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Saturday, August 10, 2013

I am not a terrorist

Consider this an admission of sorts.

Next month, that calendar thingie demands that I admit to being 55-years-old. With that said, know that my daily routine is not much different than that of the 13-year-old Markie. I can still run faster than most of you, I can kick harder than most of you, and I can punch a helluva lot harder than most of you on even your best of days. And being juvenile to a fault, all of that fills me with misgiven pride.

During the restaurant years, I was tackled, tripped, punched, kicked, slashed, stabbed, hit with clubs of all sorts of lengths and weights, and even damn near put out of commission by a wooden crutch gone full-blown projectile. Still, I delivered much, much, much worse than any of the incoming fire. And I wear those scars like a badge of honor.

Some might say that I am an assh*le too inclined to making all violent and the like. And to those sorts of folks, I offer no defense. I am what they twisted and bent me into being. It is what it...wasn't supposed to be. Whatever. Either sue me or take the first punch.

With all of that useless swill having been typed, none other than the almighty Fedrule Govmint itself has determined that I am not a terrorist.

So, now that I've been vetted by Big, Big, Bigger & Still Bigger Brother, do you feel safer?


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