Well, I’m sure you’re all happy to hear that I made it back alive from San Diego.
The only terrorists I saw were the little Abu-Sayyaf monkeys working ‘security’ at the gates. One of them, the broad with the wand, looked like a little gook hobbit…she could have blown me while standing. The wand looked like a rifle in her hands, and I could have had a pistol in a shoulder holster and she couldn’t have reached it.
As it was, I managed to smuggle in my Spyderco Police Model in my checked luggage…I ain’t gonna be unarmed down in jungle-land, I’ll tell you.
They have signs in the airport now that tell you not to joke around. They say they are serious.
Every so often some turd-worldian with a mouth full of marbles makes an announcement over the public address system that makes people look at each other with ‘what the fuck?’ looks on their faces. I felt really secure, sitting in the plane, with the back door open out to the tarmac that any diaper-head with a gun and a grudge could have waltzed through and right into the cabin, cuz they never once shut the cabin door until just before takeoff.
Ahhh, fukkit, we’re doomed.
I spent a lovely week with my daughter and sons, enjoying the Marine graduation ceremonies, then watching DI’s ‘kill’ recruits in the ‘Pits’ around the base.
I made a tactical error, though, last Thursday evening. I thought it would be a great idea to get a bottle of Canadian Mist and some beers and get plowed on Boilermakers, watch TV in the room, and get enough sleep so I could go to the Colors ceremony early in the morning.
I poured my shot, cracked my beer, and offered my sons a tipple, as well.
My hippie/goth son took his, and my Marine Sergeant son took his, and my daughter burrowed deeper into her book and her bed, disgusted with all of us.
My sons remarked on how smooth and tasty the bourbon was, and began to drink straight from the bottle. The trouble started when an acquaintance my Marine brought with him couldn’t handle his liquor, and began to talk shit. My goth son, insulted, and blind drunk by now, staggered outside saying he was “gonna fuggin hitchhike back to Oregon”; my Marine had left, and here I was, face to face with this drunk, raving stranger.
I was sitting at the foot of my bed, and this guy I didn’t know, had never met before, was talking major shit and getting all up in my face. This would have been okay, I could have waited until my Marine came back and took over, but my daughter tried to say something and this guy showed that he was willing to hurt us both. I knew there was no way I could take this guy in an unfair fight, and I could see that he was waiting for me to make a move, so I put my hands under my ass, sat on them, and offered him my jaw for him to hit…
…this guy was really beginning to scare me. I noticed that he would close his eyes and turn his head away briefly before he would get back into my face…
…by this time my daughter was crying on her bed, and I had gone completely combat sober…
…his eyes closed…I slipped my knife out of my pocket with my thumb, into my hand, under my ass cheek…his eyes closed, I opened the blade and held the knife open along my leg…I pulled my left hand out from under my ass and made a dismissive gesture to distract him…then I told him to shut the fuck up and either do something or quit boring me to death.
If he’d have grabbed me then, I would have cut the underside of his upper arm and then slashed him across the forehead to blind him with his own blood, and then I might of had to poke a hole in something important…
…without taking my eyes off him, I told my daughter to get the hell out and she rushed out of the room behind him. Then, almost anticlimactically, my Marine came back, the asshole left, and my son spent an hour apologizing for his buddies’ behavior.
Man, I love that guy…my son, I mean. I hope to never see or hear from that other guy again. I can�t remember the last time any man scared me that bad. I almost cut myself sneaking that badass knife back into my pocket.
My daughter found my goth son wandering around the parking lot with his pants off at three a.m., covered in mud, and she and her boyfriend thoughtfully brought him back and threw him in bed with me…
…in the morning, the sheets looked like I’d mud-fucked a herd of pigs…wonder what the maid thought about that one?
I had two very hung over sons the next day. The Marine held it back, but the goth puked several times, especially when I offered to go get him some raw oysters in tomato juice to help him out…ungrateful S.O.B.
Ahhh, I love him, too. A Dad worries, but I have really great kids in spite of all my efforts to fuck them up.
I just wish I was better at telling them that.