It's opening day of the firearms deer season and Michigan's massive peace time army clad in orange is on the hunt. But first a few things about me to set the record straight. I am a non-hunter. Never have hunted. Probably never will. Maybe some day when I am retired and living in the mountain cabin of my dreams I may hunt grouse and eat them. Deer? That just won't happen. Maybe it's just a touch of the Bambi syndrome, wimpy me not wanting to take a shot at a big eyed gentle creature that stares at me. I do eat meat. (I like my ribeye steaks well done.) Many of my friends are hunters and I think the majority of my outdoor writer friends - and some very good friends among them - are deer hunters. And here is where I am going with all of this. There is more than a some slice of hypocrisy out there among the hunters who blabber on and on that they don't like the killing, they don't look at it as sport, "We do it for the meat!" Really? Then why all the boasting rights about who hangs the biggest buck on the community "Buck Pole" and why all the attention to the mounting of the head of big bucks, and why the display of big racks on autos and trucks coming home from the woods with their trophy? And corner bar talk of "Going to lay me down a really big one this season" sure does not sound like it's all about the meat. And look at hunter related magazines: the pages are full of pictures of the biggest dead deer with macho type poses of the meat-gatherer. Well, got to stop my rant now. It's off to the corner grocery store to get myself a trophy size monster ribeye. Maybe I'll tie it to the hood of my car to show the world my success in gathering meat. And then after dinner I'll mount the bone on my wall to record my conquest.