Jackalopes like tequila. This fact based in years of strenuous and frankly unnecessary research, puzzled jackalope hunters for years, myself included.
Why would Jackalopes, a species of supposed “mythological proportions”, prefer the taste of Mexico when they are born bred and corn fed in the fields and farms of North Dakota?
When I was in high school, I worked at Seabreeze, a water park in Rochester. I was a lifeguard which I, at the time, thought was the coolest job known to man. I accumulated a gaggle of friends, all of whom were native to the area but hailed from different schools. I went to one of the three private high schools so my selection of friends was limited at best. In reality, I hated everyone that went to my school. Being the only hockey-playing-1996-Oldsmobile-driving girl amongst hordes of BMW-driving rich football players and cheerleaders made me a little bit of an outcast. I had a small group of close friends but this job made finding people I could actually stand relatively easy. Hence, I took advantage of this heaven-sent situation by blindly following whomever told me to go anywhere.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
WRITING HUNTRESS OFFICIALLY OFFERS GUIDED JACKALOPE HUNTS TO THE PUBLIC.
"It was something I've always wanted to do," The Writing Huntress, a noted hunter, chef, author, philanthropist, camouflage aficionado and all-around spectacular human specimen shyly noted during this afternoon's press conference hunt. "Jackalope hunting is in my blood, it's something that not a lot of people have been able to do so I figure, why not allow people to achieve their dreams?"
I am currently writing to you from some nondescript forest in the middle of nowhere, snugly nestled into my florescent blue, purple zebra-striped blind, waiting for some little feisty creatures to descend upon my thoughtfully placed mini-bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and artfully crafted, fresh zebra cakes. Time spent in this position has exceeded what one would call "normal" or "sane" so my keister is as raw as it could be but I know, in the deep recesses of my insane noggin, that all will be well once the little monsters get a whiff of the bountiful meal I have provided.
First, give me a chance to dispel some of the gossip that has been circulating. No, friends, I am not best friends with Chuck Norris, although it would be incredible if I were. Also, it is completely unverified that I was the one who lived amongst a pride of lions for three years. While I do have a scar that slightly resembles a lion claw across my face; it was not me. Finally, I did not kill a polar bear with my bare hands. This notion is completely impossible, as a polar bear is a massive, white angry ball of man-killing fur. I hate to disappoint those thrill seekers of my fellowship, no I did not get that bear with my hands, it was with my feet.
Now to the stuff that you all came here for; the truth.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.