Redheaded Rants of a God and Country Loving Patriot

By Allyson Scott

Part memoir, part "SOMEBODY-had-to-say-it", Redheaded Rants will take you on a trip to West Texas, and show you that your family is not as strange as you once thought they were.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512738889

Allyson Scott

Allyson Scott is a sassy West Texan with a Bachelor's in Neuroscience and a Master's in Curriculum and Instruction. She is married to a Marine, and likes to hunt, fish, shoot and annoy feminists wherever she finds them.

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Redheaded Rants of a G-d and Country Loving Patriot

I don’t feel like I’m unusual, I was born to grown-ups with college degrees. Neither of my parents grew up with much money. When I was five, my dad, added a PhD in Mathematics to his Electrical Engineering degree with help from the G.I. bill for his service in the U.S. Army during the Cold War, and Cuban Missile Crisis. My mother is a beautiful nurse with a broad smile, who went back to school as a non-traditional student and earned her anesthetist license and her bachelor’s.

My dad was agnostic until I became a teenager, and by that point, I selfishly got downright T.O.’d at the change in my world. I’m not an idiot; I have a bachelor’s in Neuroscience, but a pathetically lame master’s. Later on in my own in life, I came to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the son of the living G-d.

That said; I believe in right and wrong. Where pray tell (oops, sorry), do atheists think any sort of moral compass comes from? It’s not brain science. I chose to write this book because I believe both morality and logic have been turned on their heads. What used to be right is now wrong, what used to wrong is now right, what used to be left is now right, and what used to be left is straight-up socialism.

I’m just an average person who is too young to be a baby boomer and too old to be a Gen-X’r. I have a wonderful, goofy family, passionately love my country, especially West Texas, and want to share my story and rant. Maybe you’ll see where I’m coming from, when you see where I’ve been. Enjoy.

For my husband, a rare man of integrity who supports me even when I want to do something crazy like go to law school at age 50.

For the best parents ever

For my beautiful, smart daughters

For my baby brother who made this project possible

For my cuz, and friends S.D. and C.R.

For patriot/blogger Wayne Dupree who took the time to meet for lunch with my family

For fellow patriot Nelse Wynne Jr. Embarrassingly Blind

For Robin, who understood

For Lonnie Smith who encouraged my writing

CHAPTER ONE

Where did all of the grown-ups go? or Kids Rule

I love my kids and am very proud of them, and grateful for their health, manners and intelligence. I am far from perfect, but guess what? I do know that parenting was meant to be a job that if you did it right, you would work your way out of. There comes a time when the mama bird must push the fledgling baby bird out of the nest or it will never fly. That, my friends, is the whole point of parenting.

Newsflash: both theoretically and actuarially, you will die before your kids. PREPARE THEM. What happens if mama bird just keeps barfing away into baby bird’s mouth by feeding him idiotic Uncrustables or frozen P.B. & J.’s that are shockingly crust-less so poor junior doesn’t have to suffer through the bourgeois indignity of gnawing through bread crust. Maybe she could feed him Lunchables so the poor baby doesn’t have to toil through assembling a proper lunch. Call me a meany, but I made my kids start making their own lunch when they were in the second grade. It’s called CONSEQUENCES. Make a crummy lunch, or don’t make one, go hungry. Lesson over.

Not only are there a myriad of juvenile-sounding enticements for the little tyrants, there are GUMMY VITAMINS FOR ADULTS! Can a Lawrence Welk Pez that dispenses Coumadin or Saw Palmetto be far behind? Seriously. Maybe they’ll start printing a Smurfs or Transformers pattern on Depends.

Most everything has to have some cutesy sounding name at the grocery store these days. Cases in point: Go-gurt,Squeezers, Kabobbles or Danimals; even a Boudreaux’s ‘Bum’ Paste ointment for babies. I wasn’t even allowed to say the word that’s really on the tube when I was a kid. The produce aisle features a Broccoli Wokly pre-cut broccoli, I kid you not. I personally loathe the word veggies. Don’t strain yourself with one more syllable; take a load off and buy some pre-cut veggies. Maybe they’ll even be cut into fun shapes.

One of my friends, who I taught junior college with, actually had a parent come complain to her about her kid’s grade. That’s not a helicopter mom, that’s an up to the small intestines mom. Here’s a memo to the U.S. government. Unless your kid is in vet school like mine, your kid should not be on your insurance until they are 26 years old.

I taught public school for four long years. Apparently it is racist, homophobic and sexist to ever FAIL a kid who actually deserves to fail. Also, cursive is not tested, so why teach it? How is this next generation of little heathens going to be able to sign a check or rent a couch (ewww-) from Rent-A-Center? What is everybody going to have to start scrawling an X to sign their name like some hillbilly moonshiner from the Appalachians selling off the family homestead?

Call me crazy, but wasn’t it KIDS that used to read comic books? Now fully grown adults are chomping at the bit to go see the latest Superman movie. Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed some of these movies are just dark? Literally. They are practically black-and-white-devoid-of-color until the action picks up, but by then I am asleep.

We have devolved into a nation of perpetual prepubescents. Fun, fun, fun! Play, play, play! There are adults out there that can tell you when the next (fill-in-the-blank) movie will come out, but can’t tell you who our Attorney General is. You don’t want know now, trust me. Soda which used to come in 6 oz. bottles and was a special treat, now comes in a vat you could practically bathe a teacup poodle in. The special treat of old, is now literally an entitlement; Hello EBT card. The original regular size fries at McDonalds, has now morphed into the children’s portion.

Eating out for dinner used to be a special occasion, reserved for special events such as anniversaries, entertaining guests, birthday celebrations, or say a rehearsal dinner. Now it’s, Let’s go kids, mommy’s got winter-skin-itch. This might ruffle some feathers, but since I’m on the subject of McDonald’s, could someone please explain exactly how Pandora type beads "For life’s special moments" are any different than expensive Happy Meal toys? Collect all 10, 20 ….

Saturday morning was our rot-your-brain-on-T.V. time; OK, OK, maybe Three Stooges before school, and Batman and Gilligan’s Island afterwards. Now it’s practically a 24/7 endeavor. We were also captivated by Land of the Lost, and Johnny Quest, and laughed along with Fat Albert and the Gang.

Recently there was a big media deal when someone, a racist no doubt, declared that Santa was white. One of my black friends tweeted that no one made a big deal about Fat Albert being black, "he just was." Well said, my brother well said.

Missing items from our childhood include cigarette vending machines, candy cigarettes, pay phones, and Tuna Twist which was not quite as fresh as a garden that it touted itself to be. What happened to the surnames we were required to address adults with in our youth? For example, the Mrs. Templeton, or Mrs. Hall of our elementary years have been replace by, Ms. Tina and Ms. Lindsay. I would hate for little Jayden, Logan or Olivia to struggle through four whole syllables. Besides, aren’t we all buddies on a first-name basis? I still addressed my boss, who was but three years older than me as Sir, at a recent administrative job. I probably reminded him of the Marcy character on Peanuts, but that’s how I was raised. I would be pretty peeved to go to say, 12 years of University only to be called Dr. Mike.

You are pretty much a sick-o if your goal is to appear cool and hip to your kids, or any kids. It will be a fail anyway, you will just look pathetic. The Brits call it mutton dressed as lamb when oldsters try to be hipsters, or shop in the junior department well into menopause.

Maybe this is because I lived right behind a baseball and soccer field, in North Dallas in the late 70’s and early 80’s, but if I hear one more baseball-cap-wearing-wanna-be-hipster-dad refer to his kid as buddy in public, I’m going to be vomit. YOUR KID IS NOT YOUR buddy!

Perplexing to me are the moms who wear parenthood like a merit badge, as if the greatest accomplishment of their life is um, BREEDING? You’ll recognize them sporting around town taking junior to soccer practice in a suppository–shaped minivan or 3,000 pounds of SUV for a 37 pound kid. The vehicle is of course bedecked in all of their kid’s activities in the form of vinyl. Do you really think the poor schlub behind you on I-35 gives a rat’s behind that Megan, Mallory or Jason play select soccer? Nah, he just now knows to hit YOUR house up if he gets a jonesing for a kid to molest.

Wives, if you live vicariously through your children, not focusing on your husband who is not supposed to be a temporary job, you will become a lonely empty-nester and multiple-cat owner whose highlight of the day will be delivery of the latest soap-opera digest. Not even the Cialis guy will pull up to your cozily lit cabin that was but a four-wheel drive away. Think the Mom Jeans