Buck fever: How to shoot your own foot

Last Friday on the airport parking shuttle, I overheard a conversation between two hunters flying to exotic big-game hunts out West. They had just met (they were both carrying camouflage luggage.) Their conversation went something like this:

"Where you headed?" the man I'll call Hunter Bob asks.

"South Dakota, antelope," says Hunter Dick. "My son and I have gone on a big hunt every year for the past six years. It's a great time."

"Is your son here?"

"No. Unfortunately, he had to stay home this year."

"That's too bad," says Bob. "School?"

"No," says Dick, sounding a little disgusted. "My wife is making him go to my brother-in-law's funeral."

Oh man. Talk about buck fever.