Profile: Jude Richard

I am a disabled combat veteran who loves pitbull dogs, writing and drawing, and my quiet time. I am a black belt holder and expert sharpshooter marksman. I work hard and I play hard. I am always thinking and planing, my brain is a rat wheel with a rat that never stops. This creates severe insomnia that compliments manic bipolar depressive disorder, PTSD, survivors guilt, anxiety and panic attacks that hospitalize me. Then, other stuff according to my psychiatrist in which is undiagnosed yet. I am on 10 medications three times a day and doing awesome compared to four years ago where I was delusional and suicidal. I have a Pitbull names Outlaw who is my everything and never leaves my side. We actively raid dog fighting compounds now days rescuing them from cruel people and try rehabilitating them with a 99% success rate. Some been too far into the darkness to ever come back and unfortunately we have to euthanize them with a preyer. I am always to myself writing, drawing, thinking, and theorizing about many subjects. My favorite topic is the mysteries of the universe trying to explain what seems like the unthinkable and/or impossible. Conspiracy theories and what Uncle Sam and Big Brother are doing and getting away with. Anyone, anything and everything in which is secretive only means there something to hide so no one else could find out our of embarrassment or prosecution by their fellow man. Secrets scar, hurt and also, in a lot of ways, keeps us from growth in the advancement of our species. I have lots of hobbies like coin collecting and building websites. I am a master multitasker. In fact I multitask without thinking or knowing I’m doing it. Start one project, stop start another whether it is two or 100 project, and jump one to the other in patterns with all of them being completed at the same time. I am mentally tuff and I love to explore all around. I’m curious by nature and as a child I’ve broken nearly every bone in my body at one point time or another. That is how us Cajun Coonasses from south central Louisiana role. We work hard and we play hard usually with competition on who can do anything longer, faster or harder. Bragging rights here is key. We take pride in working for a couple days in hot, humid almost deadly conditions, sometimes fatal, working and loving it as 120-140 feet trees fall around you. Ground hands and guiding tour cutter spurred into the trees trunk after roping in and mounting his day to drop half the tree out. When it falls and thrown with it’s last popping of it bark the cutter needs nerves of steal ad often times left violently shaking for a second it two. As everything is playing out and working together for one accomplishment, it is like a musical orchestra playing rhythmkatlly while walking a tight rope and so good at it everyone survives. Others never understand this and say we are lustful for death. They don’t know how we could do that day in and day out. Thinks it’s like cheating death everyday and that it will eventually collect its dues one day but to be honest I know not of another cutter whom perished. Broken bones, cut themselves horribly and sometimes loose extremities or digits but are proud to be back on the job as soon as they can hit the ground running. See, we are of a large group of Canadian French, whom were originally in France with German descent, whom were exiled from Canada by the Canadians. Louis and Clark at the time had the Louisiana Purchase at the time and exploration of it went on until their deaths but were given a mosquito and yellow fever ridden piece of land. They wanted us where we could not get back and more than likely perish with all the unforeseen dangers. They truly were and we are still a remarkable, intuitive and hardheaded people. We survived yellow fever amongst many diseases and we also instead of picked fights with the natives here we learned from them and worked together for the greater good. Well I’m most parts there were cases of terror but now days we still live side by side, in fact we are them and you’d have a difficult time distinguishing us from them now days. Heck, we have a hard time. The closest tribe for us here near Crowley Louisiana is the attack-a-paw tribe and we’re notorious for eating their enemies so that they could send them off with the ultimate disrespect, the act of discharging them as bowels. They also believed they were imprisoning their souls and taken as their slaves in their one afterlife. Anyhow, we grew up literally with a boxing ring in the backyard out father built for us saying at least they not in the streets. But we in a town too small to be a town so it’s considered a village, The Village of Morse Louisiana is a very small, everyone knew each other and have coffee together at certain parts of the day. We didn’t have licks on the doors or scared of anything outside, out Pitbull’s warm everyone is so and there are so many guns and weapons with an expert, who was born with a 12 gauge in his hands, behind every blade of grass. And one this we never settled to put up with in any manner at any time it is bull-scratch. You dumb enough to try out front door with I’ll intent we never minded cutting your hands off and marking you eat then or some crazy twisted punishment that earns everyone. Don’t wake me up I don’t have time. To sleep and when I do you gonna rob me if that? That I’m itself could lead to something going wrong at work or anything. Want something or need something ask us we were also raised to share and have not a greedy bone in our little T-Cajun booties. All the neighborhood boys showed up every 5pm after school to sharpen out left hooks and double southpaw jabs. And you better show, every boy in town and even some girls in there.m Whipping butt. You didn’t show up you were weak and shamed, it’s a must ya farm boys be tuff because we all grow up with those good morals but unforgivable to disrespect those morals in either way. But all in all all that only made us even stronger. By ourselves we could give out what is doses out and if not we always win by surviving. As a tribe and if outsiders were to come in truck g telling us what to do, when to do i, then how to die it when it is unknown by themselves is playing with fire. Over here you mess with one of us you dealing with a whole extremely large regiment of sharpshooters with military like skills and actions. All around us are rice, soybean, wheat, sugar cane or crawfish fields. During the summer the farms are prepping, plowing, leveling, building levies to flood the fields and everything needed which usually meant everything and them some so eat an early breakfast because when it’s roll time it don’t stop rolling until either it can’t roll anymore or the task and the targeted accomplish is finished. Fall time all that hard work gets cut down and harvested. All the rice and many other things, it’s whatever they deicide to work and grow and all depending on the price to get it in and what they’ll buy it back from your for determine profits which in turn determines if the farmers and all out little families who works the farm have an abundant season or a hungry one. These farmers are damn good at making it party time during the cold months which is not long. That, however does not mean the work stops, uh uhh, it’s just colder to go out early morning, mid-day, and in the evening to empty and rebate out crawfish traps in the very same field the farm goods were grown in. They levy up fix nutria-rat holes and burrows and try to get them with your little birdshot in the 410 rifle. Then let the waters loose and flood the fields for the crawfish to come up out the cold as hell ground and something to go into and not just be vulnerable or the ground because land still too hot for them unless in water and too cold for their little dirt home they go on vacation too deeply into her earth. When we start catching, good lord, I see full sized trucks with the back loaded down and stacked strategically for room going down the road just squatting down as low as it can get and make tour Z-71 pop wheelies. Each sack it ruffly you 30-40 pounds and many, many thousands upon tens, maybe 100’s of thousands of pounds are harvested just in the surrounding farms here in Acadia Parish. Everyone loves crawfish, either really love eating them, maybe love the crowed whom gather to all bicker about the best way to do the process from start to finish or the ingredients of the potato salad whole drinking beer and tell tall-tales and lies to each other. The children running around my the herds outside terrorizing anything and everything they can. But all in all it’s the gathering and the fellowship with the local priest and/or ministers saying grace taking about we thank the lord for his bounty we received on good haul ins and for many more like it but he’s only trying to hurry up for that crawfish, corn in the cob, pearl onions, onions , potatoes, mushrooms and all types of goodies thrown into the red cayennes pepper flavor in the crawfish boil used and some so strong you can’t eat them everything is burning and sti we trying to see who could go the longest or just right and everyone is only, for the only time of the year when everyone shuts up an look at each other going um hum with the shaking yes motion if the head. There is always so much in abundance that everyone is beaching and unbuckling their pants with every word come out their mouth is, “that was good!” And someone looking at them sayings up um-hum coulda used a little more of this or that. “Don’t say nothing but he can’t boil no crawfish.” “Shoulda have let so and so do it!” You supposed to do this, that and/or three other blah blah haha! An hour later he’s told what the other was not supposed to say and awwweeee here we go again. We don’t need satanic boxing we have our own when all the beer drank during the boiling process kicks in good. That’s me, a proud Cajun and you need to come see for yourself.