|M. Patrick Foliglio|
With all screenings negative, and having surrendered contraband items (cell phones, leftist propaganda*) at the gate, we were led through a narrow, walled-in drive (or 'kill zone,' as the poet affectionately named it). Finally, after a quick retinal scan, we gained entry to the forested expanse.
"Mi casa su casa," said Foliglio through his surgical mask, and admonished me to stay away from his guns, wives and a small concrete outbuilding he called 'Bunker no. 5.' Otherwise, we had the run of the place!
|Bunker no. 5|
Well, I am happy to report that life inside the compound, while certainly militant, secretive and paranoid, is not without its gentle and harmonious side. Here three of the Foliglio progeny enjoy a dip in the Olympic-sized pool.
|Matthew, Jackson and Cameron Foliglio, after 300 mandatory laps|
And here Myrtle Foliglio and my wife take a break from a long discussion about our manifold deficiencies as husbands:
|'Mine's lazy.' 'Mine too!'|
As far as parenting goes, Foliglio and wives earn a solid A+!** Yes, the cistern was contaminated with sea monkeys and the Lego bunk beds seemed a bit wobbly, but there ain't a one of the little buggers who doesn't know his role in the event of an Obamunist takeover.
|Part of 12 obligatory hours of daily training|
Where is the world?
Hey out there.
where is the world!
I want to know whats
going on here. There arent
any children or anybody just
tell me What, Never mind
*HOPE bumper sticker
**This post has been edited for content by M. Patrick Foliglio, Inc