On his recent hunting expedition--well, "killfest" might be more accurate--Dick Cheney shot more than 70 (seventy) ringneck pheasant and "an unkown number of mallard ducks: in one day. It's actually called a "canned hunt." So there's no pretense of any real sport being involved.
Now, I'm not entirely against all sorts of hunting, but how do you not consider that blood sport plain and simple? How disturbing that *anyone* (let alone the second in command of the United States) would derive pleasure from shooting and killing more than 70 animals in a single day. I mean imagine the man striding thrugh the underbursh, shotgun in hand, steely-eyed, efficient. Methodical. It's bizarre. Wouldn't you get tired of the whole game after shooting, say, seven or eight birds? But, no. Cheney went on killing and killing and killing. And killing.
The facts of this slaughter add another disturbing dimension to Cheney's character.
If I had the opportunity to interview him, perhaps I'd ask, "So how does it feel after the . . . 50th bird?"
"Do you still get the same rush?"
"Is the scent of blood and cordite just as rich?"
Matt Bivens writes much better than me on the same topic for The Nation.