My Life: The Unauthorized Autobiography Foreword

My Life: The Unauthorized Autobiography (Foreword)

Okay, I’ve started this story about a hundred times and stopped ninety-nine of those times. It’s also very possible that I’ll scrap the whole damn thing about half way through. That’s just the way it goes, sometimes. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even doing it now, except for the fact that one of my grandchildren may pick up a book someday (stranger things could happen) and, if he or she does, I’d get a kick out of knowing that the book in question was this one. Call it ego; call it any damn thing you want, but I think all kids want to know about their grandparents at some point. So, Morgan, Ben, Elizabeth, Brittany, Eric, Nathan, Noah, Grace, Annabelle, and whoever else may have joined the family since I wrote this (honestly, sometimes I wonder if your parents are aware that birth control exists), here’s your chance. Grampy’s life, as told by the only person in the world inclined to tell it. It is my hope that by reading it you can gain a little insight into the reasons why your parents kept you away from me for so long. You see, it’s because when you ask them, “Daddy, why is he like that?” the only honest response he’ll be able to give you is to shake his head sadly and reply, “God only knows, sweetie… I think he’s always been that way.”

It’s a foregone conclusion that no one will ever write a book about my life, so I’m writing it myself. Arrogant? Certainly. Self-important? Guilty, again… in fact, if you’re reading this right now, it’s probably because you’re included among one of three categories of people; relatives who’ve heard stories about me but can’t believe them without further substantiation, those who actually knew me and are still curious about why I did most of the things I did, or those who dug the manuscript out of a dumpster and have too much idle time coupled with too little money to buy a paperback at Wal-Mart. If, by chance, you don’t fall into one of those groups, I salute your resistance to pain and question your ability to properly delegate your time—or, that is, I would if I were still alive, which assumes facts currently not in evidence. (Did you like that? I got that from one of the many episodes of Law and Order that I wasted far too much of my life watching.)

Honestly, it’s very unlikely that anyone will ever read this before my death. No one has ever asked me to write it. I attribute this to factors too numerous to list at any one time, although I shall endeavor to mention some of them in the course of my story. Suffice to say, most of my relatives look at me through eyes glossed over with a thin, translucent film of boredom. My politics lean to the left, my emphasis on family has marched unflaggingly through the decades and I pay my taxes, damn them to hell. Not once have I written that I think a sitting president should be assassinated despite constantly wishing that someone had the grapes to accomplish it. I used to give a lot of money to the Church until I discovered that they are, for the most part, a lying hoard of pedophiles totally unworthy of existence in any form. That’s right, you heard me correctly—organized religion in any form is by and large a tax dodge created to extort money from humans who are afraid of dying. Let’s all meet a couple of times a week and pass the basket while telling each other how much we love The Great Creator of Everything Who Loves Us So Much That He’s Sent Oral Roberts, Pat Robertson, The Great Ayatollahs, Jerry Falwell, Pope Whoever, and Tammy Fay Baker To Help Us Build Our Crystal Cathedrals While Condemning Non-Believers To An Eternity In Hell. Yea, I’m going to spend lots of time listening to that crap. You had your shot, fellows, and you blew it. You simply couldn’t keep your hands out of my pockets long enough to clean up your own house. Go tell your story to some other miserable shmuck that needs a miracle, I’m all stocked up on bullshit.

Let’s face it, folks—in the eyes of my family I’m vanilla. At this point in my life, not much happens worthy of note. I live in a small town in the middle of the state of Missouri, for Christ’s sake! Short of a tornado, arson of the Wal-Mart Superstore or the birth of quintuplets, Moberly boasts very few noteworthy events. I’m still working, of course, at the age of sixty, but that’s to be expected since I’ve never been able to accumulate much money. I’m not complaining about that, but I think it’s worthy of note that I invested any possible revenues for investment in the care and upkeep of five children. Also, I don’t expect praise for this, as it was my decision to keep my wife pregnant for the better part of twenty years, and I’m man enough to stick around and see how the kids would turn out. We’ll talk more about that later.

Did I mention that I’m a curmudgeon? If you don’t know the meaning of the word, I’ll help you out: A curmudgeon is a crusty, irascible, cantankerous old person full of stubborn ideas. Again, I’m guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty—guilty. Worse, I’m dedicated to eternal proliferation of these ideals; so don’t try to change me. In fact, I think the definition should be amended to include the word ‘unapologetic’ to the litany of traits.

Plus, there’s every chance that I could stroke out at any minute. I’m nearly 60 years old and my health is about like it’s been for the past 25 years—terrible. Oh, I can get around okay, even work (as long as it’s nothing too strenuous or physical), but that’s about it. I can’t play golf anymore because of arthritis, there’ll be no more pool or darts (my eyes are shot), and I don’t enjoy cards enough to lose my money every Tuesday night in the neighborhood poker game. If I could afford a swimming pool (or even a YMCA membership, if I lived in a town that had a YMCA), I’d probably heat the sucker up to about 95o Fahrenheit and do some water walking a couple of times a day—that is, I would until I got sick of it, then the damn thing would sit there unattended. You see, folks, I hate schedules and structure. I’ve always wanted to be able to make hideously large amounts of money just working at the computer. Some people do it, but most of them are criminals stealing money from folks’ bank accounts, and I’m afraid I couldn’t do that—and not for the reasons you’d think, either. It has nothing to do with right or wrong, I just could not do the time in prison. For me, there would be very few things on earth worse than being incarcerated. So, trust me, if someone puts me in leg shackles and forces me to take up residence at the Crossbar Hotel, you can bet anything you own it’s because I got caught knocking off my third armored car of the day and I was simply too exhausted to get away.

Did I mention that I love to write? Of all the things I do (except for sex and holding babies), writing is probably what I enjoy most. Honestly, it’s likely the only concrete legacy I’ll leave. I can’t paint, act, dance or sculpt, so the written word is my only refuge. If I lived in Costa Rica or the Bahamas, maybe I’d spend some time in the sun catching billfish off the back of a fishing boat, but Missouri offers few opportunities for saltwater safaris, so apparently I’ll just have to write about them.

So, get yourself a cold beverage and sit your fanny down for a few minutes. If all you learn is the art of patience, then reading this won’t be a total waste of time.