Why the FBI?

I don't remember my father ever telling me that I owed my life to my country. I don't remember being forced to stand at attention and salute the flag when the national anthem was sung. I don't even remember learning the words to the Pledge of Allegience. It seems like I've always had a deep-rooted sense of loyalty and duty to my country. Growing up, it would anger me when people would slouch or talk or wear their hat during the national anthem. As a child I knew that America was the greatest nation on the earth, and if she ever needed me, I would do my utmost to protect her.
My father served in the U.S. Air Force for 16 years; and though I have always been immensely proud of his service, the plan for my life did not include military duty. I was going to go to college to become an intellectual. I was thankful for the men and women who had fought for my freedom, but I was also content to live my life a safe distance behind the line that their sacrifices had drawn. My patriotism had somehow become...intangible.
In the fall of 2005, I went to Washington D.C. on business. I worked long hours through the week, but was given free time on the weekends to travel and sight-see. I remember standing outside the Washington Monument gazing at the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, and the WWII memorial—I realized that it took more than the dedication of our founding fathers to build this city. And it took more than their devotion to forge our country. Freedom is not bought by mere words or good intentions. It is purchased only with sacrifice, commitment, and blood.
Standing there on that crisp November morning, staring at the Washington Monument climbing high and strong against the pale blue backdrop, I wondered where I had been on September 11th, 2001? Where had I been while my fellow Americans died in the Gulf War? Where had I been while countless soldiers had shipped off to Iraq? And then it struck me that I had been here…saluting my flag, cursing our enemies, and thanking our soldiers. I had been here. Very safe, and very comfortable.
The following spring I applied for the FBI. Hopefully, I’ll undergo Phase II testing in June.

bugs...

There are few things that can creep me out like the feeling of a bug/animal on/in/around my face/head. Once, when I was about 10, I was working in the yard when I heard a buzzing sound and felt a bug fly into my ear. I dropped whatever I was holding and reflexively smacked my ear so hard that I not only knocked my guest further down the canal, but I knocked it out as well. I ran inside in panic mode and told my dad, who laughed at me as I nervously danced around. He then took me into the kitchen, grabbed a straw, stuck one end into my ear, and blew a few times. A few seconds later I heard a little buzz and felt the bug fly out. Weird.
A couple of years later, while taking a nap one lazy summer afternoon, I felt something on my face. It took me a minute or two to fully wake up, and when I did, I realized that a fly had been scrounging around on my lip. Nice.
A few more years passed and our family was watching a little toy poodle for some friends of ours. It usually would sleep on the floor of my room. One night I was dreaming that I was eating something, but it felt really strange on my palate. As I slowly rose to consciousness, I opened my eyes to find that disgusting little mutt licking the inside of my mouth! I threw the dog across the room and rushed into the bathroom where I spent a good 15 minutes brushing and gargling with Listerine. Sick.

Mmm...steak!

Yesterday when I got home from work, a guy in a pickup stopped me as I was walking up my driveway. I figured he just needed directions or something, but then he asks me if I want to buy some steaks. I quickly declined and turned to go inside, but you know how salesmen can be. He persisted until finally I walked over to his truck just to shut him up. It was then that I remembered that my friend, Eddie, used to do this same type of thing. (Some of my friends will remember crazy Eddie, Ben’s cousin.) He’d buy steaks from this company and then sell them for a small profit. The more meat you move, the more money you make. And then I remembered how good those steaks were that Eddie used to sell. Bacon-wrapped filet mignon, butterflied filets, t-bones, you name it. And they were pretty fairly priced. So this guy starts his schpiel and tells me that he’s selling these $10 steaks for $3 each. Sounds great. I figure I’ll buy two or three of them and he’ll be on his way. Not quite. He pulls out this case of 40 steaks and says I have to buy the whole thing and it’s $200. No thank you. He starts pulling the steaks out and they look great, but there was one small problem: he was keeping them in a cooler in the bed of his truck. Who knows how long they’ve been in there…probably all day. I’m guessing those steaks were about the same temperature as the sweaty baseball cap he was wearing. OSHA would have a fit if they saw the “refrigeration system” he was using.
I wish you the best, sir, with selling your bacteria-ridden, month-old tepid t-bones. And mercy on anyone who actually buys any of that stuff!

The Finest in Personal Protection...

...the Glock 23. (I snagged the photo from gundirectory.com.) I'm thinking about getting one with my tax return this year. It's the "official service pistol of the FBI and countless police authorities." It's the compact brother of the standard size Glock 22; both are .40 caliber. I figure the smaller size of the 23 will be easier for Beth to handle should she ever have to use it. I'm looking forward to taking her to the range to fire off a few rounds. She'll enjoy it once she gets the hang of it.

Speaking of guns, check out this grandma with her machine gun...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvLVcbX2Hnk

Never Eat Yellow Snow...

You know all the great cliché advice you get from friends like "never eat yellow snow?" Well, one of those pearls of wisdom needs amended. What do you hear when you tell someone that you’re going to Mexico? “Don’t drink the water,” right? Well, they should add, “or eat the ice” onto the end of that statement. I mean, I know it seems like common sense…ice is, after all, just frozen water. But when someone tells you not to drink the water in Mexico, I always think of water out of a tap…or a hose…or a puddle someone just bathed in. I don’t usually think of ice in my drink at a nice restaurant, or a nice cup of shaved ice…
Well, I decided to take my new bride to Hotel Secreto on Isla Mujeres, Mexico for our honeymoon. The island was beautiful, filled with markets, restaurants, and a fresh Caribbean breeze. We fell in love with the pina coladas on the island (virgin ones, of course). They were so much fresher and fruitier tasting down there! We would usually order them in restaurants at dinner, but by the end of the week we were craving them within an hour of waking up. Well, two days before we were scheduled to leave, we were swimming in the hotel pool when suddenly we were struck with the urgent need for a pina colada. I stepped up to the poolside bar and promptly ordered two drinks. I slapped a few pesos down on the counter and swaggered back to the pool, proud of the fact that I could so swiftly provide for my wife’s every whim. Later that day, we both had to…well…let’s just say we were both having some gastro-intestinal problems. The next day and a half were not the most romantic we’d ever spent together.
It took me a while to figure out what had happened, but then it struck me…it had to have been the shaved ice in our pina coladas from the poolside bar. I didn’t think it was a problem because we’d been drinking them all week with no problems, but the restaurants we’d been to must have filtered their ice for the drinks or something.
The moral of the story is: If you’re going to Mexico, don’t drink the water…or eat the ice!