Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Blog
My Father
A Reader, on Our Worldly Purpose
My father died 20 years ago this month, his massive barrel chest had shrunk to teenage proportions. His tree trunk legs looked like dead saplings. I watched him die in inches for 10 years. He had been a Roughneck, Sheepherder, Hard Rock Miner, Amateur Boxer, Saddle Bronc rider.
My slightly insane mother was forever chewing his tired butt. She never recovered from seeing my brother mangled on the highway.
This chapter in your book brings back visions of my youth. My father died penniless, but he was one of the finest humans I know—worked to death, broken, by the same fucking bankrupted, soulless, money changers of materialism. I’m damn proud of my low station in life.
Work to the top, yes—then strangle the bastards.
-Anonymously yours
prev:  Caucasian Slavery in Plantation America     ‹  blog  ›     next:  The Cure for White Guilt
eBook
all-power-fighting
eBook
by the wine dark sea
eBook
the lesser angels of our nature
eBook
riding the nightmare
eBook
when you're food
eBook
buzz bunny
Add Comment