There’s a scene in “From the Hip” with Judd Nelson where his character, Stormy Weathers argues that the word “asshole,” despite being offensive to some, be admitted into court records on the grounds that words like “jerk face,” and “nincompoop” just don’t adequately describe certain individuals. Well, being a father of three and a generally even keeled guy, I am not a proponent of effusive name calling. Neither do I find myself particularly all warm and fuzzy with pride when I hear my children partaking in this long-lived ritual. But from time to time I do encounter people who, ever so prolifically, manage to lend a voice to the dark side of my vocabulary.

Now I have met or known or been related to an assortment of assholes, jerks, morons, dipshits, jack wagons, buttheads and even a “cold-hearted, hypocritical, two-faced, lying, backstabbing, drama queen.” And in the interests of disclosure I must admit that there have been moments where I performed a little freelance work as an asshole or jerk face myself. But there was one particular alias of a man that I had really yet to come across. Until now that is. Oh, I knew he was out there. I had heard his tales and exploits woven into the fabric of many an unfortunate everyday occurrence for some poor souls, but I had never been this close to one. So when I found myself entertaining the vivid notion of this particular creature, I couldn’t help but seek into him for a moment of not-so-reverent introspection – he was, after all, my first douchebag!

Now in the interests of further disclosure I must admit that I had not yet been personally affronted by his miserable aura or pungent odor so I am left to relate this to you in metaphorical speak. Pretend it is douchebag season and I am out hunting. I come across the broken branches and trampled grass and occasional scat that mark his passing so I know he is here, perhaps even just moments ahead of me. And somehow just being in the same forest with him evokes an amalgamation of emotions and senses that threaten to overwhelm a guy so much so that he wishes he had brought his AR instead of a shotgun. I am talking about anger and pity in the same breath. I am talking about a frustration that lends itself a few notches short of all out hate. I am talking about flipping that AR selector switch from single shot to full auto!

The dilemma for me, of course, is that like any time you take up arms, there will always be collateral damage, and since friendly fire isn’t friendly at all, I didn’t bother to purchase a tag this season. It is a hunt for a close encounter not unlike wanting to see a skunk up close without the result of burning ones close afterwards. It is a hunt that will lead me through the woods this week with perhaps that fateful encounter nearing its end. It is a peaceful mission of course, but like any prepared soldier I shall bring arms and armor just in case.


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