EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK - Most People Talk Bullshit - I had to Act Like Clint Eastwood

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Below you can use this audio device to listen to the interview with the person that you see shown in the picture above.	CLICK ON THE VIDEO CLIP BELOW!

Below you can use this audio device to

listen to the interview with the person

that you see shown in the picture above.

CLICK ON THE VIDEO CLIP BELOW!

EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:

MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT - One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life

I Had To Act Like Clint Eastwood To Get The Beer

For those of us struggling to reach manhood, to be more attractive for girls who liked to party, the ability to procure beer was essential.

I became the guy who could get the booze. I fell into this role because I had the willingness to go into bars, even the surrounding slummy burgs. The first time I went into a bar, it was in a tough minority neighborhood. I had just turned fifteen. We drove up in Brian A’s “Love Bug” a block from the bar. We pooled our money together and I was chosen to go in to get the goods.

As I tried to make the impression of casually sauntering into the inn, one of those instants of silence descended. I looked nervously around the bar; I saw a room full of disbelieving hostile black adults.

After the initial shock, a number of them hissed, “What is that crazy honky mother fucker doing here?”

In the backdrop of their outrage, I could hear a pin drop. My legs were a bit unsteady as I attempted to mime a gunslinger’s saunter across the barroom floor towards the bartender.

My anxiety made the distance seem the length of a football field. Finally, I get to the bar to greet an old guy who looked like Redd Foxx and he was just as cantankerous.

I had prepared to look twenty-one as much as possible. I think I may have looked eighteen at best.

I had a week or two of facial growth, a wedding band on my finger and a little thin cigar like Clint Eastwood smoked in his spaghetti westerns clenched between my teeth.

I tried to have that tough squinty look to my eyes, as I approached the Redd clone. He stared at me not saying a word. I stood in front of him looking right back. Finally, after a minute he speaks.

He said, in a gravelly Redd Foxx’s voice, “What can I do for you?”

I tried to use my best combination of Clint Eastwood and Peter Falk’s voice as I repetitively tapped my finger with the wedding band on the bar – hoping he would take notice of my adult accruement.

I said, “I just got off work and my wife and me thought it would be great to get some beer.”

He stares at me not saying anything for at least a minute. The entire place was dead silent. My heart was pounding like a trip hammer, but I didn’t flinch.

Finally, he growls, “Let’s see some ID.”

In the best outraged voice that I could muster I said, ‘Hell I didn’t think I would have to go through this shit.” “I thought I would just run up here from the house, while my wife is watching the kids.”

He stares at me for a minute, more silence, finally he says, “How old are you son?”

I said, “I have been twenty one for a few months.” “Look buddy, I was born in nineteen fifty.”

He stares at me for at least another minute…time seemed to stand still. We stood facing each other, neither of us flinching, like two gunslingers ready to kill or be killed. A tune from one of Clint’s movies played in the background of my conscious as I wondered when the villainous patrons would come over and beat the crap out of me just for the fun of it.

Finally, the Redd Foxx’s clone says in his whisky and cigar abused voice, “What would you like?”

Inside I sighed and thought, “Yes!” But very causally I said, “I’ll have ten quarts of Colt 45 please.”

Without blinking an eye or breaking stride, he bags it right up. I pay him and walk out casually like I had been just doing business as usual. My friends were relieved that I made it out alive. I had been in there so long they thought I had been beaten and dragged off to places unknown.