Hung at high noon. Let down after it was discovered I didn’t have any

I know what I need to get my doggerel published. A big machine gun and a tour of duty in Maine. Give myself the name Bowdoin Nuzzle. Give candid accounts of what life is really like on the frontlines of living in the Pine Tree State.

Screw the imbedded reporters in the media who glamorize the state as vacationland, they’re only besotted natives who can’t be partial and are backed by government stiffs with impotence. Describe the day-to-day life of the average Joe Grunt and his fight with boredom, the humdrum, the menial, the dull. Describe vivid accounts of bloody battles between natives and newcomers. Even kill a few of each myself. Chronicle the moment the bastards get in my crosshairs to the moment they get riddled and spew epic amounts of liberal blood or conservative fluid.

Because people really want to know what it’s like in Maine, in the combat zone of the clash of cultures. They need to know the body counts of the failed, the amount of blood spilled by the victorious. They crave to have a narrator lead them through a blood bath like Dante needed to have Virgil.

We all need to understand the mind behind the trigger finger who cuts a path to his success. And who can fault me for telling it like it is? If a jarhead like me can risk my life in Maine for the pursuit of happiness and freedom, well, then, any other Joe can have his chance, too.

Fate’s funny like that. It’s a joker.


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