When Hotwheels are better than the Lottery

            My cousins were my best friends when I was young. We played all the time together. One of our favorite games to play was demolition derby. We would take our Hot Wheels cars and wreck them into each other. We would always make a dirt ring first. The dirt outside our house was perfect for it. It was almost like sand. It was amazing dirt.

            Being poor as we were, I was always on the look out for free stuff. I would frequently go through trash if I saw something worth playing with. I was scolded on several occasion by my mother for dumpster diving. I don’t blame her either, digging through someone else’s trash does not a good idea make, especially if you’re a kid.

            One day in particular I remember well. Lewis, my step Dad from previous posts, was on the front porch watching Brandon and I play with our cars in the dirt when some of the crack heads from next door walked by. They saw Brandon and I playing in the dirt with the cars and stopped to talk to us. Lewis immediately tensed up and came closer to us. He was very protective of us. They seemed to be laughing at Lewis and I had no idea why. They talked to us about our cars and said that they had a whole bunch at home that they would bring us when they came back.

            I was ESTATIC! It sounded like they had a whole bucket full of these cars. That’s like better than the lottery to a poor kid. A whole bucket of cars! Lewis told us not to get our hopes up, but we didn’t understand, why wouldn’t we get our hopes up? We were getting something amazing. We had no idea that we were being used in a game. The game was fuck with Lewis because he was on parole by some crack heads.

            We waited all day out front of the house for those guys. That’s really hard for a couple of little kids. I remember it was so hot outside, but it was better than being inside. We only had 2 fans and they were very small, so outside was always a better option.

            Those guys eventually came back through much, much later in the afternoon. When Brandon and I asked about the cars they all looked at each other and laughed as they told us they had forgotten them. Brandon and I were devastated and Lewis was pissed. Lewis cussed the guys out and told them to get lost. He said they should be ashamed of themselves for messing with a couple of small kids. They just laughed and walked on by. To this day I still wonder why those guys did what they did. It may not seem like such a big deal, but to me it really was.

Many people say forgive and forget, but I say if I ever see your crack head asses, I’m sticking my 9.5 wide boot up your ass, jerks!

My Trenchcoat

            High school was a very strange time of my life. I had a steady, serious girl friend. I’d had a few jobs, nothing serious. I owned my own Shagg’n Wagon. It was a huge van with shag carpet lining the floor, walls and ceiling. No 17 year old should ever have such a van. Oh the things people did in that van. Lets just say I’ll never be running for president because of that van.

At any rate, I was a very awkward teenager, you know, like most nerdy teens. I was picked on a lot, mostly because of the way I dressed. I wore a lot of black, wore a black trench coat with the Baphomet on it. I had a chain on my wallet; I dyed my hair outrageous colors etc and I wore my girl friends skirts. I was different. I wasn’t “metal” and I wasn’t one of the punk crowd.

My freshman year was probably the worst. The hicks picked me on at our school mercilessly, even though I played football with some of them, and was damn good at it too. They accused me of burning a bible out behind one of the buildings near school. I was simply there when it happened. No doubt, I was practicing Satanism at the time.

            One day they cornered me in front of the library. There were probably 30 or so people surrounding me, yelling that they were going to kick my ass. The librarian poked her head out and saw the crowd. She grabbed me and took me to the office and called the deans to come break up the crowd. They escorted me to the office to find out what was going on. I relayed everything that happened. They called in a few of the initial instigators and confronted them.

None of it really ever helped until Columbine happened. I wasn’t one to ever watch TV, unless it was a movie. So when Columbine High School had been shot up, I’d not heard about it. I wore my trench coat to school the next day like I always did. Wore it down the halls like I always did. Instead of getting pushed and shoved like I normally did, the people parted like the Red Sea. I didn’t understand what was going on. I think one girl even shrieked when she saw me. I must have looked ominous walking down the hall with my black combat boots. I probably even had a scowl on my face.

One of my teachers pulled me aside a few minutes later and asked if I was OK. I said I was fine and gave him a crazy look. He asked me if I had seen the news last night to which I hadn’t. He told me to go put up my coat and come to his room. He explained everything to me. From that day on my coat turned from armor to a sword. I didn’t look around for who might shove me into a locker, or hit me. I didn’t sneak around at lunch trying to avoid all the hicks.

What happened at Columbine was terrible and wrong. Killing innocent people should never be condoned. What happened should be used as a lesson in tolerance and humanity though. Those two boys were “batshit” crazy no doubt, however, if their peers had treated them better, it might not have turned out the way it did.

“Remember kids, it’s not cool to shoot up your school” Captain K of KMFDM

Where our quirks come from

Warning!

This story is about Child Abuse. It may be disturbing to some readers.

Growing up I didn’t have a stable father figure. My step dad was … as unstable as they came. He would do weird and bizarre things to punish Brandon and I. If Brandon or I would complain about Rebecca or Ryan he would walk out side in the snow barefoot or quite literally beat them. It’s something that I’ll never forget, a body builder holding his toddlers by one arm in the air and hitting them.  Are you awake now?

            I was fortunate in having a grandfather who was the best influence I could ever hope to have. He was of the old school philosophy in that kids should be loved, but held with a disciplined hand. He didn’t put up with any bullshit, but at the same time loved you more than you could ever imagine.

            I can remember taking walks with papaw to the corner store in Grammar, IN. It was a small po-dunk town, but I loved it. We would walk to the store and buy a few things we needed, cereal, pop, candy, you know, the basics. When we would finish at the store we would usually make a trip to the farm and check out the pigs.

            As I got older I started to stand up to Lewis. I had no respect for him. He really did try hard, but the man was messed up as a kid. It’s funny, he genuinely loved us, and his kids, but he would abuse us. He had no idea that what he was doing was wrong. None. He thought beating his kids, then hurting himself and calling the police was (are you ready for this?) normal. I’m not making this up.

            I would get back at him when Mom was home. I would have Ryan bag him in front of Mom. He was a different person when she was around and I don’t think it was conscious either. When my Mom would come home, she would ask how we were, and he would always say we were good. NO MATTER WHAT HAD HAPPENED.

            I’ve thought about this over the years. I think Lewis was so bat shit crazy that he’d created a partition in him brain. All the negative things went in the big partition, and all the positive things went in the little partition. He was Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde. To this day, Brandon, Rebecca and Ryan all have these quirks that others don’t really notice, or behaviors that no one understands and it’s because of Lewis. I’m sure I have some strange behavior from my exposer to such strange behaviors, but for the life of me, I have no idea what it is. Maybe it’s the way I fluff my hair when it gets long? That’s it reader, I fluff my hair.

            Lewis and my Mom eventually got a divorce. He cheated on her with one of his co-workers. I lost all respect for him then. When I would see him as an adult he would try to talk to me and I would treat him like a stranger. To this day I wont speak to the man. I went from calling him Daddy to pretending I didn’t know him.

Lewis, I know you’ll never read this. I know you didn’t always know what in the hell you were doing. That doesn’t make what you did right, but I think I understand. I hope you got the help you needed.

This is the church, this is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people

            Religion has always been a part of my life growing up. It’s also something I’ve struggled to connect with as an adult. I’ve tried everything from Satanism to Christianity and most in between. I’m currently of the view of Atheism, but who knows when I’ll “see the truth” again and flip flop back to something.

            When I was a kid I can remember my Mamaw instructing me on things such as the Bible and Jesus. I love my Mamaw, but I think she might have gone about it the wrong way. I can remember being very small, maybe 4 or 5 and my Mamaw instructing me in such matters. She would inform me (after Papaw fell asleep) that sinners go to Hell, and when they ask for a drink of water, the Devil put his pitchfork down their throats, and if you don’t read the Bible, you’re going to Hell.

            This sort of thing stuck with me growing up. When I became a young adult it was fuel for my fire of rebellion. I started dabbling in *gasp* “Witchcraft”. Hey guess what, Magic, Magik, Magick, yeah all those; they don’t work. I even tried using the pixie farts kids. I was a serious Satanist (No not worshiping the devil) for a few years. It was probably the single religion that I could easily identify with. It’s a very basic Humanist philosophy. The one thing I couldn’t get on board with was the “magik”. Yes, with a K at the end. That’s serious because it has a “K” at the end reader. Not that pussy Wicca stuff!

            Of course it didn’t stick. I’ve only ever really “stuck” with one religion and I keep gravitating away from it because I’m of a scientific mind. I need physical proof. Holy Ghosts, 2000-year-old stories (that were translated wrong in most cases) etc do not work for me.

            I wanted to be a Christian. I tried so hard to believe, especially when I met Brandon Andress at the Living Room in Columbus. I saw the good that Brandon was doing there and around town and knew that this is what Religion was really about. It’s about finding peace and making yourself better through worship. Even though I don’t believe in God or a god, I wanted to be at The Living Room. It’s a very special place of worship. I felt like a charlatan though. I saw all these believers doing good works and assisting others in their daily needs and I knew in my heart of hearts I didn’t belong there.

            Christian teachings, especially those being taught at The Living Room are what we should all take away from any religion. It’s what I think previous peoples were attempting to bring about with the advent of Christianity. It’s what the church has inadvertently perverted over the years. If you ever need to find what I would define as Christ or Christ-like teachings then go to The Living Room. You’ll find a peace that I’ve never seen anywhere else. It truly is what church should be.

Brandon Andress is a very special Teacher. I wish I had the ability to know him better. I fear that in my inability to believe, I pulled myself away from one of the best teachers I’ve ever known. Brandon brings peace when there is only Chaos in your heart, through the word of God. To the point that I wish I believed in the Word.

This is why I drink, no really

            In May of 2004 I was mobilized for Operation Enduring Freedom. I almost didn’t get the chance to serve my country in this capacity. I was almost held home for reasons unknown to me, but I was able to talk the Operations Sergeant into keeping my name on the list. That’s what I was told anyway. We had plenty of people who didn’t want to go, I was one of the few who feverishly wanted to go. I checked the mobe (mobilization) list as often as I could.

            I obviously never left the list. My experiences there were both terrible and amazing. Some of the views are absolutely breathe taking, the mountain ranges, the closeness of the clouds, the burning rubble, and the open-air sewers. You get my point. Still I don’t know that I would ever trade the experiences for anything else in the world.

            When I arrived at Kabul International Airport on August 26^th, 2004 I was scared shitless. It was an open landing strip surrounded by homes. The locals were just looking at us. I imagined that one would pull out an RPG and shoot it down at us from their mini tower and there would have been nothing we could have done out in the open. It didn’t happen though, they handed us some live mags, told us to get in the trucks, and to be vigilant. Vigilant was the word they liked to use a lot. It was one I’d hear every time I was about to go out. Be vigilant when leaving the gate, be vigilant on the road, be vigilant, and be vigilant.

            I wasn’t even sure what that word meant prior to my stay in Afghanistan. Webster’s Dictionary defines it as: “watchful, observant, attentive, alert, eagle-eyed, hawk-eyed, on the lookout, on one's toes, on the qui vive; wide awake, wakeful, unwinking, on one's guard, cautious, wary, circumspect, heedful, mindful”. They sort of meant that, but what they really meant was take care of business, do not let harm come to you or your group, kill them before they kill you.

            Afghanistan is something that I still struggle with today. Most people don’t know this, but I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s nowhere near as debilitating as it was in 2007-08. The beginning part of the year (February – May) I change mentally. I drink too much; my temper becomes very short you know, I become SPC Jones. That’s what I call “him”, because I’m not myself. I change mentally; I’m not the fun loving, joke telling Nick. I feel guilty all the time for not going on one certain mission I got pulled off of at the last second.

            March 26^th 2005 four outstanding individuals paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country, their families and friends. One of them took my place. I was asked to fill in a spot, as one of their guys was unavailable, he was on guard duty or something. As I came back from getting my gear to go out, the person who’d asked for me said he didn’t need me anymore. A few hours later, they were all gone. The circumstances of their deaths surrounding their deaths in my opinion are questionable. The official report is that they ran over a land mine, but I find that hard to believe. I’ll save the details for that for another time reader.

To the soldiers I served with: If you read this I hope you don’t think less of me and I hope you now understand why I was discharged. I led several of you to believe that it was because of my hearing and my back. I’m sorry for lying.

Video Games aren't the Devil, my RPG told me so!

            Growing up there are usually significant events happening that shape who we are. One of my defining events was receiving a Nintendo in November of 1986. That’s right the FIRST Nintendo. It was a birthday present (that I had to share, but that’s OK, everyone should play Nintendo!) and it was much more than I ever expected. Being as poor as I was you never had the $200 or whatever it was that they cost in 1986.

            I was lucky enough to have my “Uncle” (Aunt) Rita. Rita was my Uncles second wife. She was the kind of aunt that was your friend. She was ruff and tuff, but always there for you. She was also the kind of aunt who wanted to make a good first impression I suppose. So she bought me my fabled Nintendo.

            I can’t tell you how happy I was. I’d seen them in Wal-Mart, and played on them there. The first time I played a Nintendo I played Castilvania. I got something like 500,000 points in about 10 minutes. My Mom was amazed. Nintendo was my system. When I unwrapped it I remember I expected clothes, I mean how could my aunt Rita ever know that I wanted a Nintendo more than anything else in the world. I still get a little choked up thinking about it when I unwrap it.

            The Nintendo actually taught me how to read more effectively. I struggled with reading most of my life. When the Role Playing Game was born it was a success and was adapted to video games. Nintendo was no exception to this phenomenon known as the RPG. It involved a lot of reading, which I was terrible at. I would ask my mom what something meant or what it said and she’d make me go look it up.

            With out the RPG I may have never really pushed myself to read or learn how to read properly. The Nintendo and the RPG was a sort of saving grace for me. Not only did it entertain me for hours upon hour, it also proved to be an educational tool.

            So there you have it kids, video games aren’t all bad. Uncle Rita, thank you so very much for my Nintendo. You inadvertently helped shape my very being by buying me a simple Nintendo. To this day I play video games. They’re a very large part of my life and at times, define who I am.

I am Nick, and I play video games.

On the family bond, no not the James type.

            Growing up my Mom was very close to my Aunt Terry. Terry was married to my Mom’s brother, Eddie, who died of a brain tumor when I was very young. I vaguely remember his brief stay with us on Earth. That’s not what I want to talk about though. My Mom and Terry became close through the difficulties of losing a loved one. It was a relationship that I enjoyed because I got to see my cousins quite often. We were best friends, all of us.

            Josh, Dustin, Brandon and I would build forts at each others houses and throw “grenades” at each other’s forts and try to knock them down. The “grenades” where either dirt clods or rocks, you know, the safe things to be throwing at each other, especially at each others heads.

            Josh and Brandon were always a team, and Dustin and I were always a team. Reyanne would usually get left out, play by herself or we would make Josh take her since Brandon and her only counted as one person together. Seems fair right? I usually envied Brandon, because Josh didn’t make you give him his shoes or some other random ass piece of clothing. At any rate, we would build a “house of cards” out of whatever we could. We somehow manage to always “find” wood planks/boards from the new sub-division. Thank you random construction company by the way, we appreciated your donations … we would then whip these rocks and dirt clods as hard as we could at each other’s forts. Sometimes we would hit each other, sometimes we would hit our marks and the fort would collapse.

            It was proper fun that you don’t have these days. Sure we could have hit each other in say the eye (it happened to one of the neighbor kids if I remember correctly), but it made us into the sort of people that you don’t find today. We got dirty, we played outside all day in the cornfields, and we didn’t sit in front of the TV/Xbox etc all day like kids do today.

            We were also very close with each other. It was a bond that I miss these days. A bond that I wish my kids had the chance to experience. My brother and I are working on that, we see each other when we can and we make sure our kids play together, preferably outside. Family is important.

Dear Dustin, I’m bigger now and fought in Afghanistan; come try to take my shoes now. Love you.

Nick

On Brandon Sheehan

            When I was 15, one of my best friends, Brandon Sheehan died. It was a tragic accident, whose fault it really was, will never really be known. Brandon was on a scooter, not wearing a helmet, out in the middle of nowhere. The driver said he didn’t see him and that Brandon failed to stop at a stop sign. He was crushed as the car attempted to avoid him and rolled on top of him. I still think about this, 15 years later. All of us, his friends that is, had been trying to get ahold of him for some reason all that week and that day. It’s one of those odd situations in life that we’ll never fully understand.

            Years later I worked in a Laboratory. I washed beakers; dishes etc in acid so as no leftover substance would influence the next test etc. My uncle had gotten me the job; his friend ran the lab so it was as easy as filling out the application. I enjoyed the people at Sherry Labs, everyone was very nice to me. I was the youngest employee there, by a large margin. I think the next youngest person was 30 and I was 18, fresh out of High school.

            One individual in particular I became very good friends with. He was one of the late 20’s early 30’s employee’s. He used to listen to Nirvana he told me. We would talk about music any time we worked in the same room.

One day we got on the subject of old cars that we used to drive. I related the story of my “Infernal Moose Boat”. It was an old Delta 88 Oldsmobile. The shocks were out, the horn sounded like a dyeing moose, and it leaked every fluid it held, even gas. I loved that damn car; I drove Isaiah Hawk and myself to and from school everyday in this contraption. It was a death trap on wheels.

So this person, we’ll call him “Bob”, tells me about this great big boat he had. Wrecked it on the corner of Deaver road, a few years ago. I asked him about the accident details. He became very … sheepish at this. I tell him it’s ok if he doesn’t want to talk about. He tells me that he killed a kid on a moped in the wreck.

My jaw dropped. I dropped whatever glassware I was holding in my hands. I asked him if he knew the kids name, and was it Brandon Sheehan? He nodded and gave me a weird look. I related the tale to him as if I had been waiting for this moment all my life.

“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

We both stood there in shock and disbelief. I told him how we had made plans to look for him and confront him. He told me how he still had nightmares about what had happened. The amount of guilt he felt was something I can only imagine to be similar to the guilt I have for things that happened on my tour of duty in Afghanistan.

I’m a firm believer that things happen for a reason, even if we don’t understand them. Brandon’s death is a true tragedy that I still struggle to understand. It has a profound impact on our lives, and some of us are still not at peace with it.

Dear “Bob” it’s ok, you are forgiven.

When the Fire Ants aren't the worst of my problems

            On September 11, 2000 I signed a piece of paper giving my body to and swearing an oath of loyalty to the Governor of Indiana. When you join the military you literally give your body to the government. You become government property and even get a number like a piece of furniture, or even a rifle does. You are categorized depending on your function and where your end destination will be.

            January 26^th 2001 I arrived at Ft. Benning Georgia. It was home to Fire Ants and Senior Drill Instructor Lawson. I’m not sure which one I was more afraid of honestly. They both could get in your crawl spaces and inflict some serious pain. Senior Drill Instructor (SDI) Lawson frequently reminded me how out of shape and obese I was, and for good reason. Needless to say, I hated the man, which means he’d done his job.

            One freezing cold morning the Drill instructors of Charlie 138, Rock of the Marne Drill Sargent; decided our sleepy looking assess needed to run. It was the exact time of zero dark thirty. That’s military time kids. I being an unruly 20 year old and hating authority, (GOOD JOB JOINING THE MILITARY YOU IDIOT!) decided I’d be a little lippy to my battle buddy (the guy who was as bad at running as I was). When SDI Lawson decided that our time around the track wasn’t fast enough he told us to do it again, and again and again. By the third or fourth quarter mile lap I was pretty much done. It was at that moment that I made the worst mistake I could and ever would make in the military. I called my SDI a bad name. No not a racist name you silly twit. I called him a motherfucker.

            You see; it was very cold out and my BCG’s (that’s Birth Control Glasses) liked to fog up when my chubby butt ran. Heat plus cold plus heavy breathing equals foggy glasses. So when the new Drill Instructor in front of me (who I’d never seen and wasn’t wearing his enormous big brown round hat) stopped running and turned around, I thought nothing of it; just another private about to puke from running.

            No dear reader, I was very, very wrong. What proceeded to happen next was what very nearly ended my military career before it ever began. The Drill Instructor asked for my name and platoon etc. I, never being one to lie; told the truth, even if I was bad at soldiering, I had integrity. It was something my Mother and Grandfather had instilled in me from a very young age.

            When I eventually made it around the track SDI Lawson called me over and made me repeat what I had called him. I begrudgingly said the word. He smiled and was obviously very upset. You see SDI was a very Christian man and had never been called such a thing. I guess in the south, a motherfucker is a pretty bad thing to be called. He made me repeat it several times to other drill instructors. When He finally found our First Sergeant he made me tell him what I’d said. The First Sergeant looked at me and told me I was a dumb ass and asked how many times I’d repeated myself. I had no idea honestly I told him. He laughed and said to bring him to his office.

            SDI Lawson and First Sergeant explained to me that I was being discharged with an article 15 (military law stuff). Insulting a Senior NCO in front of other NCO’s multiple times. It’s a pretty serious offence I guess. I went in front of the Company Commander and he asked if I’d wanted to stay or go, he informed me he wanted me gone. I lied and said I was ready to go, I didn’t want to serve my country. He looked at me and smiled and said I was a liar.

            When I’d arrived at Charlie 138 we had to write out why we were there. I’d of course been filled with patriotism and explained that I was 3^rd generation military and it was my life long dream to be in the military, to be a soldier. My Company Commander had that piece of paper in his hand. He told me to pack my bags, my dreams were done, I’d never make it as a soldier, and I didn’t have the discipline or the drive.

            After packing my bags up and waiting for a while my SDI came back to me and told me to unpack, I wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to make me into a soldier no matter what I said. And at that my friends began my personnel hell that was Basic Training. I volunteered for every crap duty there was, I read the bible non-stop, I pushed myself harder than I ever had in my entire life. I broke down a few times through out the course of my stay at Charlie 138. I made my life hard by being a bull headed son-of-a-bitch. It made me a better man though.

Thank you for not giving up on me Senior Drill Instructor Lawson. I owe you more than you will ever know.

These boots are made for Combat, but I think I'll wear them at school

            Being poor, my mother struggled to feed and clothe us at times. It’s difficult when your husband is a convicted felon and you’re a secretary. We shopped at Wal-Mart for clothes. The clothes were so cheap they would often fall apart. So I would save up money and buy long johns to wear under my pants in the winter. My shoes would usually only last three or four months. So I got a job and bought my first pair of combat boots. I had them from about the age of 15 until my deployment to Afghanistan 10 years later. I think I might still have them in my shed today.

            I loved those damn boots. When I spilled acid on them at a laboratory I worked at I was so upset. I worked hard refilling the holes with shoe polish.  It worked pretty well. I think when I was in basic training I probably added a quarter of an inch to the outside of those boots with all the polish I put on them

            “You might be driving a Benz jones, but you’re tires look like trash!” Drill Instructor Williams would say to me at inspection. So I worked hard and got the boots looking better than normal. They shined. The Drill Sergeants accused me once of using “leather luster” which was a liquid vinyl that you brushed onto your boots so you didn’t have to polish them. It made them look really shiny. What I’d done was all hard work. I had some amazing looking boots in basic training. I was proud of them.

Dear Cory's Mom ... It's been a while

            Growing up my best friend was Cory Paul Parker. He lived on Cherry Street in our small town. Cherry Street wasn’t anywhere near my street, I lived on Wallace Avenue and consequently next to a real live crack house. We’ll talk about the crack house later; I made it inside once despite my mom’s best efforts to keep me away from it. Anyway, Cory lived on Cherry Street like I said, he had a basement, a fenced in back yard and a really cool room. Cory was having a sleep over or a party or both one-day, and being Cory’s best friend, I was invited over. The party was sometime after school on a Friday, being young time was meaningless. We had a concept that time was there and we were allowed to do things at certain times, but other than that, it was meaningless.

            Cory and I decided that said time was inappropriate, so we; being very smart and sophisticated second or third graders, decided that I’d just ride with him home and miss the bus. Great idea guys! This plan has zero issues. Oh wait accept we forgot to tell our parents.

            I showed up with Cory at his mom’s station wagon and to our surprise she wasn’t absolutely thrilled to see me. No, in fact she was annoyed. She had to get the house ready for the party. We had to call my step dad and let him know I wasn’t getting off the bus too. You know, that sort of thing is kind of important. Parents tend to worry, even if they’re just recently out of the federal penitentiary.

            So occasionally I’ll remember this whole fiasco and to this day I’ll feel a little guilty, so Mrs. Parker, I’m sorry. I should have gone home, you’re right. That party was a bitching ass party though, so kudos! I’ve never seen such a huge tub for bobbing for apples and the prizes you sent home with us were pretty awesome too.

~Thanks again for lighting up a poor kids life the way you guys did~

McDonalds and the French ... Revolution?

            Let me explain why McDonalds caused the French Revolution.  In 1789 the People of France overthrew the Monarchy of France in hopes that they would become much like their brethren in America and become Free. I wrote a paper on the causes of the Revolution, but one of the chief ideas that I focused on was that McDonalds cause the French Revolution.

            Have I lost you yet reader? No? Good. Ok so in the Political world there is a theory: Two countries that have McDonalds restaurants will not war with each other. So far this is a true statement, and I don’t see it being broken anytime soon. A little proof: Afghanistan didn’t have McDonalds, Iraq didn’t have McDonalds, and Kuwait does. See! We helped Kuwait and invaded Iraq twice. By the way, Afghanistan has Burger Kings. I guess Burger King doesn’t give a shit, they’ll hire any one (see my first blog) and they’ll open shop anywhere.

            Ok so the reason that this theory is true is because if your country has a McDonalds then you have a pretty sizeable middle and upper class. The middle class more specifically are the ones that stand to lose the most during war. Why? They’re generally the buying power of a nation, they buy the most crap in a countries economy.. The more crap you have, the more you care about crap. See how that works? So if you have a McDonalds you have a healthy Middle class/upper class. They hate war etc.

            So what happened around 1789 is that people (mainly the bourgeoisie) had more crap, so they cared more about crap and when the King wanted their crap they got mad and said ”Go fuck yourself king! We’re keeping our crap!” ~Actual quote from a farmer~ and proceeded to overthrow his ass and stormed the Bastille!

So you see, McDonalds caused the French Revolution kids.

~The More You Know~

Irony in life

            Growing up was difficult for my siblings and I. We were poor, dirt poor you might say. I can remember winters in Indiana not having hot water and in some cases not having heat. It gets cold in Indiana during the winter. I can remember being hungry a lot.

Life is tuff for two uneducated parents, especially if one is a convicted felon, a convicted child molester at that. Don’t worry kids, he didn’t do it I’m told, and I tend to believe it.

My biological father is/was an alcoholic who beat my mother and sowed his oats in other fields quite frequently. I think at last count he had 6 or 7 kids by 5 different women (who keeps falling for this guy?!).

So, my mother and her second husband, who she met in prison through her brother who was also in prison, raised me. Thumbs up right kids?  So any way back to what I was saying here; life was tuff. My step dad found work where they didn’t do much digging into your past, like Burger King, construction jobs, janitorial services etc. My mother was a secretary for the Department of Child Protective Services ironically enough. You see the irony right? Convicted child molester, wife works at CPS … You got that right? Oh ok good.

So life is very difficult anywhere with out money. I remember our first television. That’s right I was old enough to remember it when we got it, third hand too. It had 14 buttons on it 13 for channels 1 – 13 and a knob that you pulled out to turn on and off, and turned if left and right for volume.  It wasn’t “cable ready” meaning it had two bolts on the back so you could attach an antenna (we used a coat hanger and tin foil). It was also pretty small, like 13 or 14 inches small. Its simplicity was what I loved about it. My TV today is huge (52 inches) and can display up to 1080p. I bet if I asked it to, it would make me coffee in the morning too.

I’ve had an interesting life so far. I mean I grew up poor, joined the Army, went to Afghanistan and now I’m a 30 year old in school for the second time while raising two kids.

Mom if you’re reading this, I love you. I know you did the best you could. The things I talk about here and in the future aren’t about you, it’s about me and it’s a way to unravel the past. I hope you understand.