by Chris Riendeau
Who among us, with our high-stress jobs, private school bills, and yacht club annual bylaw approval meetings, would not relish the opportunity to disconnect for a bit and blow off a little steam? Who among us hasn’t felt that pressure creeping up inside of us that only a cool ocean breeze, a white sand beach, and the feeling of a stranger’s body going limp in your arms can cure? Feeling the malaise of modern life, I took last weekend off for some me-time, and indulged at Donald Trump Jr.’s Exotic Game Hunting Resort.
Located on a pristine jungle island off the coast of Mexico (maybe—you arrive blindfolded), the resort is certainly exclusive, but it is also all-inclusive. The friendly bartender kept my glass full of Trump Super Premium Vodka, which markets itself as “quadruple distilled in Holland” but after a few the bartender whispered to me that it is actually “leftover ether from the basement of a Roosevelt Island asylum Donald bought in the ‘80s.” Still, with the addition of fresh island limes, those Trump and Tonics were delicious, and they had just enough booze to dull the tiny remnant of a conscience telling me this was wrong, this whole thing was wrong.
Staying true to type, food was similarly branded. I know what you’re thinking, but sorry, no Trump steaks. The Trump Turtle Tagliatelle, however, is a revelation and is made with real local sea turtles! Waitstaff were incredibly courteous, but had a nervous air about them.
Maybe they didn’t know about the hunt at all, but like prey animals in the wild, sensed the danger long before it was within sight. The taco salad was a little bland, but do try the “Queen’s Egg Creme” for dessert– it’s made with locally harvested porpoise semen, and you have the option of adding more Trump Vodka for an extra kick!
Perhaps it was the copious amounts of ether, or the stomach full of rare turtle meat, but I slept like a baby all night in the expansive, comfortable, but still appropriately gilded suite. I didn’t pay for the VIP package, so in the morning I had to prep my own weapons. The master-of-arms was very helpful in the selection of broadheads for my crossbow and even gave me an extra string. “Things can get crazy out there; best to be prepared,” he told me as he handed me a small handgun “for emergencies.” His eyes were just the right amount of dead, and he had a really authentic facial scar that made me think he’d seen some fun stuff out there on the killing field. Indeed, overall the staff were super knowledgeable and helpful at every turn.
Honestly, I was a bit hungover from the those Trump and Tonics, so when the ceremonial horn was blown, it was a bit a loud for my liking. But I was there to test the boundaries of my humanity, so that I might feel alive, or perhaps to refill the tank from which I draw my self-loathing, or maybe—though I hate to admit this—I just really like the feeling of murdering poor people. My third wife always said a man should be rich enough to be honest. Either way, it was a super fun day. They launch the prey in a big group, so it has the feel of shooting beaten pheasants in Merry Old England, except instead of birds they are local peasants with families trapped on a jungle island. I heard for nearly double the price you can hunt down Eric Trump’s ex-girlfriends on a nearby re-purposed cruise ship, but who has that kind of money? Plus it just feels strange to kill an upper-middle-class white person.
Some of the guys were just shooting all over the place, which is a little distracting, but after the slow and weak were slaughtered, the true huntsmen like myself took to the woods. The jungle itself is nicely kept, with great golf-cart paths adorned with frequent limeade stands. I took to a tree stand with an especially boozy cup of frozen lime juice and awaited my prey. It was only a few minutes before I had a nice clear shot with the crossbow, loosing the bolt and piercing the thigh of my busboy from the night before. I stumbled down the tree stand ladder to finish the job; they could really use some handrails, you know, for the guests’ safety. The busboy screamed a bit, and then begged for his life in some kind of Spanish or something, and he really sold it as my hands tensed around his throat. Like I said, the staff there were absolutely fabulous, and Pablito (turns out his name was Pablito—so authentic sounding!) was no exception. The bartender came by with drinks, and was happy to take a commemorative photo with me and Pablito, so that I could remember this one shining moment where I felt something again, anything, just for a second, even if the price was my soul.
4 out of 5 stars – Incredible service, great food, okay weapons selection.