The Ugly One In The Middle


Almost every time I told friends about stuff that I did or experienced, they said, “you did what?” I also got a lot of of “why the hell are you still alive?” and a few “you bastard”…from four ex-wives. I am sensitive to that bastard word, because most of my life, I assumed that I was one, literally.

Actually, some of this stuff is funny…now.

Some of it is repulsive. Then there’s the part about never giving up. Almost brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? For most of my life, I searched for two people.

I embarked on a serious never-give-up quest to find my birth mother, and the ideal perfect, angelic, sex-crazed woman of my dreams. Kind of romantic, right? Hey, romance is good. Plus, there’s mystery and intrigue. I love that word intrigue. I’ve never used it before.

This is almost like a self-help book with stuff that your counselor won’t tell you, like, don’t screw around with the sheriff’s wife or date a woman who murdered her husband. Don’t get drunk on the radio. If a guy, who looks suspiciously like Adolph Hitler commands you to help put a guy in a coffin, salute and run.
If your father invites a dying man to sleep in your bed, move. If a nun tells you that masturbation weakens your character, remind her about the eyes.

If your wife forces you to choose between her and Shania Twain, don’t do as I did. On the positive side, I didn’t kill anyone, as far as I know.

As a lone adoptee growing up in a do-it-yourself funeral home on Cape Breton Island, in Nova Scotia, my goals were simple…get drunk and sing Gaelic songs, romp naked with the pretty girl I saw in a vision, be a radio star, and sit on a porcelain toilet. But, not necessarily in that order.

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