Mullet Hunt: A True Story

Andrew Woods

A Wisconsin waterfall. A ‘7’. 10-90 (changes in numbers proportion to the amount of hair on top and in the back), manny, ape drape, beaver paddle, Canadian passport, yep-nope. All synonyms for a dangerous hairstyle known as a mullet (pronounced MU-Lay).

Mullets exist in a dark world, one where reason and logic do not apply. A world where human life is cheap and violence is common; a world where a man does what he must to survive. This was the world I planned to enter, to identify and document the “Wild Mullet”.

It was with these thoughts in mind that I began my hunt. I walked through the doors of the UVM truck stop and spotted my first specimen. Physical characteristics: humble in the front, decadent in the back. Decadent indeed; so decadent in fact, I began to rethink my mission. The mullet was hunched over a can of cold cream corn, no doubt guarding his meal from other would be robber mullets.

I considered my options: Approach the ‘mullet enabled’, and hope to establish a dialogue (if successful this approach would be a groundbreaking ‘first contact’ between a Mullet Hunter and an ‘enabled’). Walk away and count myself one of the lucky few who witnessed a wild mullet in all its raw, powerful glory, without any serious injuries sustained from the mullet. Trick the mullet into giving me a five dollar bill and a high-five. After considering my options, I decided to trick the mullet into handing over a fiver and a slap of skin.

I’d have to be careful, the situation was precarious. I cleared my mind, took a deep breath, and a step towards destiny. One, two, three, four steps to the mullet. “Hello,” I began “Easy…Easy…I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here.” The Mullet began to smile. A risky introduction that paid off, another industry first. “What are you staring at?” the Mullet inquired.

The Mullet was becoming aggressive. The Mullet then sneezed (this is a warning, usually followed by a hyper violent in the Mullet known as ‘berserker mode’). The situation was rapidly deteriorating; I was losing control of the situation. I began shifting my weight side to side, front to back in an effort to confuse the mullet. This only angered the mullet more. “Can I help you?” the Mullet barked.

This was the final indicator; the Mullet was about to attack. My mission had gone critical, and I needed a way out. I looked around and suddenly I realized, I was surrounded by miles and miles of mullets. I had gone too far chasing this mullet. I was now in mullet country, undeniably hostile terrain. Panic covered me like a thick fog.

I was out of options. I grabbed the can of cream corn and flung it into an idle pack of mullets. The cream corn didn’t really hit anyone so much as it covered every mullet in the crowd. The situation was tense. They wanted to know who had thrown the cream corn, and they wanted to know immediately. Blood was on their mind, my blood.

I did the only thing I could do – I walked over to the mullets and identified the lone Mullet as the perpetrator of the crime. This is where I blacked out. The court record confirmed what I believe happened: The mullets tore the lone mullet apart in a hurricane of hair, blood, and, cold cream corn. I apparently ran out of the truck stop, but tripped over what forensics experts believe was an unconscious mullet that bore a striking similarity to T.V.’s Tony Danza. I woke up sweating, but alive.

Although I am a formally trained mullet hunter, I was lucky to escape with my life. Do not under any circumstances approach a mullet in the wild, for your own safety. Leave the hunting to the professionals.