As a direct request from Big Daddy Possum

A few more Big John stories.

As some background, Hobbit and a few other folks sometimes referred to him as Big Dumb John. Not to knock the job, but Johns' position on the gun crew was #1. You'd think that's a good thing right?

Wrong.

#1 is the job nobody wants, because that's the guy who stands up front and rams the charge down the barrel. Y'know, the job where you're most likely to lose an appendage when dealing with muzzle-loading artillery.

Enough background...

Driving to a reenactment up towards Knoxville with a carload of the guys John pointed out a billboard and "looky there! That sign says Don't be Misled, M-80s are ILLEGAL." Whereupon everyone in the car with started giving him hell.

Why?

Because he pronounced Misled as Misl-ed, not Mis-led.

In fact he insisted, for quite some time afterwards that Misl-ed was a word, to the point of bringing a dictionary out to Nameless National Park to "prove" he was right.

Once when he was afoot and having a bad weekend at Nameless National Park he 'bout drove Hobbit crazy with demands to take him somewhere, to the point that until this day, there is a little sing-song litany of Johns' complaints that day that are still recited around many a campfire.

It's hot.
Mah feet hurt.
I got a bug in mah ear. (He somehow or another got a bug trapped in his ear, which is no wonder considering the amount of earwax the boy produced... I mean, you could use his earplugs for candles)
Take me to Red Food Store (A local grocery chain now known as Bi-Lo)
I wanna go home.
And so on until infinity...

John once got in an argument with the manager of a Cracker Barrel up in Tennessee because John wanted to trade muskets with him. The musket in question being a pristine '42 Springfield that was hanging above the fireplace there at the Cracker Barrel. John also had a '42 that had been cobbled up out of spare parts and wanted to trade with Cracker Barrel for the nice one. The manager spent thirty minutes trying to explain to John that he wasn't authorized to do such things before the guys finally had to drag him (John) bodily out of the building.

At Saylers Creek one year, Uncle Goob got aholt of some bad vittles and had the running shits. That, coupled with a whole lot of marching, chapped him pretty bad you could say, so he decided to brave the cold and shuck his britches and drawers to sit in this little stream for a while to relieve his burning buttocks...

Scutter caught John downstream filling his canteen.

And with that we'll end it this. I think that's quite enough Big John stories for the time being.