Admit it: We all feel like turning nature into collectibles. What's a hobbyist without a little blood or wing-pollen on their hands? The last time I looked, nature had lots of stuff in it, and most of it was just itching for a chance to hang on someone's wall, crawl into a formaldehyde jar, or pose frozen in time with just its skin hanging out. Never mind the funny screams and hands-to-mouth gestures of do-gooders, or the high-pitched pleas of the crazy old lady down the block who actually likes squirrels. None of them have ever experienced the thrill of the hunt quite like you.
Remember the first time you had an erection while watching the goo seep out of that rabbit or raccoon? Wasn't that the best erection of your whole life?? So come on, let's teach everyone how to have that erection. Before you know it all the world will be erect and nature will tremble at the sight!
Some personal history here. I was scared by a butterfly when I was in the crib. The hideous yellow swallowtailed monster must have flown right in an open window and landed on my rattle. When I looked into its multi-eyes, and it looked into my soul, I screamed like a church on fire. All the thing actually did was open and close its wings, real slow and leisurely, all yellow and 'swallowtailly', laying enough childhood trauma on me in 15 seconds to assure that nightmares became my constant companions and best friends for years.
So when I was old enough to walk I started to collect them. Butterflies, my enemy collectible. My way of reaching out into nature and pulling it into me real quick. Butterflies are easy as pie to catch. Just grab one of those looney cartooney looking nets sold at any good dollar store, spot a butterfly ridiculously free in nature, and wrestle it to the ground. By swooping your net over its struggling carcass you have now become a mighty collector with the God-like power of life and death. Let's choose death, shall we?
Put the butterfly in a jar which is already home to a cotton ball soaked in the chemicals the Germans used, and watch it squirm like Caryl Chessman in the gas chamber. What use are your swallowtail wings now, creature from hell? Ha!
Once it's a goner, lay it spread-butterflyedwinged in more cotton and put a pin in it. Label it with a little tag. Now what do you have? Your first trophy! A museum piece! Go get some more. Be sure to store up lots of pins.
Do you really think deers are cute? If they could only speak English they'd call you the vilest names possible just because they caught you walking on their land. If they had the least amount of courage they'd kick your head from here to the corner, chew on your carcass, and call their friends over to gloat. And as sure as my nickname is "Body Fat", if a deer caught you in its headlights in a dark alley at 1 a.m. it's the last you'd be tasting of this planet's oxygen, buckko.
So do them all a favor and get them before they get you. All you need is a cheap WalMart rifle and a little pile of corn. Place the corn on the ground or in an empty lot, peer around the trunk of a tree, and blast away when one of the critters dares to fulfill its unnatural urge to eat. God almighty with a stick up His ass, the joy of seeing that forest-steed jump and collapse (unless it's "wounded", whereupon you have to chase it, aim a few kicks at its midsection, and suck the life out of it before the sun goes down) is unsurpassed without taking your clothes off (or so I've heard). Hell, take your clothes off! Then your dangly bits will attract the deers attention and temporarily distract it from its surroundings.
Now let me tell you something about collecting deer heads. They come off much easier than you'd imagine. A couple of deep penetrating cuts, a good yank (pretend you're pulling a blonde child's teeth), and a twist just so, and there, screwed loose and ready for the mount. When the horns, skull, and blank eyes rest in your lucky little hands, and the blood drips eagerly from its neck stump, nirvana is achieved and you are again erect and involuntarily spouting.
Don't stop there
As long as a single elephant roams the earth, or a bald eagle serenely soars above a majestic peak, you will be there. Whenever a white rhino runs the savanna or a wayward grizzly stalks its prey, you will be there. Wherever a quagga used to roam or a passenger pigeon flew, you would have certainly been there. And when the last lion alive tries to hide wayyyy back inside a wolves den, you'd damn well better be there to put a perfectly aimed piece of metal between its eyes. "King of the Jungle" my ass! Take the shot and the throne, mister.
You see, the lure of Big Game is that it's big. It takes up a lot of space on your wall and in your memories than a mere insect or butterfly does. The thrill of bringing down something that could stomp and/or chew you feels like nothing else on earth, except what I imagine sex to be. If an animal the size of your fridge ever lumbers into your killing zone in search of vegetation, quickly end it's useless existence and laugh at the weakness of the cooling corpse.
You are now a man, my son.
The next logical step
The insulting name "Serial Killer" is placed on some collectors, usually those who aren't satisfied with just tiger skins or stuffed Komodo Dragons decorating their living room. By hunkering down and giving the term "Collector" its due by doing away with the most dangerous prey (not to be confused with the least dangerous prey), these affeciados bring the art of the checklist to near perfection. One of the most abundant animals in nature, man, can be found almost anywhere where the environment has been turned into cement or Disney. The skilled collector can sit quietly on any street corner or sidewalk cafe, look around without calling attention to himself, and wait out any layabout, high-roller, or expectent mother shopping for her brood.
Start your hunt by imagining what a particular head will look like after processing. Follow it along its natural trails, and observe where it stops to feed or drop spoor. Never underestimate the joy of spotting what I like to call "Trophy Wall Candidates". Your long wait for just the right one will pay off in the thrilling hours you'll spend with the remains. Be sure to rub the lotion on its skin, and take along plenty of pins.
For the advanced collector
But for the really skilled and dedicated collectors of nature, get elected to your countries presidency. With drones, a personal army and air force, FEMA camps, and an entire gross national product to play with, you can wreck havoc on a foreign nation's yellow swallowtail butterfly population, collect other countries (just think of the game "Risk", only with larger, shinier, and more blood-filled pieces), and gain numerous firm erections as your specimans whimper and fall.
Never mind the cranky dogooders, or the crazy old lady down the block who cries crocodile tears about the damage to her spring planting and/or the extreme loss of innocent life. Just send a couple of Scud missles down the old bat's chimney, claim collateral damage, and, if you'll not the squeamish type, see if there's anything left to mount.
Man, the fun of collecting, it just never stops!