Dear Sally, I’m a huntin, shootin and fishin kinda guy, I’m really down to earth and I don’t mean no harm. I’m writing to you to complain about the lack of dang destinations for my hobbies. Big game huntin is losing traction. The ivory trade ain’t kosher, shootin tigers and endangered snow leopards is really pissin people off and I can’t even join the cull of wild Mustangs in Nevada without some wimpy-assed do-gooders gettin their tits in a tangle. I’m due for a good long vacation shortly, and I’ve been polishin my shotgun and dreamin about where I can go. You got nuthin in your Deals section for dudes like me. So where can I go? Eddie Himmler.
I’m absolutely mystified why I’m getting so many queries from rednecks – Betty Sue from God-knows-where wants to go line dancing in Islamabad – but there you are. What a dilemma – nowhere to indulge your passion for rampant murder and wiping out endangered wildlife. I’m sure there are a few despotic regimes in Africa and the Middle East who could give you a vacation in their military or internal affairs departments. They might offer you a job – kind of like work experience – and supply you with an even bigger gun than you have now. Lots of people work their way around the world with casual jobs, although usually it’s making coffee and clearing tables.
If you can bear to leave your gun at home, go somewhere to take your mind off it. Try visiting Wewelsburg Castle, near Paderborn in Germany, which was the former home of SS leader Heinrich Himmler. You could connect with that. It’s now a museum, unfortunately attracting a few neonazi freaks, but I don’t think that’s a problem for you. Otherwise, if you and your big, er, bazooka cannot be parted, try going to Macquarie Island in Australia where they have a rabbit eradication program, and volunteer to speed up the process. Voluntourism is on trend. It’s huge with the Red Cross.
The options are vast, Eddie, I’m almost salivating myself. Although I would prefer to ride in a Mustang, visit a castle where I’m treated in a queenly manner, and rabbit is the fur on the collar of my coat with no unseemly questions asked about its origins.
I’ll get my people to call your people and we’ll sort something out, even if it means shooting fish in a barrel in your backyard. We’ll hire a uniform, find some faux medals, set up noise effects of wounded elephants and antelopes, and you can knock yourself out. With a bit of luck.
Graciously yours, Sally.
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