I live in the oh-so-sassy city of Miami, Florida, and when I tell people down here that I am a hunter they give me that look a woman gives when she plops down on the toilet when the seat’s up. Y’know what I’m talking about, don’t ‘cha?
They screech, “You hunt? Oh my Gawd!” (Usually followed by putting one hand over their mouth and one hand on their hip, followed by putting both hands on their hips and then to their final resting place in the disapproving arm cross. At least that’s what the guys do).
It’s as if I said I eat live kittens or something. Their gobsmacked, tsk-tsk disapproving stare used to bug me at first, but now I quite enjoy giving the Miami metrosexuals a headache as I revel in the fact that I thoroughly enjoy the sport of kings because it’s such a noble and crucial God-ordained activity.
Hunters, like everything else that is just and good within this wussified, politically correct, bovine scat based culture, are under attack. Hunters are made to feel ashamed of hunting animals by the animal-loving, pro-abortion crowd.
The MSM paints us as a stupid, bloodthirsty brood of line-bred rednecks who get high off death. The reality is that hunting and hunters provide a bazillion times more for our country and planet than the anti-hunting goofs.
For instance, let me make this personal, anti-hunting boys and girls: You salad guys wouldn’t have your veggies to worship and enjoy if it weren’t for hunters. I love the ironic fact that the PETA vegans couldn’t eat their salad or their edamame burger if it weren’t for the blistering truth that farmers/hunters have to shoot animals who are after their crops so that the vapid vegans can smugly eat their eggplant lasagna. I wouldn’t let it bug you now, PETA. Before you eat your salad just drop another tab of acid and forget about the fact that it entailed a farmer putting the bam to Bambi for you to have that spinach.
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