Think deer season.
1. Imagine, if you can, a (mostly) undereducated host of men in neon orange vests and camo. The outfits alone are enough to make me gag.
In case you need a visual. Oooh, he almost makes me want to go bear hunting. Grrr, honey.3. Also, “y’ins,” and “y’uns.” That’s plural for “I’m a jackass.”
(I google-imaged “yins”)
4. “Pennsylvania is just a state that gets in your way when you want to go somewhere.” — Jackie-O Pascal, Parker Posey’s character in The House of Yes.
5. Deer entrails by the side of the road. I guess I’m lucky: at least I don’t live near deer-gut dumping grounds.
6. Two weeks ago, a deer running for its life plowed into my car. It hit the front passenger side, forcing me into the oncoming lane. Thankfully (?) I drive to work on a rural road that connects West Virginia and Pennsylvania, and no one was driving east. The deer flipped up onto the hood and then deflected or bounced or maybe even piroutted off of my car. The deer was fine. My car’s funeral is next week (followed, hopefully, by the resurrection).
The feeling of the impact: like a wrecking ball of muscle hit the side of my car and swung it effortlessly to the end of its path. Like being sucker-punched by the hand of God. I can still feel the animal’s velocity in my body.
7. People keep saying, “Oh, you hit a deer.” No, bitches. The deer hit me. Here’s your orange vest.
8. The people at the collision center, who are fixing my car, keep saying, “Oh, it’s a very common occurrence.” The hell it is, I thought. But now, it seems everyone I tell has an aunt who once mowed down a buck on her John Deer tractor. The sighs at the end of the stories make me think that poor Aunt Shirley never was the same.
9. The guy who wanted to be excused from class so he could go deer hunting.
10. The guy who offered me deer steak for extra credit. When I said I don’t eat red meat, he said, “It’s not red meat, it’s deer.”
Lest you all think I’m a negative nelly, I’ll say some nice things about PA, the birthplace of freedom: the snow delights me (I grew up in South Florida), the Andy Warhol museum rocks, Philadelphia doesn’t suck, the confluence of rivers in Pittsburgh is beautiful, and the air near Hershey, PA is redolent of chocolate. There, now I’m a negative butch.
But don’t get me started on West Virginia, babysitter precious. We could be here for hours.
Charles Jensen | Writer 
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