewbacca is trying to say something but the words are hung up in his mane…”

When the dust settled, the front of Chewbacca’s new duds were covered with globs of goo, but it served him right for throwing the chair. I’m still looking for the rat.

“There ain’t no rat,” Chewy grunts. “I’m a’trying to tell you that you gotta learn to whisper. That’s what it sounds like on TV. You can’t understand a word they’re saying, and they look a little goofy while they tell you what just happened despite the fact that you saw it all for yourself.

“And one other thing: if you ever DO start bowhunting, you have to learn to say, ‘We’re going to back out.’ I don’t know why or who WE is, but they ALWAYS say that.”

“Why thank you, Marnell, that was well said, and I’m in full agreement that there will be no whispering among our group. Not that any of you would begin to know how; plus, half of you can’t hear a freight train in a closet. As for backing out, that’s a patience thing—and I ain’t got none.”

A raspy snarl from outside the window startled us all. My Chief Of Staff has at last arrived…

“Ye shore ain’t, and ye also ain’t got much of a brain to put this bunch of hoodlums on TV. Half of ’em’s on the post office wall. You want idees? Here’s one: fetch your 70 and let’s go kill something.”

Oh, well. I don’t look ALL that much like Charlton Heston anyway. This meeting stands adjourned!