Holly crap....Boo and Big changed your life for the better....you must have been a mess.
Pute: Back then, I just had had my shot-up shoulder fall off. I'd just purchased $1800 worth of underwater metal detecting gear. Used it once on land. Gave it all to my son, Puck.
I won't take painkiller dope because it does three BAD things:
Makes you constipated, stops your brain from producing pain-resisiting endorphins, and eventually can get you hooked on hard stuff. Bad juju alla way around.
Not to be repetitious, but the VA was not only no help, it was an active opponent. All the rest of the population of Florida from freaks to felons to felchers can buy weed in stores all over. But since I was a dinged-helmet volunteer GI on the Dinged Dole, the ONLY legal way I could buy weed was to go to the VA and
claim PTSD. The ONLY ONLY ONLY fargin legal way due to my service.
*****, ainnit?
Enter Big. My goodness what a fantastic dude. After some excitement, he pointed me toward a grouchy old fukk who seemed to be a mirror image of Yours Truly on a
Cabana grow website (up to then, I din' even know grow websites existed. Yeah, Captain America naive, thass Unca Walt.
Anyway, pain "residents" living in many parts of my alabaster body from explosions and being too slow to duck are now totally under control, and I have a life. The VA will never do to me what other old ex-GI's frantically warned me about: Use my (nonexistent) PTSD "admission" for LEGAL justification to search my home and confiscate any weapons they wanted to. All for the dinged helmet pittance I get for what they term "service connected" owies.
Between these two stand-up hardcases and what they have done for me, I am free of the stain of getting dinged while volunteering in my country's service, and I am free of the prison of pain.
Yeah, I have high regard for them both. In the Olden Days, they'd be called "strack".
