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If this is for real, it’s fantastic, if it not, it’s still great!

To the Guy Who Tried to Mug Me in Downtown Savannah The Night Before Last.

I was the guy wearing the black Burberry jacket that you demanded I hand over, shortly after you pulled the knife on me and my girlfriend, threatening our lives. You also asked for my girlfriend’s purse and earrings. I can only hope that you somehow come across this rather important message.

First, I’d like to apologize for your embarrassment. I didn’t expect you to actually crap in your pants when I drew my pistol after you took my jacket.. The evening was not that cold and I was wearing the jacket for a reason. My girlfriend was happy that I just returned safely from my 2nd tour as a Combat Marine in Afghanistan. She had just bought me that Kimber Custom Model 1911 .45 ACP pistol for my birthday and we had picked up a shoulder holster for it that very evening. Obviously you agree that it is a very intimidating weapon when pointed at your head .. isn’t it?!

I know it probably wasn’t fun walking back to wherever you’d come from with crap in your pants. I’m sure it was even worse walking bare-footed since I made you leave your shoes, cell phone, and wallet with me. (That prevented you from calling or running to your buddies to come help mug us again).

After I called your mother or “Momma” as you had her listed in your cell, I explained the entire episode of what you’d done. Then I went and filled up my gas tank as well as those of four other people in the gas station, — on your credit card. The guy with the big motor home took 153 gallons and was extremely grateful!

I gave your shoes to a homeless guy outside Vinnie Van Go Go’s, along with all the cash in your wallet. [That made his day!]

I then threw your wallet into the big pink “pimp mobile” that was parked at the curb …. after I broke the windshield and side window and keyed the entire driver’s side of the car.

Earlier, I managed to get in two threatening phone calls to the DA’s office and one to the FBI, while mentioning President Trump as my possible target. The FBI guy seemed really intense and we had a nice long chat (I guess while he traced your number etc.).

In a way, perhaps I should apologize for not killing you … but I feel this type of retribution
is a far more appropriate punishment for your threatened crime.

I wish you well as you try to sort through some of these rather immediate pressing issues, and can only hope that you have the opportunity to reflect upon, and perhaps reconsider, the career path you’ve chosen to pursue in life.. Remember, next time you might not be so lucky.

Have a good day!

Thoughtfully yours, Semper fi,

Alex

The Innocent Honesty Of A Child

While I sat in the reception area of my doctor’s office, a woman rolled an elderly man in a wheelchair into the room. As she went to the receptionist’s desk, the man sat there, alone and silent. Just as I was thinking I should make small talk with him, a little boy slipped off his mother’s lap and walked over to the wheelchair. Placing his hand on the man’s, he said, “I know how you feel. My Mom makes me ride in the stroller too.”

As I was nursing my baby, my cousin’s six-year-old daughter, Krissy, came into the room. Never having seen anyone breast feed before, she was intrigued and full of all kinds of questions about what I was doing. After mulling over my answers, she remarked, “My mom has some of those, but I don’t think she knows how to use them.”

Out bicycling one day with my eight-year-old granddaughter, Carolyn, I got a little wistful. “In ten years,” I said, “you’ll want to be with your friends and you won’t go walking, biking, and swimming with me like you do now.
Carolyn shrugged. “In ten years you’ll be too old to do all those things anyway.”

Working as a pediatric nurse, I had the difficult assignment of giving immunization shots to children. One day, I entered the examining room to give four-year-old Lizzie her injection.
“No, no, no!” she screamed.
“Lizzie,” scolded her mother, “that’s not polite behavior.”
With that, the girl yelled even louder, “No, thank you! No, thank you!”

On the way back from a Cub Scout meeting, my grandson innocently said to my son, “Dad, I know babies come from mommies’ tummies, but how do they get there in the first place?” After my son hemmed and hawed awhile, my grandson finally spoke up in disgust, “You don’t have to make up something, Dad. It’s okay if you don’t know the answer.”

Just before I was deployed to Iraq, I sat my eight-year-old son down and broke the news to him. “I’m going to be away for a long time,” I told him. “I’m going to Iraq.”
“Why?” he asked. “Don’t you know there’s a war going on over there?”

Paul Newman founded the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp for children stricken with cancer, AIDS, and blood diseases. One afternoon, he and his wife, Joanne Woodward, stopped by to have lunch with the kids. A counselor at a nearby table, suspecting the young patients wouldn’t know Newman was a famous movie star, explained, “That’s the man who made this camp possible. Maybe you’ve seen his picture on his salad dressing bottle?”
Blank stares.
“Well, you’ve probably seen his face on his lemonade carton.”
An eight-year-old girl perked up. “How long was he missing?”

The one below was added for a little more fun.

His wife’s graveside service was just barely finished, when there was a massive clap of thunder, followed by a tremendous bolt of lightning, accompanied by even more thunder rumbling in the distance. The little, old man looked at the pastor and calmly said, “Well, she’s there.”