Moments of Weakness: My Great-Great-Great Granddad can't beat up your Great-Great-Great Granddad

After finding out that I'm descended from Canadians, I figured my family's position in history could sink no lower. But I made the mistake of continuing to read about John Pack's exploits this week. John was a rough-around-the-edges pioneer who didn't only make spelling errors, but spelled the same words incorrectly in a variety of ways (Example: Know became "no, knoe, now"). He served as a leader during the migration of the Latter-Day Saints from Missouri to Utah. Why was he chosen? Because he was strong, smart, and tough as the nails he was born on (note to self: check accuracy of "born on nails" statement). So you'd think he wouldn't manage to get himself beat up too often.

Well, fellow adventurer, you'd be wrong! Because John Pack was also a little cheat who broke the most basics rules of any playground child. As we all know (unless you've never been a child), one of the chief rules of the playground is, "no cutting in line." 

Now, maybe we can get away with breaking that rule every now and then. But eventually it catches up to us. Especially if we break that rule and cut in front of a man like Howard Egan. Apparently there was a pretty solid order in the wagon train when the Saints were headed west. But John Pack wasn't one for order and decided to drive his team on ahead of Egan's.

This is how that should have gone down:

John Pack

VS. 

Howard Egan

2-NITE! 2 Men enter! 1 Man leaves!

BLOOD ON THE PRAIRIE

Kids seats still just FIVE BUCKZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!

Instead, my Canadian ancestor, lethargic with the maple syrup that pumped genetically through his bloodstream, got knocked off his wagon by Egan who then jumped down and kicked him while he laid in the dirt, crying like a little girl (note to self: don't check accuracy of "John Pack cried like a little girl" statement (because it might be true (and that would just be the last nail in the coffin))). It goes without saying that he surrendered (but I'll illuminate my point anyway by reminding you that John Pack was disgustingly, desperately, irreversibly Canadian).

The worst part is, I know Egan's great-great-great grandson, and, had I known the history between our families, had ample opportunity to punch him in the face and restore some dignity to my family. But now we're friends, so I'll have to be sneakier about it.


I sent him a text about it, to which he replied: "Doesn't surprise me." WHAT?! Wait, let him explain: "He had a law named after him in Utah. It was called the justifiable homicidal act. Look it up. Lol." 


Lol? LOL?! Lol, fellow adventurer. It turns out that Howard Egan's wife had an affair, Egan killed the guy, and then lived the rest of his life a free man. In effect, I was one well-placed kick from not existing today. Egan was an animal (no offense (some offense))! John shouldn't have even been in that bout!

Basically, it's just this whole mess and it goes to show how much Canada has ruined my life. I admit that I still have a lot of respect for John Pack, but I think we can agree that this was a dark chapter in my family's history.

I may never come back from this, fellow adventurer.

Now listen to this awful version of "O, Canada" while I cry myself to sleep:

Moments of Weakness: The Darkest Family Secret

Around 1783, a bunch of scumbag loyalists turned tail and got out of Dodge (New York), fleeing to New Brunswick. One of those traitors to freedom was name Stephen Kent, and he ruined my life. Because with him, probably carrying the suitcases and asking why they were leaving Real America for Imitation America, was a thirteen-year-old orphan boy named George Pack.

It's a bit of a shock to discover after twenty-three celebrations of Independence Day that your great-great-great-great grandfather was indentured to a loyalist and raised a family in Canada. George married Phylotte Greene (daughter of another freedom-hater) and the couple made a bunch of babies. My great-great-great grandfather, John Pack, was born in Canada, a Canadian citizen through and through.

Why didn't you tell me? Did you think I'd never find out?

Fellow adventurer, I'm going through a bit of an identity crisis. I always knew that British blood ran through my veins. But Canadian? It's something I'll have to work through for a long time, and even then, I don't think I can ever be okay with it.

But, you say, there are so many good Canadian things! The following is a list! Will Arnett! Nathan Fillion! Ellen Page! Ryan Gosling! A whole bunch of other people!

Okay, interesting argument. But what about all the awful things Canada has given us? 

1. Paul Kenneth Bernrdo with Karla Homolka
2. Wayne Boden
3. John Martin Crawford

4. Russell Maurice Johnson

5. William Patrick Fyfe
6. Gilbert Paul Jordan
7. Allan Legere
8. Clifford Robert Olson Junior
9. Robert 'Willie' Pickton
10. Peter Woodcock

I'll be honest, that is just a list of the top ten Canadian serial killers. But also, Tom Green is Canadian and so is that awful flag.

Like a dead leaf, Canada will always be (op)pressed in the pages of history, and they will deserve it

Fellow adventurer, this next week will be so chock-full of adventure that I hope you will forget about the horrible truth of my lineage. I understand if you can't. I know I never will.

Also, I'm never reading about the past again.

Moments of Weakness: Rules of the Road

When the City of Logan (I capitalize "City" because I refer to the shadowy government of Logan and not her fair people) put in a roundabout, people were so terrified that the local newspaper had to publish a diagram of how to navigate this exciting feature. Literally, the following (literally):

This was on the front page of the newspaper. Famine in Africa? Forget it! I have a roundabout to worry about! This is an enemy occupation and the enemy is circular!


People were not amused. Apparently change is not something that we deal with well in Logan, Utah, which is where I live in America (AMERica!). But we soldier on, pulling timidly into the roundabout like meerkats (not mere cats, that's entirely different) peeking out from their holes, just knowing that this will be the day the lioness tracks them down, snatches them, and snuggles them to death.

She is clingy, and that is the worst thing.

Tangent fully explored, I return to my point. Traffic is terrifying, and so most people avoid learning about how to participate in it correctly because ignorance is the best defense. The trouble is, this leads to lots and lots of destruction on the road because people don't think much about how their choices will affect the future. DEATH?!?! Probably.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TURN RIGHT AT A "DO NOT TURN RIGHT" SIGN

This morning I almost had the opportunity to participate in, not one, but two car wrecks. The first experience was at a two-way stop, and the second was at a four-way stop. I will tell you about the second one first, because it is boring.

Some chump in a van decided when I was halfway through the intersection that maybe he did have the right of way after all. The end.

Back to the better story at the two-way stop. I approached the intersection on the road with no stop sign (the stop-signless street, if you will) and was fully prepared to keep driving. But a man who had stopped at to my right at the stop sign (which is a sign at which you are meant to stop, I have heard) decided that, as today was probably his birthday, the rules of a two-way stop no longer applied. He pulled through, not seeing me just feet from enacting the dreaded t-bone.

 Delicious, but no...

No! But I respect your music, and, uh, rest in peace?

There! There it is!

But here, fellow adventurers, is my moment of weakness: I didn't honk my horn. I have never honked my horn. 

I come from a legacy of horn-honking, really laying into it too. I grew up going on road trips where my dad always used one hand for steering and the other for honking. I learned beautiful phrases like, "Brain-Dead Bozo-Lip," and, "Geekburger." The sound of our family car horn honking is second only to the sound of a child's cries on my nostalgic sounds list.

And yet I didn't do it. I waited until the driver noticed me, just a couple feet away from his door. He, seeing that there was a problem, decided to fix it by stopping his car in the intersection (the best idea). I waved him on but he seemed stuck in the intersection, paralyzed with the realization that his death was mere feet from him. We stared at each other for a moment, a deep, cold, soul-penetrating stare.

 This is like a...

...negative one-hundred degree stare...

I wish that I could say I was the Charles Bronson of this stare-down, but my look was not one of manly vengeance and overpowering musk. I stared at him as he stared at me, both of us silently agreeing that we would forget this ever happened. He had neglected to look both ways. I had been too terrified of my horn to use it. Something inside both of us died.

He drove on, I drove on, but our souls remained behind to mourn our lack of adventuring spirit. At least, that's what mine did. I think his stayed behind because it didn't realize his body had left THISGUYISANIDIOT!!!!!

But it doesn't make it any better for me.

I have to make up for this.

I have to wrestle a wolf.

Or honk my horn.

Wish me luck, fellow adventurers!

Hearts, Hugs,

Kendall, Adventurer