Schultz1 wrote:Died from what in Vietnam? Death pits, bullets, torture, hunger?
Just heard about it, third or fourth hand.
Can’t even remember who told me.
Maybe a war whore gave him a flesh eating disease.
That seems as likely as anything.
He was one’a those guys that was always in yer face.
Rather intense, demanding fellow.
It was like when he mentioned he was going home, nobody said ‘Stay’.
I only visited his place once.
His mom was a bit distraught, as she was cleaning up the glass of her huge picture window.
A hunter’s large caliber round had found it’s way smack dab square in the middle. A misdirected shot from the hills in back of their place…..just a huge arc lobbed onto their living room carpet. Not the most uncommon occurrence during hunting season.
Kinda sad really.
What was his life for?
He did have a penchant for cussing and swearing, and came up with some great ones, ones I still use today.
So maybe that was a part of his legacy.
Kinda like one'a my legacies that came about when I was at a factory in Guangzhou.
There was a half dozen folk from Taiwan, cadre that ran the rather large golf bag factory in main land China, and me, and my broker.
We were in a critical part of negotiation, whether or not they would even manufacture my boss’s uniquely designed bag.
Thru my broker’s interpretation, ‘We can make 1000 normal bags in the time it takes to make 20 of yours’.
Three hours and 40 cigarettes handed to me later (damn, those guys could smoke), we were all in full agreement that they would proceed.
Actually, the decision was quite sudden.
The honcho stood up and barked one short, harshly sounding sentence.
It was all quiet.
I thought, damn, I gotta tuck my tail between my diarrhea smeared ass cheeks and drag it back home…..and find a new job.
My broker leaned over, smacked me on the back and told me, ‘He says they’ll make the bag!’
More cigarettes were handed out, and warm lemon water was poured.
Tensions relaxed, and even though my broker didn’t interpret the jokes, I knew they were about me.
They were all laughing in unison and glancing at me.
I imagined they were saying things like.
‘I tell you what, we’ll play with round eye’s mind and build the bag half way, then demand a higher price….haw haw haw haw’, more cigarettes……
So I flipped ‘em all off, told ‘em all to get phucked, and commenced sipping my tepid lemon water.
The honcho looked at me, then looked at my broker.
Once my broker put his face back together, he told me they didn’t understand the gesture.
Really? Really? I thought that was universal.
I told him to explain.
My Broker, with lowered head, told them.
It was quiet.
Then the honcho busted out laughing and flipped me off.
A round of raucious laughter.
As we strolled thru the campus to the private car, and to a sumptuous dinner, everyone practiced telling each other to get phucked, laughing and flipping.
Turns out the maître d' didn’t know that form of sign language either, much to their delight.
So, yeah, even coarse language can be some sorta legacy, I s’pose.