I'm probably not a typical Texan in end that I don't hunt. I fish, but I don't hunt. And not because I think it might somehow be more holy to eat meat that's been bludgeoned to death by somebody else. That's not it. It's really early in the morning. It's really cold outside. I don't wanna go. My cousin Ray, on the other hand, thinks killing a deer with a deer rifle is magic in the forest, and I'd like to do for you now my impression of my cousin Ray after the big kill.

Hell, it was four in the morning, 22 degrees outside. Of course, you weren't there. Pussy. I'm in a camouflage, deer blind with grease paint on my face. I've got deer urine on my boots. I'm not sure why. I made that part up. I got a 30 out six with a 12 power scope and a bullet that'll travel 2,200 feet per second. When that deer looked up to lick the salt sucker I'd hung from the dang old tree, caught him right above the eye.

Yeah. Well, I hit one with a van going 55 miles an hour with the headlights on and the horn blowing. Whoo. That's an elusive little creature. If you ever miss one, it's because the bullets moving too fast. Slow that bullet down to 55 miles an hour, put some headlights and a little horn on it. The deer will actually jump in front of the bullet.