I love ticking off as many vapid, anti-American and anti-traditional values blowhards as I can. It is one of the chief joys of my life. However, sometimes I need a reprieve from the rancor and the hell razing.

Aside from needing a break from the bellicosity that is my life, I need a break from the place where I live, i.e. Miami. This place is more plastic than Joan River’s face, breasts, ear lobes, tummy, or . . . yecch! I’m sorry. I just made myself vomit. Excuse me for a sec . . . okay, I’m back.

In addition to the synthetic scene here in South Florida, the metrosexual madness down here is so sassy and solid it leaves a redneck refugee like me shaking like a junkie for a testosterone reality fix away from the weapons-grade foolishness that unfortunately inundates one of the most beautiful spots on the planet.

Also, I get ill thinking about having to go to the mall, again, and having to ford through all the mall rats, with their fake (or real, I don’t care) Louis Vuitton purses, Gucci shades, and their angst over, “whether they should get A/X’s skinny jeans or Abercrombie’s new ones.” Yeah, having to share air with these helix-missing morons and being forced to overhear how bad their lives reek as they scream on their cell phones leaves me with an intense desire to get the hell outta Dodge. Y’know what I’m sayin’?

Furthermore (and I know I’m not supposed to say this), I get weary at times of talk radio and TV talk shows, which are quickly becoming my life. Doesn’t it get old, occasionally, hearing the left and right go at each other night after night after night after night? Call me a wussy, but since I don’t drop acid or smoke ganja any more I need to escape.

A cruise is out of the question for me. Being on a disease laced, slow moving diarrhea ship, filled with stretch pant wearing, buffet loving, overweight, pink-skinned drunks that are paraded like lemmings from one overpriced port to the next is not my idea of recreating.

Nothing, as far as I’m concerned, does more for me than getting away and going hunting with my family and friends. Putting massive distance between me and the mall, my cell phone and my email and going beyond the pavement in pursuit of the planet’s magnificent game animals or birds is b-e-a-u-tiful to me.

What do I like about it?

My cell phone usually doesn’t work.

Just getting out in the wild connects me back to my primal spiritual and physical roots. God didn’t create Adam to live in a condo. He made a feral crib for his first man to live and whup it up in with Eve. There is something that the undomesticated does to me that no Lysol disinfected, five star hotel can provide.

Everything slows down. I’m forced to chill out. I’m not going mach2 with my hair on fire. I’m forced to shut up and quit screaming. I’m forced to breathe, and the air I inhale in the woods is clean and not some germ laden, stale, fart loaded, re-circulated office oxygen (I office out of my home).

My senses come alive and are taken to a higher level by pursuing my prey. My eyes, ears, nose, feet and hands kick into gear like they don’t when I’m sitting like a drooling, giggling, Corona drinking zombie watching Seinfeld on my couch.

It makes me get disciplined. To be a successful hunter requires strictness. To shoot a rifle, shotgun, pistol or bow well takes commitment. To successfully stalk a big game animal and make a clean and lethal shot takes additional dedication. To hunt dangerous game animals requires that I be a seriously focused little monkey. To sit quietly for hours takes Tibetan monk like tenacity. To chase wild boar through a swamp, cougars over miles of desert mountains, and elk where the air is thin means I’ve gotta work out during the week, or I’m going to be more lost than K-Fed watching Bret Hume. The above de rigueur explains why I don’t see too many crack heads on the hunting fields. My sport demands you have your act together.

Hunting changes lives. I’ve seen it several times. I have seen bored adults and kids come alive when the hunt commences. I’ve watched idiots on drugs lay them down for good because they got a greater buzz hunting with good people than they did snorting crank with their butt munch friends in Hialeah. BTW, for the too cool teen or twenty-something who might not think hunting can be as thrilling as drugs, come with me and confront a 350lb PO’ed wild boar, or come to the glades and hunt gators out of an air boat, or take a shot at a grizzly with a bow, or face up to a hippo out of the water with a double rifle. I guarantee ecstasy, ‘shrooms, and a crystal has never, can never and will never give you the buzz that these situations will. You’ll mess your pants. Give it a try, girlfriend. You’ll be sweating like Ahmadinejad in church.

I connect with friends and family on a deeper level. Life’s busy in the city. Sometimes, even the “good” relationships we have with friends and family are about as shallow as a creek in Death Valley. The campfire allows for communication that you do not get when the idiot box is on and everyone is running in fifty different directions. If it weren’t for my dad taking me hunting every year when I was a kid, I probably wouldn’t really even know him (which might be a plus for him, but would be a huge minus for me). I feed hundreds of poor people with high protein, low fat, yummy flesh that comes from my kills. I guarantee that I and just three of my hunting compadres feed way more hungry people via hunting than your typical group of 1000 bleeding heart, yarbling, anti-hunters ever have or will.

There are very few loony liberals. Another great blessing regarding hunting is that I seldom, if ever, run into secular, “progressive,” pluralistic, relativistic, big government loving, anti-military, God and country hating leftists.

Yes, when I’m looking for a break I bound into the swamp, brush or woods with gun or bow in tow in pursuit one of our planet’s amazing game animals. Nothing, absolutely nothing, restores my soul like everything that surrounds the sport of hunting with friends and family. As a matter of fact, my 79-yr. old dad, three of my closest buddies and I are gearing up for a great Maine black bear hunt next week.

Hunters, get away this fall and winter. Don’t let this season not see you and yours in the woods. Also, join the NRA, Safari Club International and Ted Nugent’s United Sportsman of America. Kick your cash into these organizations that keep PETA and other paltry, paranormal, anti-hunting organizations at bay and help us keep alive our great American heritage of hunting.

* Logon to ClashRadio.com and check out Giles’ interview with Patrick Coyle, director of campus programs for Young America’s Foundation (www.yaf.org), and author of the book, The 2006-2007 Campus Conservative Battleplan.