Beating The Odds First of all...I am NOT writing this because I'm looking for your pity. I have always, and will always have a great disdain for the pity-seekers of this world. This story that I'm about to tell is all about what the title proclaims in bold face...beating the odds. It's a tale about overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles and surviving. If this story gives one person that faces the same challenge a little hope for a brighter day to come...so be it! My job will be done. Forty years ago I started suffering from a rash of seemingly unexplainable bloody noses and black eyes. I was taken to a specialist after our family doctor admitted to being stumped as to what was causing these chronic symptoms to appear. After extensive tests, I was diagnosed as having a malignant and inoperable Smartassinoma growing in the left frontal lobe of my brain. It had, by this time, grown so large and was so invasive that the doctor told my parents that there was no real hope that I would live a long and productive life. He said that with the current state of affairs I would be extremely lucky to live through the next six months. I, of course, wanted a second opinion. I thought that if I had just six months left that I wanted to see as much of the world around me as possible. I started hitchhiking around the country. It just so happened that I was in the Deep South when I finally got my second opinion. A police officer stopped by the side of the road to check me out. I noticed that his neck had such color that it would make a fire truck appear to be a shade of pink. He asked for I.D. which he called in over his radio for wants and warrants. While we waited for the results we had quite a little chat. I should think that it would come as no surprise that with my very long hair and his very red neck that our chat was a little on the combative side. His radio squawked an all clear on my name and he handed me back my I.D. His parting words were my long-awaited second opinion, "Boy...one o' these days yo' mouth is gonna gitchoo kilt!" My worst bout with this condition was a near death experience. I was visiting my friends Dave and Veronica, having been invited for dinner and a movie, and I noticed that V had cut her hair. I knew that Dave never noticed this kind of thing so I thought that I'd throw out a compliment. I said, "Hey V...your new "do" looks good!" She replied, "Thanks for noticing. Do you really like it?" It did look good so I thought that I'd elaborate. I told her, "Yes I like it. It takes attention away from how big your butt has gotten." This must have been the moment that I began suffering yet another seizure because the next thing I remember is being flat on my back. I assume that it was a near death thing, that my heart had stopped beating, because when I came to Veronica was sitting on my stomach and pounding on my chest with both fists. This was, by far, the most serious episode that had ever befallen me. Not only did I suffer the normal black eye and bloody nose, but a broken jaw, two cracked ribs, and for some strange reason my testicles ached for two weeks. Anyway...the point of this story is that the six months passed, not without the occasional return of the usual symptoms, but they did pass. Then another six...then another, etc. So here I sit today, with that same and possibly even more malignant Smartassinoma crowding my brain pan, but I'm still drawing breath. I'm not saying that this affliction will not be the reason for my demise...yesterday, when he cut me off, I flipped off the driver of a pick-up truck with a fully stocked rifle rack in his rear window. All I'm saying is that, so far, I've beaten the odds.
I don't know just how ignorant southern cops can be, but your story gives a nice double meaning to the term 'redneck'. I thought Canadian cops were superior til I saw an Edmonton cop mace a handcuffed suspect. I reported the case to Edmonton Police Internal Affairs, who investigated and eventually laid no charge for lack of evidence or whatever. As for your pickup driver with the gun rack, give him a little more credit. Having a gun doesn't make him a killer. I'm not saying it never happens, but the 'Easy Rider' film was fiction. Even rednecks are smart enough to know there will be consequences if they shoot someone.
