Friday, September 25, 2009

Getting Along.

The Marine corporal standing outside my office door was about 5'2” and built like a fire hydrant. He seemed about as friendly as a fire hydrant too. Without any introduction he stepped inside my office and asked in a heavy southern drawl, “Do you like country music, or that rap stuff? Because I like country music and my brother, he likes the rap. I can't stand it. I'll take Taylor Swift any day over Kanye or whatever his name is. So, are you like me or my brother?”

It seemed pretty clear that this was a chance for one of the Marines to mess with the new guy, and I really didn't want to get involved in this conversation at that moment. So I replied that I was really more of the quiet evening at home reading a book type of guy.

He sneered at me and said, “So, jazz huh?”

I caved in and told him that I guess I was more like his brother and liked rap and hip hop.

His hand absentmindedly dropped to the pistol strapped to his leg. “Yeah, I figured as much. You look kinda like my brother too. He and I don't really get along.”

I thanked the corporal for this fascinating insight to his family life and then excused myself while turning back to my computer.

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