There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.
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How does that work?
Two old vets get the young guy drunk and then just listen.
Best fix there is, really. Aside from not having to go.
Yeah, it would be.
Anybody else would be too sheltered. It wouldn't work.
Well anyone can listen. But it's hard not to flinch sometimes, unless you've been there.
It's hard to SAY THINGS to people who haven't been there, if "there" is sufficiently horrible.
But you don't say. The only thing you say is, "So, Snake, where ya been?"
Then you shut up and keep the tumblers full.
You won't get far calling it "Butthair Wig"
It's all about the marketing.
I am all about truth in advertising.
"Genuine TGRR Asshair Wig. Specially treated with vindaloo squeezings."
We are Holy Men™, and we regularly practice "laying on wrench", also known as "appliance healing" or "Make the fucking thing work by INTIMIDATION". Richter once scared a Fiat into functioning. True story.
Many years ago, Richter and I were tasked with a Holy Quest™, in which we were tasked with finding just 50 honest people in Providence, lest the LORD grow wrathful and smite the city for its iniquities. The result was the great Providence flood a few years back. Sorry truth is, we found 50 honest people in about an hour, but then we got into the Maker's Mark, and God got sick of waiting and trashed the joint while we were passed out. We felt kinda bad about that one.
We were tasked with CLEANSING THE TEMPLE, but Richter hogged up all the fun. Before I even had my hip waders on, he'd sharpened a basketball and taken out the entire mafia, including a 3 pointer from way downtown that beheaded Vinnie "The Butthole" Garbanzo. I was peeved, I can tell you. I had to settle for tying Vinnie's brother to the Jeep's trailer hitch and taking him out for a drag.
Richter WRITES the hymns, and I MAKE the people sing them. Castrato, if need be.
Thus endeth the lesson, unless Richter has anything to add.
Or Kill Me.
I'm not really a Holy Man™ but I am striving for added Holy™ daily. I'm not there yet, but I try hard.
Of late, I have neglected my most Sacred Crowbar. It had been many a day since I beat the truth from an inanimate object. To rectify this grievance, I have begun to bring it EVERYWHERE. It is my walking stick. My pointing stick. My reaching Stick. My "Just holding a Crowbar while you talk to me" stick. And it was Good. Joy has been found, and the opportunity to extract vengeance upon your surroundings arises more often that you'd think.
Opportunity knocks. Holy™ carries a Crowbar.
I preach to these savages in this Godless foreign land. I spake unto them the most ancient of words "NO." I try to limit any explanation to single grunts and mime. I largely succeed. My sermons are short, yet they seem to keep the spirit at heart even if only temporarily.
My exile has been long and hard. My return shall be glorious. My people will not remember me in song, or fondly. But they will remember.
Advice on how to up my Holy™?
Also has a serious problem with religious assaults too. Atheists, Jews and Muslims all report routine harassment within Air Force ranks.
Wow, I hadn't thought about that angle to being a prophet.