This was another Scottsville Library free bin hook-up, and sadly the free magazine bin has taken a step back from the pit of a piece of furniture full of printed matter to two hokey columns with a single milk crate on top of each. I sort of understand the thinking, as no one really respected the free bin, dumping a bunch of shit in it, and I actually tried to police it at times, hauling off crap that had been in there forever that no one was ever gonna want, but I guess it wasn't to be forever. I can see the current format dying a slow death over the next couple of months and the free magazine exchange bin disappearing forever. I will be a sad motherfucker on that day.
Anyways, I really couldn't pass up a magazine called Boar Hunter, because it's amazing to me when I find mags like this to something I would consider an extreme fringe element. I guess the Prairie dog hunter magazines I found a couple years back are even stranger, but still an entire publication dedicated to hunting wild pigs. Some interesting asides: referring to hunting as "harvesting" will always make me laugh, and the in-depth analysis of wild boar damage to farms to suggest that hunters should be more proactive in killing more fucking wild pigs was pretty funny too. Apparently the key is to kill a few gilts a year, as gilts are female pigs not yet being sexually mature long enough to have dropped a load of piglets on the earth's surface to eat up shit in a wild and undomesticated manner, much to the chagrin of the more domestic-minded. Litter size increases with each litter, so the quicker you kill a gilt, the quicker we stop this terrible menace to property owners. They had tracking devices on wild boars and GPS data on how far the average one roamed to forage and all sorts of in-depth scientifical nonsense to help prove we should shoot more of them fat little wild fuckers. And all the pictures in the mag are of hunters, no little Poindexter types to be seen, so as I read all this supposed data, I didn't imagine some professorial type's voice... I heard it in the voice of the short, squat redneck down the road whose name I don't remember but he remembers mine because I helped him fix the belt on his truck one time outside of my house in the snow and he's actually referred me to people for painting work. I bet he's a Shifflett. Everyone around here I don't know is a Shifflett. Thousands of them, all refugees from the government building the Blue Ridge Parkway and forcing all these hillbillies down into the valley lands of Virginia.
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