Last night the VFW and others held a concert and hot dog feed for the guys leaving for Ft. Polk Saturday. I want to post some pictures, as soon as I figure out how, and talk about that later. This morning I am too tired to do a good job.
JJ has a thread going on her site about what makes you stop reading something. For me, gratuitous, graphic violence, sex and foul language will often make me quit a book. I don’t do gore and torture at all and horror very, very infrequently.
Which prompted Conduit to say I probably wouldn’t like his book because of the language. That’s a pity because I really do enjoy his writing and he is extremely talented.
And, before I go farther, I’m going to give a statement. I don’t care what you write or how you talk. Your life, your work. It’s just something I don’t care for. If I was at a party and things got too rough, I would just quietly leave. No muss, no fuss.
That being said, I don’t enjoy it and I avoid it.
I pulled into a convenience store about ten years ago and had Will with me. He was about eleven at the time. This lowrider was parked across the drive blocking the gas pump and sitting in a no parking zone. I sat for a long time, waiting and finally got mad. Bad enough I can’t fuel up, but he left his “music” on, blaring so loud it rattled my windows.
“Gonna kill that mfing cop
Gonna blow that pig away”
I turned off the truck and stormed into the store. My gangster friend was sprawled across the counter flirting with the young clerk, who was giggling prettily.
“I need you to move so I can get to the gas pump and do you really thing everyone in the world wants to listen to that trash?”
He straightened up and pointed his finger at me, “Shut the f*** up you f***ing white c**t.”
It made me so mad I doubled up my fist and hit him. He went sailing tail over teakettle into a candy display and also knocked off quite a bit of stuff off the shelves. So here’s this little ganger floundering around in a massive pile of candy, screaming at me about what his homies are going to do to me.
In another completely spontaneous moment, and being of sound mind and body, I started praying for him.
I held out my hand and said, “The Lord bless you and keep you.” Then I quoted several scriptures about being delivered from evil spirits and prayed for his salvation. Aloud, of course. With my hand outstretched toward him.
His eyes got as big as saucers and he kind of crawled/scrambled/ran to the door. I followed him calmly, continuing to pray for the terror-stricken ganger.
I laid my money on the counter and told the clerk I wanted $20 on pump one. She was standing there with her mouth hanging open and just nodded. Not even a pleasant, “thank you. Come again.”
I called a cop friend of mine later, because I was kind of worried about these punks attacking my house or kids. Ashley laughed and then calmed my fears. “Jules.” No EE isn’t my first. Many people have called me Jules. “Do you really think he’s going to tell his friends a little, old white woman knocked him on his ass and then prayed for him to be delivered? Trust me, he’s not telling this story to anyone.”