Fightin' Words by Patrick Keller "The Hunt Is On" The snow crunches under Jeb's feet as he and his son Dex make the long trek through the wood behind their house to their usual spot. The trip is the same every year since the boy was old enough to shoot. Ask Jeb about past trips and he will speak with pride, and at length, about his boy's awkward first attempts at handling a rifle. "He couldn't hit anything that wasn't two inches from his face," Jeb says with a laugh. His father presses him, and Dex reluctantly shows off a scar on his shoulder from an early hunting mishap. "He's gotten a lot better since then." Jeb halts the conversation suddenly as their hound whines, and he lifts the flap of his cap to listen. Nothing. "She's probably just hungry." After a moment, they resume the hike. "The best spot is up ahead. We like to get here a day early, before the season officially starts, and set up camp. It gives us time to prepare." He points to a specific spot in the clearing, and Dex ("short for Dexter," Jeb says, "his momma insisted -- I wanted to call him Ralph.") begins to unload their gear. A Coleman stove is lit for warmth, and the wait begins. A young male wanders through at dusk, and Jeb checks his watch. Too early yet to shoot. He knows he could probably get away with it, but he sits down. There will be plenty of opportunities tomorrow. Dex is up first. He's got a bead on his prey from behind the blind. He pulls the trigger but he's waited too long. The shot rings out, missing his mark by a foot or so, but still manages to leave a sizable mark in the target's green Volvo, just above an X-Files bumper sticker. Before he can get another shot off, the quarry has ducked in the car and sped off. Dex is obviously angry with himself. "It was at least a three-chinner!" "We'll get him next time," Jeb says. And with that, nerd season officially begins. Nerd hunting as a sport dates back to the early 1700s, when British aristocracy would stalk "nurds" on horseback, flushing them out of libraries with packs of trained dogs. When the sport was imported to American soil, though, horses were abandoned following irate complaints by librarians forced to clean up massive piles of animal waste in their stacks. Founding fathers, many of them closet nerds and nerd sympathizers themselves, derided the sport as a barbaric vestige of British oppression that had no place in the country. Still, proponents of the sport kept it alive, passing "nerding" down from generation to generation, even during the infamous nerding prohibition of the late 1920s. Many a jock or stoner would gather at underground Nerdeasys to plan secret hunts. Eliot Ness himself planned a "War on Nerding," but was sidetracked by the more pressing matter of the widespread abuses of the Prohibition on alcohol. The 1950s finally saw widespread legalization throughout the United States, when the popularity of science fiction exploded and nerd populations began to threaten suburban areas. Weapons technology had finally advanced to the point that it was possible for one hunter to track and bag as many as a dozen nerds and even a spaz or two unaided. But the debate raged on. Should hunting be limited strictly to nerds, or should stalking of dweebs, dorks and geeks be allowed as well? And while most hunters limit themselves to male nerds, is it truly possible to contain nerd populations without hunting the rarer but still existent female of the species as well? With the explosion of the Internet in recent years, nerds of disparate physical locations are able to congregate and even mate, causing numbers to climb to all-time highs. Simultaneously, the nerding lobby has gained considerable power in Congress. Areas previously resistant to nerd hunting caved in to the pressure. Soon hunters could be found camped outside suburban strip malls everywhere from Illinois to Idaho, camouflaged in bright orange football jerseys, hidden behind "nerd blinds," which are little more than crude stands purporting to sell hygiene products. Nerd hunters are as divisive as they are diverse. Each hunter has his own set of practices and accessories that he believes will yield him the best hunt. Many hunters swear by "nerd scents" used to attract the attention of nerds in the wild, the most popular seller by far: Mylar. Jeb, however, swears by a mixture of fish sticks and bat guano to attract his prey. However, many other hunters argue that many nerds' ability to smell has long ago been obscured by excessive "personal odors" and that such scents are useless. But the purpose of nerding is still in question. While nerd pelts are perfectly suited to car interiors and shoes, nerd meat is quite tough and flavorless. And while nerds are often touted as a danger to livestock, studies find that the common household sportsfan is actually far more likely to cow tip. And where there is sport hunting, there are those who would abuse the privilege. Nerd wardens are barely able to keep up with poachers who line nerd traps with rare X-Men comics, or lure their prey from chatrooms with promises of nude Gillian Anderson photos. All of which is just ammunition for "nerds rights" activists, like Rebecca Pellington, of Americans Against Nerding and Unnecessary Slaughter (AANUS). "Nerding is cruel and inhumane," Pellington contends. "We have yet to see any conclusive proof of any benefit of hunting these poor, lovable dorkwads. Sure, they're dirty and unappealing, and they have no social skills, and their values are completely out of proportion, and they spend far too much time indoors, making them appear pasty and lifeless, but..." She pauses for a moment. "You know what? Forget I brought it up." Back at home, Jeb shows off his latest prize: a stuffed three-chinner in a pit-stained Green Lantern T-shirt. His trophy is frozen in mid-snarl, a plaster Big Mac in one hand, a polybagged Xena comic in the other. "He put up a good fight, but Dex cornered him in the action figure aisle while I distracted him with a rare three-hour bootleg of Urotsukidoji. "Them liberals like to say that all this is wrong, that nerds have feelings too," Jeb says, reflective for a moment. "Well, sure they do! But only about stupid shit." He laughs heartily, and I join him, but out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see Dex looking longingly at that Xena comic... Patrick Keller doesn't believe in hunting any of God's creatures. Unless they're really tasty. Email Patrick Keller comments about this column, or discuss it on the Fourth Rail message board.