Phil Robertson may not appreciate me writing about his business or his family.  I’m what Phil would derisively call a “yuppy.”  I don’t own camo, hunt, or have a beard.  That’s not to say I’m some granola PETA-type; I’m a devoted carnivore who loves gumbo, fried fish, and even the occasional boudin link.  Phil lives off the land and, frankly, doesn’t think very highly of the lifestyle the rest of us non-outdoorsy types choose to live.  I dwell comfortably in the suburbs buying my groceries at Kroger where the butcher kindly dresses my meat.  In some ways, Phil and I have about as much in common as Snooki and the Pope, which is why it may seem odd that I have been sucked into Phil Robertson’s world via the uber-popular Duck Dynasty reality show.

Phil’s story fascinates me.

Decades ago, Phil kicked his wife and kids out of his house…