Neither one of these guys is holding their weapon of choice correctly. Must not have read the instructions.
When it comes to manliness and hunting, I’m just going to call a spade a spade. The way men hunt today isn’t manly. It’s not even manly-adjacent. Strapping on a $2,000 rifle with a scope that can light up a flea’s butthole from half a mile away and then bragging about dropping a deer isn’t hunting, and it isn’t sporting. It’s the wilderness equivalent of beating a toddler in Connect Four.
Sure, you won. Congratulations. Do you want a balloon?
Rifles, compound bows, and crossbows have turned “the hunt” into little more than LARPing for bean counters with fragile egos and Rambo fever dreams. Seriously, if you have to bring a weapon to the hunt, at least pick something that requires actual skill. A rock. A spear. A slingshot. Or a boomerang. At least that’s respectable. Hell, I’ll even allow boxing gloves or a baseball bat, because at least that proves you’re interested in meeting nature on its own terms instead of hiding behind ballistic masturbation.
Those weapons are pure, primal extensions of the human body—tools that demand strength, accuracy, timing, and the willingness to miss and look like an idiot in front of the trees. That’s the true spirit and essence of “man vs. nature.” But you show up with a rifle that can kill an elk from 300 yards away? That’s hunting like jerking off to NASCAR is professional racing.
If you’re still using rifles, bows, or any kind of long-range weapon, yay, you. You’ve mastered the hunting skills of an overzealous 14-year-old Fortnite player. Real men don’t hide behind scopes. Real men declare war on nature.
And don’t EVEN get me started about camouflage. Nothing screams “apex predator” like sitting motionless for six hours dressed like a couch pattern from Bass Pro Shop. Tree stands? Way to go. You’ve achieved the hunting prowess of a sniper who’s afraid of eye contact. Blinds? You’re basically birdwatching with murder fantasies. If you’re hiding from your prey, you’re not a hunter—you’re a coward in camouflage whispering motivational quotes to your beef jerky.
Anything other than a shotgun involving triggers, scopes, and camouflage is not hunting. It’s cosplay for accountants with too much disposable income, waddling into the woods dressed like rejected extras from a Duck Dynasty spinoff.
Hunter, my ass. You’re basically a woodland mall ninja with seasonal depression.
You want venison? Don’t shoot a deer. Sprint it down until its heart explodes from fear, then rip out its spine and use it as a drinking straw for its blood.
Boar hunting? Forget the rifle. Dive headfirst into the mud pit and rear-naked choke that pig into pulled pork.
Sharks? Real men don’t hide out in boats with pneumatic air spear guns; they jump straight into the ocean, punch the shark in the nose, and strangle it with their own swim trunks.
Moose? Those giant unruly antlered lunatics aren’t prey, they’re bosses. You don’t hunt a moose. You arm-wrestle it to death while flexing so hard it registers on the Richter scale as a natural disaster.
And bears, that tried and true sacred test of manhood? If you can’t German suplex a bear onto a pile of rocks hard enough to create a new canyon, you’re not hunting, you’re just camping with attitude. The day you climb a cliff and do an elbow-drop on a grizzly, Zeus himself will rip the sky open to hand you a flaming Man Card carved from the skull of your prey.
This isn’t hunting anymore. This is you, half-naked and screaming, rewriting the food chain with your fists. Every animal you slay this way doesn’t just feed you. It evolves into a cautionary myth passed down through generations of terrified woodland creatures.
Make no mistake: future generations will look back on today’s “hunters” the same way we look at adults who brag about beating kids at laser tag. Pathetic. Unimpressive. The kind of achievement that earns you nothing but a participation trophy and maybe a coupon for diapers.
Your great-grandkids won’t remember you as a hero—they’ll remember you as the guy who brought an AR-15 to a squirrel fight. Your legacy won’t be glory; it’ll be a tragic family myth.
“Yeah, that was Grandpa,” they’ll whisper.
“He lost a stare-down with a raccoon and called in an airstrike.”
