Is it just that hunting is beyond us, that we find its culture and conventions perplexing? Does the image to the right resonate with anyone? Who is this turkey supposed to be?
What it looks like to the hunting-averse:
Some turkey with a comb-over trying to recapture his misspent youth hits the trail with his sunglasses—the "cool" kind with the cord in back, to keep the things on your head—and his black tee. He'll take whatever scraps the gang deigns to part with, so long as he can be one of the guys, if only for a few, fleeting hours. And—this part is crucial—even if his participation takes the form of target.
Maybe it's a mid-life crisis. Maybe it's some nagging identity issues. Maybe his wife has left him. Who knows what drives a turkey to such lengths?
Whatever's behind it, he set the alarm for 5:30, packed up the truck, and got ready to dodge bullets until around noon. Of course, there was always Plan B: get pumped full of birdshot, plucked, roasted, eaten, and excreted. Hey, all for one and one for all, right?
Of course, this only renders the whole affair more pathetic than it would otherwise be. Start with a slow, flightless bird. Throw in the bird's desperate desire to pal around with you, and you're left with a sad charade that merely underscores the bankruptcy of the hunt.