Creepy Kid

Do not make me use my telekinetic powers.

I was a creepy kid alright.  No doubt about it.  Something was seriously wrong with me.  A dark lad, with different interests.  I had a wild imagination, and sometimes I used it, but more often it used me.

As a young snapper, I loved reading about prisons and leprosy.  When I saw the movie Papillion with my dad, I couldn’t believe my luck.  It had both.  I begged him to buy me the book, which he did.  Now I could read about convicts getting their guts cut opened by other prisoners looking for the diamonds the dead man keestered, and lepers whose fingers came off on the coffee cups they hand you to drink from.  This was heavy shit, and I found it all so much more interesting than the suburban postcard I was living in.

So while other kids were learning to play little league, I was under my sister’s trundle-bed, gnawing on coconut husks, pretending to be doing time in the hole.  I may or may not have leprosy, depending on how miserable I wanted to make-believe to be that day.  Like I said, a dark lad, with different interests.

I get a kick out of kids these days with their vampires and zombies.  More people have had the life sucked out of them in the Colonial French penal system, or for that matter an office job, then by any blood-thirsty vampire.  Statistically, more people have died from having their flesh rot off their bones, right before their very eyes, from common diseases than have had their brains eaten by some zombies stumbling through a mall like sleep-deprived commuters.

Kids, if you want to scare yourself.  Go all the fucking way.  Convince yourself you have cancer, or that someday, because of the bad choices you’ve made, you’ll have to hide knives in your ass just to survive, or sell insurance.  There’s plenty to be scared about right here in the real world.  Unless, you just want to pretend to be scared, and I get that.  Then vampires and zombies are cool.  Sorry for getting all preachy.

As an introverted little imp, I spent a lot of time in my own head, and in the process created a bleak inner landscape.  My family’s stories about life in Europe during World War 2, my own morbid research into historical plagues, wars, and genocide, as well as the ugliness I saw in myself and other people, convinced me I was on the scariest planet in The Universe.

Could I discover everything  that there was to get freaked out and scared about?  I’d sure try my darnedest, Mr. Wizard.

I used to love  reading about paranormal phenomenon, ESP, ghosts, pyramid power, telekinesis, but especially about UFO’s and ancient astronauts.  I would pray for an invasion.  I actually remember praying to Jesus to send UFOs to take over the world.  Double-barreled crazy?  Perhaps, but the way I saw it, we’d be much better off than the way we were running things.

Worst case scenario, they come down and decide to exterminate all of us.  In other words, not really all that bad.  I mean to actually save the planet, I’d make that call.  Just DDT us like some roaches that have taken over a building.  My big hope was to be captured and sent to a comfortable life in one of their zoos, some habitat they’ve surrounded with things they’ve found humans to love.

I’ve been watching the skies since.

Then there was my deal the Devil.  (No, I didn’t actually make any “deal” with him)  I mean my fear of and fascination with him.  I was given his basic profile report by a Catholic upbringing, which also pretty much convinced me I was bound to go to hell and meet him in person.  I used to rehearse the speech I would deliver to him regarding my humane treatment, if only because I had apparently served his will so well while on Earth.  At least that’s what I got out of Catholicism.  That me and The Devil were two peas in a pod.  He loved sin, and by cootchity, so did I.

It was only a matter of time before he would come to claim one of his own.  And when he did, there would be a hot eternity in the old town tonight.

I really got worried after having choice excerpts from the The Exorcist read to me by my friend, Adam Weiss.  He was Jewish and could claim immunity from being possessed.  Good for him.  I wasn’t so lucky.  It seemed like Catholics made easier targets.  After really mulling over the concept of demonic possession, I was convinced I was a prime candidate to host a pea soup spewing party.  It just made perfect sense.

At night, when I felt The Dark Lord getting too close, I’d lay in bed clinging to a rosary, my illustrated children’s bible, or a clear plastic dashboard mount St. Christopher, my eyes and asshole tightened to close off any ports of entry.  When my bed started to shake one morning back in 1971, I actually thought,  “And so it begins…”

I was relieved when my father ran in with half a face of shaving cream yelling about an earthquake.

That, by the way, turned out the most harmless shaking bed I’d ever be in.  I would eventually learn there was something out there more terrifying than the Devil and more devastating than earthquakes, and it all starts with a smile.  That nightmare would begin soon enough.  For now I only had to wrestle with Satan for my soul.  Women were still behind the ropes waiting to get tagged in.

Between preparing myself mentally for a life in prison, begging U.F.O’s to come down, and running from the devil, participating in healthy recreation like running around a baseball diamond, or bouncing a ball around, seemed like a dangerous distraction.  There was just so much to think about and scare yourself with.  Gnarly stuff to mentally prepare yourself for, when it finally happened.

Besides, I sucked at sports.  My father never really taught me that stuff, and I’d get all nervous and blow simple catches.  The more I freaked about it, the more I dropped the ball.  (A very good life metaphor, I might add.)  Team sports are a healthy way to integrate individual personalities to work together harmoniously.  No wonder that got skipped.

Then there was the clothes.  My mother was insane about them.  I was going to be her living fashion doll and she would play dress up with me.  She insisted in dressing me in the latest styles…from West German fashion magazines.  I even remember the name of one of them, Wenz.  Wenz for the wimpiest in wiener wear.  It featured some of the gayest, most dip-shittiest outfits ever designed for children, or rather, der kinder volk, to look their absolute dorkiest and most beat-upable.

Going to school in New York City public schools dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, or like a Broadway stage dancer, was bound to magnetize beatings.  Who could resist?  I was like a multicolored spinning and flashing bass lure.  I caught a lot of them.  Then later got some of the West coast version when we moved to California.  The clothes had come with me.  I would beg my mom to let me dress like the other kids, but she never relented.  We played a cat and mouse game for years, with me wearing two pairs of pants over each other before school, or keeping a smuggled T-shirt to change into.

“But mom, the kids pick on me for being dressed like this!”

“They pick on you because they can smell the fear on you,” she’d say, “like dogs can.”

I tell you what though, being exposed to so much physical violence early on did something to me.  Years later, when I was actually earning a living fighting with dudes, there was deep well of rage I could tap into.  I was not just hitting the son of bitch in front of me, but every single one I ever took a beating from.

I remember hitting on this one fucker in Rodeo Nites one night, and he just kept changing from Paul Rodriquez,  to James Rich,  to John Mahoney. I poured it on, and wound up having the other bouncers working that night pull me off.

I could become a vicious motherfucker when it served me.   Took me a lot of deprogramming to undo that guy.

Speaking of deprogramming.  My parents were very Right Wing, as most refugees from a Communist takeover tend to be.   It was explained to me early on, that everything bad that was happening in the world was because of Communists, and their lackey surrogates, the hippies.  They were going to take over the world and ruin our lives.  They didn’t believe in God or taking showers, and would force us not to either.

They were going to do that with drugs.  The hippies would disseminate them among the population, and it would weaken our will to resist a Red invasion of the United States.  In fact, they were doing just that to our soldiers right then, in Viet Nam.  Holy shit.  Add Communists, hippies, and drugs to my list of things to be scared of.  And, perversely, now be suddenly more interested in.

Drugs especially.  I used to read my parent’s Time and Newsweek to look for articles about drugs.  I learned there were all kinds, and that they would do all kinds of different things to you.  Some would make you see things that weren’t there.  Some made you really peppy, and others really sleepy.  I became pretty savvy about drug culture, way before I even partook.

A semi-trailer truck would park in front of The Esplanade shopping center and it would have a display inside of all the different drugs and corresponding paraphernalia in exhibition cases behind glass.  The idea was to educate the public on what to look out for so they could rat out whoever had any of this stuff around.  That wasn’t what happened to me.

I’d stare mesmerized at the hash pipes, syringes with burnt and bent spoons, roach clips, bags of white powder, bags of brown powder, sugar cubes, pills of all colors and shapes.  This was some bad stuff.  Stuff people shouldn’t have.  I wanted to play with all of it.

In fact, I used to pretend play drug dealer.  I think I was in 5th grade, and I would bring in bags of brown sugar, which was Mexican heroin, and bags of white flour, which was French heroin, and thus more expensive.  I’d have to explain all this to the other kids, and then hand out vitamin pills telling them what each one was.  “This one is going to make you jump around a lot.”  “This one is going to make you think that the swing set is a dinosaur.”  And so on, and the kids would have to act out their various “trips.”

So it was no surprise when the world of substance abuse did finally open it’s doors of liquor and medicine cabinets, I pushed through the cafe doors like a little Baudelaire, a lazy, morbid, fearful little dreamer, a loner flaneur, morose and miserable, but now with an avenue of escape.  Here was a remedy for all that ailed me.  A fleeting but sweet relief from having to be me, one of the most miserable bastards I could invent.  A brooding, cathedral gargoyle, hunched over a bong and a 32 oz. malt liquor.

By high school, I was dressing more normal, but the insides were warped beyond straightening.  Somebody was about to grow up to be a crazy person, a total drunken Visigoth on a pillaging rampage through life.

Looking back now, I can see I wasn’t all that bad of a kid.  Just a lot of things made me believe I was, and my reaction to that, ultimately did make me turn a little rotten.  Or maybe I was just destined.  All I know is, I thought it sucked to be me, and to be around me, and I was having to do both. Drinking and drugs gave me a small vacation.  The problem was when I’d get back from my journey, somebody always ransacked the joint.

So I try not to make that mistake these days.  I figure I’m stuck with being me.  I can continue to try to evolve as a person, but hating myself along the way is just going to make me thirsty again.  I try to cut myself a little slack, and in the process, find it easier to do it for others.  Things tend to go better for me that way.  I still believe in crazy things, but these days, they’re nothing that scares me.  If anything, the crazy shit I believe these days helps me make it somehow.

I don’t try to make other people believe what I believe.  All I want other people to believe is that they are okay, the way they are right now.  That they are worthy of love regardless of their weirdness, or the mistakes they’ve made, and that love is stronger than anything, so there’s nothing to really be afraid of.  That’s the only thing I’ll ever mount a soap box for, and hopefully help some creepy kid from having to go through what I did.  That would make everything worth it.

37 responses to “Creepy Kid

  1. Hey, that’s MY goal, too. Honest. CC asked me a while back what I wanted from life and it just popped out – “I want to help people know how awesome they are.”

    Go, Team OK The Way You Are

  2. Dude, you were rocking lederhosen waay before they became fashionable. Remember that, in case you ever want to pull the hipster cred card.
    The older I get the more I realize I had it right when I was a kid. Back then the world hadn’t really tried to grind me to a nub yet and there wasn’t a dichotomy set up between weird shit and normalcy. I had to unlearn a lot as I left my twenties and thirties to get to the point where I’m perfectly fine with being the same bizarro case I was when I was young.
    I know you Marius, you aint like a “reformed” weird kid. If you were you’d be abjectly boring and you’re totally not. The fact that you can embrace your peculiarities kind of makes you even more weird in a world where everyone strives to be pseudo-hyperindividualized (just like everyone else), but hardly anyone is happy. Not to go all “acceptance is the key…” or anything on you, but yeah, accepting the weird shit about ourselves and others sure makes for happier living. And you do that. If you hadn’t been such a creepy kid I don’t think you would. I think you probably would have wound up selling insurance or something utterly abysmal like that.
    “The freaks can’t be formally normalized, nor can we be normally formalized. What we want is complete weirdification” -Gibby Haynes

    • Nice dude, really nice words. Thanks. Being boring would be the worst, wouldn’t it? Great Gibby quote. Totally apropos to the whole dealy-o. We need weirdification all across our nation and on every station. Good to have you fighting beside me. Got your back, too. Peace out and about.

      • Oh boy. Kind of hard to explain vimto chin. My sister named it that. My dad started it. When he got cuted out about something or really, really emphatic, he would do this thing where he would roll his tongue under and stick out his chin. Not really a good look, and not one my sister and I preferred he do in public, but Dad never really gave a flying fuck what people thought. He really didn’t. So Mad Dog sees this, and sort of adopts a version of it. He does it after saying something like,”So dude, do you know anything about Stalingrad?” Right? So fucking obviously yes, that part of you goes crazy for even asking such an absurdity, and in the resulting fit, you stick out your chin as far as possible. Mad Dog usually followed this up by falling completely limp, like those push-button string puppets we’d play with as kids. In other words, he was so seized with chin-sticking outedness, that he used up all his strength and now has fallen limp. Thus he would illustrate the sheer absurdity of the preceding question/statement. Whew. I don’t know if I explained it, but that’s as close as I can come to it, tonight. “Dude, have you ever had a beer before.” Vim. Get it?

  3. I have not checked in here for a while as I thought it was getting boring, but the last several posts are good quality so I guess I will add you back to my everyday bloglist. You deserve it my friend 🙂

  4. Marius–While I am a not-really-believing-in-astrology-but-kinda person, as a Libra I find it almost impossible, if not straight impossible, to pick “the best of” or “my favorite” anything, but I’m very close to agreeing with Mr. Lucas. This post is delicious (and nutritious) in its scope of exquisitely related themes, wrapped up nice and Mariusly in that way many of us clearly adore and respect. (Yeah, sometimes I make up words. Unless “Mariusly” has already been used–it may well have been). I can say that, whilst we are all individuals, I very much relate to what Dave wrote and, yes, with what you wrote, and the many of “us” out (t)here. Like having it right as a kid. In my middle age I find myself proud of that youngster I was, the beliefs I held, the shit I felt was right and wrong in this world, particularly a lot of religious and social beliefs that most of the “grown-ups” around me held. Luckily, my Eastern-European WWII-immigrant parents (hey, me, too, who knew?) were different from many of their peers, and I think that may have helped, and for that I am grateful. But as one who’s felt weirdification for decades and decades now, I am happy to wave that freak flag high with you, as well as love, love being the law, will being love, and love being will. As usual, I throw good vibes in your direction (approximately) and am glad to have you back from Alaska. Could you see Russia from your stateroom? Keep calm and carry on.

    • Thank you sweet Mortimer, if I may call you that. Strange you should mention the “keep calm, carry on.” I saw that everywhere on this trip, in terms of gift shop items emblazoned with said slogan. Is it from The Blitz. Hitler’s Junkers raining destruction on the resilient bull dog back of Britain? Or something from the Titanic? I will Google it right now and find out. Hold on.

      • I was right the first time. Fuck! I should’ve known I was right the first time. I knew it but I didnt know it. It appears to be a commonly known WW2 thing, that wasn’t commonly known to me. I’m ashamed. I sort of have this thing about WW2…Well, anyway, thanks for your delightful comments, as always, old chap. Most appreciated. Now chin up. We’ll be hanging our laundry on the Sigfried Line in no time.

      • I should co-co, as my dearly departed Cockney friend used to say….although I never really knew what he meant. And I’m pretty sure I asked him more than once. But that was, oh, you know. Yes, OF COURSE you were right the first time, Marius! I’m convinced you already knew the reference, but it had jammed somewhere amidst all that information in your grey matter, coupled with seeing it repeatedly in Alaskan gift shops—well, that’s enough to ruffle anyone. Even, perhaps…you? Nah. I dunno. Agreed—strange that my mention coincided with your gift shop visions. Hmmmm. Maybe I was…following you.

      • I was also going to write that you need not be ashamed, but I remember a comment I wrote once in which I apologized for something and was ashamed and you made it quite clear that on your blog, you are the only one allowed to feel ashamed. So, carry on. But not for too long, dig? See ya on the Sigfried Line…

  5. The story of so many of us that were convinced we were less than we were. Loved the last paragraph–you have a lovely heart .

  6. Marius, I think perhaps “we” meant the Siegfried Line, rather than Sigfried? (As in “Siegfriedstellung”, rather than “…and Roy.”) Please, be assured I write not to correct you, but to edit myself. I am a terribly time-wasting proofreader of my own writing. And even then, I don’t catch it all, and I get all OCD about it. Proofreading’s great for teaching high-school English, but becomes mind-numbing when I spaz out on my own comments re someone else’s blog. There. Was that OK, not too apologize-y? Explanatory, I’d venture to type. In any case, the laundry’s piling up…it’s been a few years. At ease.

    • Ah ha. I know that one. Commenting and then later thinking about it (usually between 3:30am- 4:30am) and finding some angle that might make something I wrote come off as wrong or deeply offensive. Those bolting-up-in-bed moments are precious, aren’t they? You really feel alive.
      Anyway, there’s no crime in erring human here, Mortimus Mundi. Now, chill mofo. We’re all friends here. Keep calm, and carry on, like for reals.

  7. Sorry I’m a little slow and self-involved (I know. An addict? Self-involved?! No!) but this post is sheer Marius magic. Brutal funny and ultimately kinda sweet. IN a related but not really note, I hung out with a friend of mine this week from high school and she said the most profound thing, “Everybody was really horrible to you” she said. Then she recalled a story of me getting teased and having shit thrown at me as we walked down the hall. It felt vindicating in a weird way because I remembered it was horrible but thought I might have been being dramatic. SO the point was I survived thanks to my buddies drugs and alcohol. But as you put it, “Drinking and drugs gave me a small vacation. The problem was when I’d get back from my journey, somebody always ransacked the joint.” Amen. Anyway, sorry about my comments section therapy session. And thanks for the brilliant blog!

    • Dude, you have to come to my seminars on becoming more self-involved. Those are sheer Marius magic. Glad you liked the piece. I’d like to comment more often on your new entries, but you’ve been cranking them out faster than I can come up with pithy things to say. That’s a quality problem, for you. Outrunning me. I read your comment to my girlfriend, and she was pissed…about hearing what you went through in school. Me too. I swear to God, I would’ve stepped in for you. Probably gotten my ass kicked and handed back to you, but we would have made a stand together, and that makes for eternal friendships. Sometimes I feel like we’ve returned to the school yard, and guess what motherfuckers? There’s a new Sheriff in town. And while we could fuck with your heads, or maybe just pull them off your necks, we’re going to be so nice to you, that you’ll want to kill yourselves for being dicks to people like us. Or plan B, and fuck with their heads while pulling them off. Peace, Comrade.

  8. Dear seanpaulmahoney—for what it’s worth, I, too, feel like Marius’ girlfriend and Marius about your treatment by those fucking pricks in school. I never had a crowd of pals to attack the assholes with, but I blended in/stood weirdly out (?) enough that I somehow missed, for the most part, being bullied and tortured.But it would literally make me sick to see, and, yeah, I would often be the “narc”, running to tell a teacher or janitor or anyone who could maybe tone the shit down. But I’d spend the rest of the day, and evening at home often, sick and in tears about what some of us had to go through. And yeah, drugs and alcohol helped, A LOT, and I usually did it alone so I could think whatever I wanted. But what those kids did. And kids still do. To all kinds of kids, but it’s especially egregious to me that the highest rate of adolescent/teen suicide is committed by gay kids. Just for that. These days, I won’t stand for it anywhere (unless it might seriously possibly get me killed) and am always glad to hear of fellows, and just want to say I am glad you made it to where you are OK, and that you have friends like Marius and others to make it through the night. Or whatever. Peace to you, from Mort.

  9. Wow. Marius, I hadn’t stopped in for a while, much to my embarrassment and chagrin, but I must say, those last two paragraphs may be the sweetest and most powerful I’ve read yet.

    This post had me laughing and reminiscing and cringing right along with you about our days in Cambodia. A few quick takes to let you know you really do fire up the ol’ childhood memory machine:

    1) The devil: I recall a time you and I and [perhaps it was] Billy LaVigna or Jim Keller were at your house, upstairs, trying to have a seance of sorts, just flat scaring the Bejeezuz out of each other. Probably 7th grade, maybe 12-years-old, and at the end of it deciding we needed to make peace with God. What to do? What to do? Why, we’d all need totems, of course, like crucifix necklaces to wear to protect us, simultaneously, from both the anger of God and the wrath of Satan. Where in heaven’s name would we get them? Well, that’s where the Cambodia Crime Syndicate came in….what better way to make amends with the Almighty than to head on down to Newberry’s and get a five-finger-discount on some religious artifacts? Done and done. If there is a hell, THAT is the act that’s going to land me there.

    2) Drugs: I still get a chuckle out of the fact that, in 6th grade, I did an oral report on drugs. Made charts and everything. “Now,” he says (in high-pitched, pre-adolescent voice), “moving on to the Barbiturate category, these drugs are commonly called ‘downers,’ and they have street names like ‘reds,’ ‘amatyl’ and ‘goofballs.’ ” Sixth-grade!

    3) UFOs: “Chariots of The Gods” was one of the books I lifted from Sav-On.

    4) Dress-Kode of the Kool Kids: I recall that my Mom always bought me Toughskins, which were those jeans from Sears that had the patches already sewn into the knee. Every other kid at school had Levi’s 501s. This was a recipe for taunting/bullying, and to this day I can still recall Tom Emmitt giving me shit about my Toughskins every single day from 5th grade through 8th.

    5) Baseball: I recall that once I began playing Little League, I took to wearing my cap to school. Well, it didn’t take long for the other kids to decide it was funny as hell to knock the cap off my head by flicking up on the bill. Only happened 10 times a fucking day! So I started wearing the cap backwards and that seemed to remedy the problem for the most part. When my Dad asked me why I was wearing the cap backwards, I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was because I was getting picked on at school, so I just made something up. Toward the very end of his life, when we were talking about important existential stuff (and not so important memory stuff) he says to me, “You were the first, you know, the first kid to start wearing your cap backwards as a fashion statement. Before Ken Griffey, Jr., before anybody. I always thought that was cool.” Hah! If he only knew.

    Sorry I rambled on again in your comments section, but these stories you write really take me back sometimes. Thanks for that, and thanks for being my pal when we were youngsters. We had some great times out on the border of juvenile delinquency. I laughed hardest as a kid when I was hanging out with you.

    Really glad to have rekindled this friendship Marius.

    • Hey Jimmy, thanks for stopping by. Glad I could poke at some neural centers to stimulate some memories. I remember your backward ball cap, and your dad was right. You really were one of the earliest to pioneer that fashion statement. I didn’t know that it was a result of harassment. I too am glad we reconnected. It’s been a real upper.

    • JIMMY—We’ve not met (that I know of), and I just relatively recently “met” Marius via his blog (am not a big computer-ish person, and read books MUCH more often than blogs–actually, Marius’ is the only one I read regularly, truth be told) but I feel moved to write to tell you that your comment is delightful, in many ways, to read. That’s one of the reasons Marius’ blog is such great reading (besides it being such great reading)–the comments bring forth his buddies from years past, and even if I don’t get the in-joke, I can appreciate the love of an in-joke, and Marius’ friends, well…I often liken them to a perfect marinade/dressing/seasoning of HIS work. It adds something to the mix, which can be sublime, even. Or, at least, fucking funny. Take it easy, Jimmy–yours in the Internet Superhighway, Mort.

      • Be sure you include yourself in that marinade, Mortimus Mundi, as I consider you a friend. It’s an exclusive club, where something must be seriously wrong with you, in the most delightful way. The friends I’ve been lucky enough to have in this life have been the greatest a man could ever hope for. They have made me filthy rich in that regard. It’s always great when one of their crazy asses stops by this joint, and livens the place up. Otherwise I’m just here alone, stressing about the next piece I’m going to write, and that kind of self-absorbed drag only carries me so far. As always, Mort, thanks for stopping by. Next time bring your own sixer.

      • Marius, I am humbled, as well as all happy and giggly, by your considering me a friend, and the thing about the marinade…Yeah, there IS something seriously wrong with me, we can definitely check that off the list. And, OK…I can, indeed, be most delightful. It’s a great feeling—almost always better than drugs. And for a looooooong time, I couldn’t even fathom that there was anything better. (Or, even longer, anything worse, but by then it’s too fucking late. Unless, of course, we give ourselves a chance at being delightful, and then here we are–there it is, all wrapped up!) I’ll have to leave another comment soon that’s not on Creepy Kid. You’ve got some cool new commentors recently, I see! So, uh, (rubbing my Vans-clad-toe back-and-forth in the dirt…) , yeah…I consider you a friend, too. What a fortuitous joy, seriously! Program man-hug to you…

  10. Top stuff sir! I was laughing out loud, so had to read a few paragraphs out to my wife, who joined the merriment. Marius, we really have been living parallel lives y’know. Weird kid I certainly was.

    My Uncle from Arizona brought me a pair of lederhosen back from Germany – god knows why. I have blond hair and blue eyes and like you, kinda looked like a child from The Village of The Damned, but why give a pair of leather shorts to a six year old kid on a rough council estate in England? (don’t go there, he wasn’t like that!)

    Oddly enough, I thought they had something to do with WW2 and wore them everyday after school, for about a year, and even in bed. Even stranger, I was never bullied for wearing them, mainly because the rest of the kids up the street enjoyed my goose-stepping impressions of a young Fuehrer.

    Q: Who did you support in the movies? I always rooted for the underdogs – the red indians, the fuzzy-wuzzy’s, all alien invaders and even the Nazi’s. (After all, they had the best uniforms, especially the SS.)

    Maybe I just found the understated stiff upper lip of the Brits a little boring?

    • Frater Thugula, Amazed, and then kind of not, by the parallels. E-mailed you a special picture of yours truly in the aforementioned liederhosen. Yeah, we diverge on what we experienced wearing the hosen. My experience leaned more towards getting my face pushed into dog shit by xenophobic bigots. I kick myself for not goosestepping while wearing those pants. After all, xenophobic bigots just LOVE the goosestepping, eh? To answer your query I would refer you to More parallels. Are you me, in another dimension?

  11. Were your parents involved in genetic experiments – in Brazil? Maybe we have siblings all over this dimension? I’ve always thought I was adopted.

    • Looking at our kid’s pictures, I think that “same cannon” metaphor might be more literal. My sister and I would talk about people being from the same planet. In other words they are a similar type of person. If the mannerisms, looks, and attitudes are all somewhat similar, we say they’re from the same planet. We might be from the same distant orb. We’re for sure, not from here. Do you think they know we’re missing? I’m sure they’ll send someone to get us, right? They’re just busy plundering some other planet right now. This place has to be next, so we’ll catch a ride back with them then. In the meantime…let’s smoke cigarettes and throw nickles against the wall. Rule Britannia, baby. Rule like the bad-ass bitch you are.

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