The short and depressive life of a pheasant

Pheasants are funny beggars.

They're more thoughtful than you realise. They know they're bred for shooting at. Just imagine, living your whole life knowing that your reason for existence is to be a target for others. It would be a little like, in the current environment, being the Pope. And with the added similarity that, with pheasants as with the Catholic church, it's the male that gets to wear the brightly-coloured outfits.

So pheasants grow up with a deep sense of paranoia - explaining the habit they have of sharply turning their heads, as they try to work out which direction Life is going to get them.

In order to cheer themselves up, they like to play "chicken". Although the chickens object to this outrageously species-ist name for the game, the pheasants don't care - and point out that at least they get to roam the fields.

So that's why you see pheasants hanging around at the side of country lanes, before suddenly dashing across the road in front of your car. It's not because they're stupid - although they are, of course, having very small cranial capacities - it's because they're paranoid, and they're trying to find some fun in life before they depart. They know that playing chicken may well cause their end to come more swiftly, but they figure that it's worth it if they cheer themselves up in the meantime. And in the meantime they get a sense of competition in who can cross the most busy roads before dying. Old "Buster" (all pheasants are named after movie anti-heroes) is currently up to 86, but he's slowing down so it's only a matter of time.

You have a similar group in your society. Those that, to avoid the ennui and paranoia of their everyday lives, seek risk as a way to give themselves some fulfilment while heading for an early grave. Middle-aged para-glider I guess you'd call them.