I was born and grew up in a quaint little town enjoying the quiet life. As a youngster I would hunt quail and dig for quahogs down by the quay. With those dinners I would usually quench my thirst by quaffing down a quart of milk to become stronger. Yet being restless, my quixotic quest for glory and adventure would not quit. So while others fled to Quebec, Canada to avoid the draft, I made the quantum leap to visit the military recruiting officer who was thrilled to reach his quota. He asked me only a few questions about my qualifications and not one to quibble, signed me up saying I was precisely the quarry the armed forces was seeking since I had that special sine-qua-non a soldier must have.

I waited in a long queue for the medical examiner who gave me a queasy feeling that he was a quack or at best just a quasi-doctor. Like Quasimodo he rang a bell and finally it hit me that he looked like the Martian on the Quisp cereal box (sans propeller). To quell my qualms I queried him directly as to whether he was truly qualified. He quipped that not only had he delivered quintuplets and performed quadruple bypass, but had cured people in quarantine for malaria with his quinine. Then he said and I quote, "Quiz-time is officially over!" and then "Hey kid, quid pro quo. You stay still. I finish" and with this huge scary quivering needle that looked more like a porcupine's quill, he jabbed me like a quadrillion or quintillion times (so much it was hard to quantify) just to get a blood sample.

Next was basic training where they developed all my muscles especially my quadriceps by having us do the military quick-step while immersed in quicksand. Then one day this quarrelsome quartermaster questioned my manhood saying that after combing my file, he thought I was a queer old queen. I told him that was not quite the case with me and that even though it said I sometimes ate quiche and could hand-stitch a quilt, nevertheless he shouldn't just simply dismiss such a large quantity of quality people just because in his narrow opinion their lifestyle was quirky.

Anyway it was off to Qui Nhon in Viet Nam where I still naively thought we would quickly quash any rebellion. I soon realized it was a military and political quagmire for which there was no quick-fix. I was in a quandary quaking in my boots with this perpetually quizzical look on my face. Watching people blow up right in front of me became so quotidian that I realized at any second I could be dead or a quadriplegic. But even the quintessential seer Nostradamus could not have looked into his quartz crystal ball and predicted in any of his quatrains what happened next. They pulled a quartet of guys from my company from the quad who were plotting to be treacherous quislings. However, a secret quorum of high-ranking officers had them drawn and quartered.

Finally, thanks to my god, Quetzalcoatl (just kidding. I'm a Quaker), I made it back home to the good old USA where nowadays you can always go to Quizno's or the Dairy Queen for a quick bite. Now that I'm older, I like to play quoits in the backyard as well as pick the fruit from my quince tree imported from Qatar in Western Asia. I indulge in my other hobbies as well like betting the quinella at the track and watching Quentin Tarantino movies and reruns of Quincy on my Quasar TV/VCR.

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