Long before dope fiends were hacking…

In 10th grade I attended a bible camp.  Holy friggin moley those were bad dudes.  One kid brought a gun.  During one miserable preachy session, dude pulled it out, pointed to the speaker, and whispered to me, “I’m gonna shoot that faggot”.  I nervously talked him out of the act, though I don’t suppose he would have done the deed.

Next year Mom and Dad signed me up for more of the same.  Thug-free, this group had a different vibe.  The hippest dude kicked a little beanbag which he called a “hacky sack”.  Oh my how the girls admired his talent.  It occurred to me that I should invest in one of those devices.  One afternoon I worked up the courage to talk to the hacky sack master.  “How much does one of those bean bags cost?”, I asked.  The sack master mumbled something about it costing “around $27″.

In retrospect, the hack master probably said “2 for $7″.  Nevertheless, I was a victim of false sticker shock.  With no hope of raising that kind of capital, I opted to design and sew my own cloth hacky sack, filling it with unpopped corn.

That spring, I broke my wrist playing basketball.  Banished from regular gym class, I was placed in a “special” gym class.  Not wanting to socialize with those weirdos, I practiced my hacky sack in the corner of the gym.  By the time I had (physically) healed, I was a hacky sack champ!

Oh man, did that ever pay off.  In church camp the following year, I actually made a friend or two.

Wait, I forgot where I was going with this.  Nevermind.

I should mention that I am now a full blown cripple.  That kitchen project broke me physically.  The project is more or less finished, though unpainted.  I’m considering surgery.  When a man has to pee like a German, he must consider these options.  Sciatica is no fun.  Luckily my kids are not too cool to play with their handicap father.