If I hung around all the Beavises in close proximity to Britney Spears and those Anna Nicole was unfortunate enough to schlep with and Hollywood was my reality, I, too, would:

1. shave my head,

2. be wasted during awards shows,

3. stay completely blitzed out of my brain on dope,

4. tattoo every square inch of my noggin,

5. pierce, not just my ears, but the front part of my brain,

6. pummel parked cars with umbrellas.

I know I have a black belt in being a loveless jerk; however, I can empathize with their extreme behavior and their indulgence into mind-altering drugs. If I were forced into their situation and had to listen to Bobby Trendy, Howard K. Stern, KFed and Paris’s stuff 24/7, I would take bong hits morning, noon and night, mainline Ketel One and drink methadone like it was Yoo Hoo. If not, I’m afraid that I’d be up on murder charges, as I lean more toward being homicidal than suicidal.

Thankfully, drugs, an early grave and murder are not the only option for Brit (or any other girl caught in similar circumstances). One thing you young ladies could do is take responsibility and climb out of that toilet you’ve gotten yourself into, and muy pronto. That’s right, leave your “friends” now. All of them. Including your family, if they have aided and abetted your asininity. Do it. Wherever you are . . . go! Just take off running in the opposite direction, even if that means into heavy traffic on the 405. Dodging multiple high speed moving vehicles is safer than hanging with the warped monkeys you’re around now.

Most folks would say you Britney-types need to go to rehab. I’m all about going to rehab. I’m in rehab right now. I’m trying to get delivered from my acerbic Left loathing, my metrosexual nausea, my America loving, my gun collecting, my God worshipping and my testosterone addictions that the secular progressives say are “wrong.” It’s not going very well. I keep on falling off the wagon. Or is it falling on the wagon? Whatever it is, I’m not getting “better.” Anyway, this is not about me and my angst. My advice for you, Brit (and those mired in similar Shiite), is not to check-in to rehab, but dive into hunting. This is easy math.

Check it out: Hollywood hates guns, hunting and eating meat, and they spit out the daftest characters on the planet. Therefore, if you girls don’t want to be a Tinseltown divorced multiple times, plastic surgery addicted, booze and dope dependant STD machine, you’ve got to do the opposite of what Hollywood does; i.e., get into guns, hunting and eating meat. It’s logical. My grad school profs would be proud of that deduction . . . I think.

I’ve noticed in my wonderful world of guns and hunting that we don’t have too many drug and alcohol addled freak boys and girls. Sure, there are one or two helix misers in our humongous community, but we pale in comparison to Hollywood’s glut of Darwinian throwbacks. It seems as if the bang of the gun, the flight of the arrow and the thrill of the hunt are effective in keeping one’s feet tethered to the planet.

I believe that just as you emasculate a man when you remove him from the wild, you slay a woman when she doesn’t get a regular dose of the primal scream of nature—in particular, the hunt. Girls, hunting is an escape and a sensual exchange that getting new hip implants, maxing out a Master Card, and having a porn video made of you and your boyfriend’s ham fisted love making attempts could never out do.

Hey, nutty college chick, you wannabe a “Girl Gone Wild?” Well, good. Women, like men, are born to be wild. Having an undomesticated feral facet to your life is right, and I believe that when you girls do not get a regular release of this rebel yell/huntress/outdoor otherness, you’re going to seek out some artificial, and oft times damaging, sensory satisfaction. Continued...