My Christmas Eve Buck
By Ted Nugent

The icicles hanging from my mustache and beard were the real McCoy. No fake decorations allowed in my Christmas tree. And my Christmas tree just happened to be a towering white oak atop a majestic forested ridgeline bordering a stunning Michigan swamp. Instead of a handmade angel on top, a frozen guitarplayer clung for dear life to the crowsnest branches way up high, bow and arrow in hand, waiting for an American whitetail deer to bring our Christmas dinner on by. On the hoof. 

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