The Great Camo Uproar

The Great Camo Uproar

Before I begin my story, I would like to take the time to reveal what type of person my father is. He is a tall, strong willed, not to mention religious, man who never ceases to possess whatever he desires. The relationship between my father and I is rather hard to explain. When I was younger, it seemed as if I could do no wrong in my father’s eyes. Now that I am older, and very opinionated to say the least things are a little more tension filled between the two of us.

I was sixteen at the time of “The Great Camouflage Uproar,” as my mother calls it. That Sunday was like any other ordinary Sunday. I was busy getting ready for mass when I had asked my father to iron the infamous camouflage pants. He stared grotesquely down at the tired, wrinkled things and gave me that very same look of disgust.

“Kellen Michelle,” my father said in a calm voice.

“How many times have I told you not to wear wet clothing?”

Clearly the pants were dry. I knew he was looking for excuses, but I was not backing down. At this, I knew that if I was going to get my way I would have to put up a small but tactful argument. I quickly just decided to ignore the remark and iron the pants for myself.

Although I knew that I wanted to wear these pants simply to be defiant, I have to admit that I was quite intimidated. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my risky act and threw the pants on with a timid look on my face. I tried to quickly prance out of my room

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unnoticed. Thinking back, I had this illusion in my head of being in a foreign jungle of some sort and these pants would help me to disappear into they cherry base board. As soon as I caught my father’s eye, the very same look of disgust reappeared upon his tanned complexion.

“Kellen, didn’t I just tell you, those pants, they look like you have just wrinkled them in a ball.”

At this point I was ready to fight, I was ready for a rumble, but little did I know, I was ready to be defeated.

“There is nothing wrong with them,” I said.

“Kellen, don’t question my authority, go change the pants.”

A mere five minutes later I stumbled out of my room in a pair of old, withered khakis. I had cracked like no other egg had been cracked before.

Sunday after Sunday passed, and the congregation never caught glimpse of the camouflage pants. It was a bright, sunny day and the weather man said it was supposed to reach highs up to seventy-six degrees. A brilliant idea immediately popped into my head. I stared lovingly at my pants that were in a discombobulated