Prologue to Redneck Fulfillment

Prologue to A Redneck’s Guide to Fulfilment (Series)

I never thought much about anything. I am an action kind of guy. I grew up in rural New York, in gun country. Yes, I like my beers and deers, football on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays, and would have a girl if they would just shut up.

That’s just it. Girls don’t want good guys like me. You see. Just because a man is down and out does not mean that he’s no good. You know what I’m saying?

I lived with my mother for forty-five years. What’s wrong with a son being there for Mom? It’s just like my good friend Hush. Sure he masturbates a lot. Hell, I masturbate a lot. No girls here, just cows and horses. You know because good guys finish last.

What else can we do? So I help my mom, and she needs too much help for me to have a consistent job year round, so I help out at the Dairy Farm and squeeze cows’ tits–or I mean teats—for a living.

Well, I don’t squeeze their teats, the machine does. I also help with getting sperm from the horses and bulls. Kinda feel like a pervert, but it’s better to do it that way. But I know the farmer. He and I go back a ways, and he pays me enough for beer, porn, and to get around in my ’95 Ford pickup. I always smell like shit though.

I guess I got okay with my life. You either are born with money or you lose it. That’s what my Daddy said, or that is what my Mom says my Daddy said before he left. I was three then. She said he could not handle kids, but she left his service uniform. I would play with it and even smell the uniform, I guess to be close to Daddy. But I can still smell gunpowder on it.

But he left me and my brother. He just disappeared, so did my brother. Mom says my brother could not handle the truth about Dad. What truth is there to leaving your kid? Makes me feel like shit, yet I am already forty four, a high school dropout, but no IBMs are here … All in China anyway. Smelling like shit and feeling like it kind of makes me shit.

So I never wanted anything with order or rules, never wanted to achieve, you know. Dad was good at the military, followed rules. For what? To leave us?

So I like the good life. I love my country, don’t get me wrong. I even have a bumper sticker on my tailgate—if only the damn thing would not keep falling off—that says “Living the American Dream.” Hell yeah! Football, beer, and porn, that’s what I am talking about.

He was in the Marines, and I would go there too but they won’t take me because I accidently cut off my left thumb when about three. I stuck it in the lawn mower when Daddy was not looking. I don’t remember much just a lot of throbbing pain and a doctor with big nostrils trying to comfort me with his cold hands.

I have a fake one now, which is kind of cool. I pull it off during trick or treat at Halloween. It scares the shit out of people, especially bratty kids. Maybe that’s how I stop feeling like shit.

But this journey is really about finding my brother. I was too mad at Dad to find him, but what follows is my journey. I learned that there are a lot of fucked up people out there, and what amazes me is that being fucked up does not require you to be a high school dropout.

Don’t get me wrong; it helps a lot. But plenty of people are screwed up and don’t know it. I guess it’s the don’t know it part that I know now. It has to suck to be an idiot and not know it, so I started to feel bad for all those dicks, nuts and assholes out there. The only company they have is each other. I guess the same is true about them and human anatomy.

God knows just where to put things. Don’t ever doubt it.

To be continued …

Please follow the story as I write it here. Please comment and give advice; I will write according to suggestions and comments. 

Author: dropoutprofessor

A professor of English and Social Sciences that enjoys writing. Hope you enjoy my posts. All published work on this blog is my own. Pictures are used under license from Depositphotos.com or Shutterstock.com, unless otherwise noted.

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