So, you're sitting at your favorite non-franchise coffee bar, sipping an organic macchiato lightly sweetened with guave nectar and grunting with dismay over the headlines of the day in the local free "alternative" newspaper, when who should walk up to you but Ted "The Nuge" Nugent.
For some reason, on this day of all days, The Nuge has been blistering his nasal passages with white meth before 10AM, and thanks to some serious retinal quaking, mistakes you for a real man and invites you to his digs. You, having a cushy six-digit salaried job that actually takes "I'm out of Xanax" as a sufficient excuse for your absence, are bored stupid and agree. As you hop into his Hummer, he indicates that various psilocybins and fucking underaged girls in the shitter are on the day's acumen. Despite your patently manufactured resistance and feeble PC deflection, you quickly give in.
When you arrive on his property, he hands you a recurve compound bow with a laser sight and says you're going hunting. Aghast at the notion of harming one of the Goddess' precious creations, you try to hand it back, your thin wrists waggling with dismay, but Ted assures you that you won't be hunting anything cute. Being incredibly naive, you sigh, because hey: shrooms and dirty dirty sex with groupie teens.
Finally, after crawling through the underbrush and tearing all kinds of hell out of your post-fashionable tweed Gucci trousers and Armani polo, The Nuge gestures for you to stop. He indicates that you should draw the bow, perfectly calibrated for your Pro Club sculpted but otherwise useless biceps. You do so, not wanting to argue with a man painted with elk's blood, and you peer through the sight.
You gasp. There is a pulsing red dot on the neck of your target: agent provocateur and grating fatass Michael Moore, who is hugging a spotted owl and quietly weeping.
WHAT DO YOU DO, taco?
