The Bad Dudes Are Really Good Dudes, And They’re My Uncles
Growing up, I didn’t have a dad. But I did have my uncles, Blade and Striker. Funny story: When my dad found out my mom was pregnant and tried to skip town, her brothers, Uncle Blade and Uncle Striker, went to his apartment and beat him up until he agreed to pay child support.
Delivering High-Kicks Of Love
That’s just what they do. They’re extremely loyal, and they’d do anything for my mom and me. And in the end, they actually did everything for me. They didn’t talk much beyond one-word answers, and during a moment of personal triumph, they’d shout out “I’m bad!” They didn’t need to say anything, though, because their actions spoke volumes. I knew they felt awful that I didn’t have a father, and so they set out to share duties as the positive male influence in my life.
Blade taught me how to drive. Striker taught me how to shave. Blade coached six years of soccer. Striker chaperoned all but one of my school field trips. He and Blade once had to run off and save the president, who’d been kidnapped by ninjas, but 24 hours later, they were back home (and when President Ronnie invited them to go for a burger, they brought me along). Ha! Ha! Ha! ha!
They didn’t have to do that. They didn’t have to do any of that. Their lives were full and busy, ridding the mean streets, moving trucks, storm sewers, forests, trains, and factories of ninja-identifying thugs. And they even had their own clothing line of attractive but affordable tank tops and sweatpants.
I’ll always remember how they’d bring me something when they returned from their exploits. It was usually generic cola cans they’d say would give me “energy.” It may not sound like much, but money was always tight for mom and me, and treats like that were just out of the question.
My Uncles, Misnomered
Even after they rescued President Ronnie and were suddenly internationally known, Uncle Blade and Uncle Striker didn’t change at all. When recounting their crimefighting and president-rescuing, somebody called them “a couple of bad dudes,” and the nickname just stuck. All of a sudden, my uncles were the Bad Dudes.
They’re not bad dudes, though. They’re good dudes. Honestly, they’re the best dudes. And I’m so proud that they’re my uncles.
Well, they were my Bad Dude Uncles. I’m going to have to get used to that, referring to them in the past tense, I mean. It’s still not quite real, how what remained of the ninja organization that kidnapped President Ronnie reformed and killed Uncle Blade and Uncle Stryker. I just can’t believe they’re gone.
I sure am going to miss them. Now, let us pray.