On a Saturday morning, a hunter got up early, put on his long johns, dressed quietly, made his lunch, grabbed his shotgun and the dog, slipped quietly into the garage to load the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour.

There was snow mixed with the rain, and the wind was blowing 50 mph. He pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad throughout the day.

He went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. Then he cuddled up to his wife’s back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, “The weather out there is terrible.”
She sleepily replied, “Can you believe my stupid husband is out hunting right now."

That's the main reason I enjoy hitting up bars on the first Saturday night in November.