Old Newt started the discussion on Southern Humorists by asking about snipe
hunting.
"Seems like I
read somewheres where y'all have snipe hunts around here every now and then. I
sure do want to go with y'all the next time you go, I'll even bring my own
tow-sack. I just dearly love snipe hunts, but I have the worst luck. I ain't
never caught the first one and the last time I went, I got lost and it took me
four days to find my way out'n them bottoms."
Shelly tried to point Old Newt in the right direction by sending him to a
site about mythical creatures.
"If you want to hunt snipe, Old Newt, I hear tell you can find one here.
It might take you a few tries, though. Good luck."
Old Newt forgot to take the sack and couldn’t find any snipe anyhow.
Fortunately, he did remember how to get back to Southern Humorists, by just
using the back arrow on his browser.
Marti is from a long line of snipers among other things.
"My Pa was a snipe hunter from way back. He said he caught a lot of
them, but they were so fierce, he wrestled with 'em for three days but they
still got away.
Least wises that what he told Ma when he came home."
Tom then offered his sage advice:
"I think the problem was your Pa only found the female snipe. They
are fierce, fanged, aggressive and danged near impossible to subdue without hog
tieing 'em. 'Course they are more valuable than the male specie once you get 'em
locked up."
Old Newt nostigally remember his last snipe encounter:
"I reckon it must've been the female variety that got after me whist
I was lost on my last hunt. When I got home I had claw marks on my back and fang
bites on my neck. I figured they was just scratches from briars while I was lost
in the bottoms. I bet my wife'll be glad to find out they was from them female
snipes chasing after me and bitin' and peckin' and stuff, she said they sure
didn't look like no briar scratches to her.
Man I just can't wait to go again."
"Old Newt, you just stick to that story and I'll back you up. I've
been there myself." Replied Tom,
Skunk Feathers, unable to contain himself, told about his own snipe
experiences.
"In
my early Scoutin' days in NE Iowa, we engaged in many a snipe hunt. Saw lots of
'sign', but never managed to run one to earth. Probably too clumsy, noisy,
inexperienced, etc.... you know us danged Yankees.
Then I moved to Colorado. Gave up on snipe huntin'. Out here, the 'snipes'
are referred to as 'sandpackers'. Standing two feet tall, kangaroo in
appearance, they have spade sized/shaped feet, and travel in packs. When you
think you've cornered one, it's just like tangling with a velociraptor: the
others descend upon you from the flanks and rear. They knock you down, and pack
prodigious quantities of sand up your... er... sitdown portion.
Total humiliation.
Sandpacker/human contacts are few: ERs are happy it is so."
Angela, thankfully, had a snipe story to share to change the line of
discussion.
"Now, about them thar Snipe...... my good
personal friend Gertrude Butterbean had an encounter with Snipe with Beer Can
Bob. It was downright frightening! "
"The
other day, my buddy Beer Can Bob™ paid me a social call. We spent most of the
day talkin' politics and when evenin' rolled around, I asked him if he'd like to
try his luck snipe huntin'. Being the adventuresome type, he got all excited.
I took ol' Beer Can Bob™ with me out in the woods
to a place where I recently heard snipe stompin' and hollerin'. I described what
they looked like and how mean they got when you sing disco. I showed him how to
call em and how to flush em out from under the brush, "You gotta make the
right 'phhhbbbbbttttt' sound and they'll come runnin'," I said. Since I had
chickens to feed, I left him out there with his snipe sack for a while.
It was almost dark when I got worried and went to
collect him. The poor thang - I found him shaking and cowering in some briars.
Right when I reached to untangle him, I heard a real loud "tuh-tuh-tidder-tidder-TUH!"
Lord have mercy! Beer Can Bob™ explained to me
that my neighbor off in the distance was singing Kung Fu Fighting real loud
while she was hoeing. Whoof, it made them snipes mad! Up yonder at the top is a
picture of the two of us hiding beneath the pine trees until Bobbye Joyce shut
up and the snipes calmed down."
So, nobody saw one and nobody sacked one to skin and
cook. According to Ms. Shelly, they must be real or else so many people wouldn’t
know about them. So, we’re still hunting them, especially with newbies.
If you should catch one, we suggest that you use the
beer butt chicken recipe and omit the sack for best results.
Quotes, Exaggerations, and Speculations by Southern Humorists Members
Compiled and Edited by Sheila Moss
Copyright 2006 Southern Humorists
