People are giving Dad a hard time
over the hunting stuff:
Campaigning in Indianapolis on Thursday, Romney said he has hunted small game since his youth.
"I'm not a big-game hunter. I've made that very clear," he said. "I've always been a rodent and rabbit hunter. Small varmints, if you will. I began when I was 15 or so and I have hunted those kinds of varmints since then. More than two times."
I can vouch for his hunting small "game". The date was June 18, 1979. It was a Monday. I was living in Pawtucket Rhode Island because my Mom had moved in with an idiot who claimed to be an advance scout for the Red Sox minor league. (and who turned out to be a guy who thought he would become a millionaire selling t-shirts and rabbits' feet with an "unofficial" Red Sox logo. Hey, Doug—maybe those millions of dollars would have trickled in a little faster if you'd bothered to proof read your designs instead of printing up 5,000 "Boston Red Dox" t-shirts.) My Dad took Fagg and Matt (who's a dolt) on a two-day yachting trip in Newport.
On the way back he planned to meet me at a Doctor's office because Dad and Queen Bitch Ann were afraid Josh had a bacterial infection and may need a blood transfusion and QBA suggested Dad try to sweet-talk a couple pints of blood out of me. (Apparently, Ben is afraid of needles.) Anyway, I waiting on the lawn of the Doctors office playing with Sir Alfred, my Guinea Pig. When Dad and the boys arrived, Matt (seriously, total dolt) jumped out of the "White Whale" and immediately started crying that he wanted a guinea pig, too. He grabbed for Sir Alfred, and starting stretching him out by his rear legs. Dad got pissed and said, "I'll settle this," then stormed over to his Beemer without hesitation, popped the trunk, grabbed Tagg's air rifle and shot Sir Alfred four times in the head execution-style. I'm sure he'll make great use of those diplomacy skills in the White House. (I can't tell you how much fun it was to go from witnessing that scene to being strapped to a table and getting my blood drained in exchange for a glass of orange juice and an awkward hair tousle from Dad. P.S. turns out Josh just had an allergic reaction to some caviar, and didn't need my blood after all.)
Consider yourself Vouched, Dad.
