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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/action/view/entry_id/725900
Rated: 18+ · Book · Fantasy · #1712884
Why I want to write a book
#725900 added June 10, 2011 at 12:11am
Restrictions: None
Dazed
        So, a dump truck rammed into my neighbor's house. The driver was a naked
    burly man. He had purchased illegal drugs from another neighbor across the
    street. Am I living the dream?

        Nope.

    I like to listen to Glen Beck, "We are bombing Yemmin .. Is this a fourth war?"
    Well, every President likes to bomb terrorist. Right? Regan was famous for
    clandestine Ollie North wars. Didn't Bush bomb Libya?

    Any-who, there's a crystal meth lab across the street from me. That's explosive.
    Why not bomb them? They're terrorizing the neighborhood. Am I a hawk?

  Okay. Let me tell another disturbing childhood story. One day two older boys
  came into our yard where I was playing. I was a toddler. They were teenagers.
  They decided to kick me. I fell over. I started laughing. My mom came out with
  a rifle dad had brought home from the war. The two boys mocked her. She shot
  the rifle in the air. The boys ran. I laughed. Mom grabbed me and took me to
  the kitchen. I got freshly cooked chocolate chip cookies. Is this terrorism?

  The police came and questioned mom. Now, this probably dates this incident.
  Instead of taking the rifle from mom. They asked that she not fire it in the city limits.
  Mom gave a Mona Lisa smile and agreed. The boys were told not to trespass.
  Mom told me not to play alone. She gave me a cool buck knife. I still have it.

  Dad was furious. He scolded mom for firing his rifle. "We have a phone." he said,
  "That bullet could fall on someone a mile away." Mom explained the threat the
  boys made and she would not use the rifle again. She was proficient with knives.
  Dad shook his head in despair. Dad got hammered on Jameson.

  Mom took me to the living room to watch We Willie Whistle. Dad stayed in the
  kitchen to listen to a ball game on the radio. Mom explained to me that if someone
  attacks me, "I should cut them down." She showed me how to cut the achilles
  ankle. I laughed. Is this bad parenting? Shouldn't we all know how to defend
  ourselves? I sat and played with my buck knife and ate my cookies.
  It was wonderful.

  Dad fell asleep in the kitchen.


  (^)(^)
    <+>
 
One-ton dump truck ~ Nude man driving..
Poker face ~ Keep smiling....
Republic ~ Don't mess with me

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/action/view/entry_id/725900