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Personal Narrative-I Was Born In A Bomb Brater

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Personal Narrative-I Was Born In A Bomb Brater
10 November 1775: I was born in a bomb crater. My mother was an M16 and my father was the Devil. Each moment that I live is an additional threat upon your life. I eat concertina, piss napalm, and I can shoot a round through a flea’s ass at 300 meters. I am a rough looking, roving soldier of the sea. I am cocky, self-centered, overbearing, and do not know the meaning of fear, for I am fear itself. I am a green amphibious monster, made of blood and guts, who arose from the sea, I travel the globe, festering on anti-Americans everywhere I go for, the love of Mom, Chevrolet, baseball, and apple pie. I’m a grunt. I’m the dirty, nasty, stinky, sweaty, filthy, beautiful little son of a bitch that’s kept wolf away from the door for over 235 years.

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