Mamamontezz's Mental Rumpus Room

Response to your email, Aza Zel

Well, on the "It's Monkeytime" post below, I received a comment from an individual. In this comment, he made wild accusations, published my IP, and threatened a restraining order.

I responded publicly in a following comment, and in an email. Thinking that perhaps my email had been hacked and used by some moron, I explained to this gentleman that it had happened before, and that I am using numerous anti-spyway and other odd programs to try to keep this from happening again.

I also informed this man that as he had chosen to make a public attack against me on my own blog, I had banned his IP. As I have said before, this is my blog, my space, and I'll conduct my blog the way I want. Period. Shit on the carpet in my livingroom, and I'll show you the door and lock it behind you.

Interestingly enough, today I get this email from the same individual. I want to share it with you to see if you can understand his obviously disturbed and seriously misinformed rambling:

Yeah, well guess what, you started the civil war. the Donavon and mama track same IP and that error crap was right off Donavon and u can find out anything you want about me, I think it's wanna be time. I think you are Beaucoup Dinky Dau.

I'm older than your father, that was our war and I'm sick of people who were in grade school when I was crying watching those beautiful birds getting pushed off the flight deck. Now they are wearing ragged surplus crap and everybody was a LRRP, or Ranger, or Seal.

I don't like coming on the D site, getting threatened and then punked out.

I don't have any pretty ribbons and crap. I got one scar on my left wrist where I slashed it, and the only reason I was crying when the wife called the cops was because I was in the basement with the lights out, and too drunk to find shotgun shells before two cops hog tied me for a free ride to the locked ward.

I don't need your smart mouth, your attention, or blog anything.

Maybe you are for real, if so, this ain't a good day. Support our men and women in the service, bring em home and draft congress.

Does anyone have any idea what this sad person is talking about? I explained in my email to him that I do not troll, nor have I have never trolled the sites of others, any more than I would enter someone's home uninvited and rearrange the furniture. It's not in my nature, nor has it ever been.

I will say this, however, to the person who authored this email: You presume a lot about me. You presume I am some child, some skull full of mush, with no idea about the world around me or the service of those who served in Viet Nam.

True, I cannot claim to have squatted in torrential rains, burdened with not only the equipment needed to survive, but also with the disgusting politics and policies within this country that cut you off at the knees and called you all murderers and baby killers.

I can make no claim to having to muck around in wet boots and socks for days at a time incountry, and watching the skin shred off my feet because there was no way to keep them dry until they healed.

I can make no claim that I have ever been fired at by women, or had grenades pitched at me by children in squatty little hovels in hot, steamy, dirty villages.

I can make no claim that I now carry any baggage, any psychological scars that pulse and scream in the night, taking my very sanity, because of the things I may have seen or was forced to do by circumstance or by following orders.

At the relatively young age of 47, I was too young to serve, turning 18 in 1975. And at the age of only 10 I walked through the wood frame wards of Ft. Ord, past men without faces, men witout arms or legs, men who's beds were shared with the angel of death and the ghosts of the dead they either knew, or were responsible for before being wounded and brought back home to die. My nostrils were filled with the stench of infection and death, and my very soul was imbued with that experience, reinforced each and every time I was taken there to visit the family member who was healing from his own wounds in that awful, dark and desparate place.

I remember being in my late 20's and being invited to participate in a benefit at an American Legion post on the east side of Indianapolis. I remember singing "God Bless America," and all of the big, burly, jean-clad Viet vets standing up and raising their hands, clasped between them, while they cried and sang along. My heart was full of pain for them and what they were enduring, and had endured from the moment they arrived back home. They wore their tattered fatigues, not with shame, but with pride in what they had survived, and what they had done to survive.

But this is not enough. I understand that this is not enough. Nothing I could ever do could ever repay the disemboweled man on the bloody sheets who lay there when I walked past at Ord. Nothing I could ever do will ever repay my cousin for his constant pain over the last almost 40 years because of bones that never fully set and wounds that never really healed. Nothing I could ever say will ever ease the trouble in the minds of those who cannot ever leave the mangrove swamps or rice paddies, or the men who didn't come back with them.

I can, however, protect the memories of those who served. I can say "Thank You" to a man I know for a fact was the 32nd man to graduate from Recondo School, and who served bravely until he was severely wounded. I can say "Thank You" to any man or woman in uniform that I see on the street, and to the little old men who still proudly display the small pins and ribbons on their lapels, symbols of the medals they won for the sacrifices they made.

In the meantime, if you feel the need to continue to harangue me through my email because it either makes you feel better, or gives you some purpose in an otherwise bitter and wasted existance, feel free. You keep right on emailing, and I'll read them. You keep right on talking, and hopefully someday you'll exorcise your demons. If that is the only thing I can do to say "Thank You" or repay what I owe you as an American, I am willing to do so for as long as you feel the need to vent your anger, your frustration, your pain, and your bitterness.

It's the least I could do.

Posted by Mamamontezz at January 30, 2005 06:21 PM