Just Another Day

 

Had yet to master the art of reading when otherwise engaged.

Happy Birthday to me.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t expect a flood of congratulatory messages or even expressions of, “Good Lord, you’re still alive!?”  My ego, as big as it is, realizes that not many of you will be inclined to do so. 

After all, there’s a lot going on in the world which is far more important than me.  Like a war in Eastern Europe, a former president facing jail time, and whether a can of Bud Light can automatically change your gender.

In fact, were it not for Facebook notifications, scarce few of you would even take the time to wish me a happy day.  Even though it would only take a few seconds to offer me said “happy day” message.  Would a few seconds kill you?

Joke’s on you, though.  My Facebook account is set up so that my birthday won’t even be displayed.

Or sexual preference.   But, suffice it to say, I don’t drink Bud Light.

I really don’t like to make a fuss over what is, in reality, just another day.

Although, today and tomorrow are Amazon Prime days.  Which I’m sure is just a coincidence.  Still, if you wanted to mail me a gift, you could save some money.

More to the point, I doubt many (or any) of you will take the time to read this entire hideous post all the way through.  If nothing else, most of you will just check in to see what kind of pictures I’ve inserted.  Or you’ll read just enough so that you can leave a comment intended to fool me into thinking that you had read this entire thing.

That’s okay, because that’s exactly what I do.  Except for your posts.  I read them in their entirety.  Swear to God.

So, why am I even writing this (providing you got this far)?   Well, I’ll tell you this.  It’s not because I hope to reap a financial windfall.  Or impart to you some little kernel of wisdom, wrapped deeply inside an entire post of nonsense (that much is sure).

No, I think I’m writing this as some sort of catharsis to blunt the realization that my best days are behind me.  I’m not even middle-aged anymore.  Unless, I was going to live until 130.  Now, that may work for Keith Richards, but not me.  I’ll be spoken of in the past tense long before that.

Face it, to use a golf metaphor, I’m on the 17^th hole of life.  And the 18^th hole is a par 3.

NOTE:  If you don’t understand how devilishly clever that line is, you don’t know golf.  And are probably young enough to think electric cars are cool.

MORE GOLF:  Actually, I love electric vehicles.  As golf carts.

Anyway, I’m probably just going to run my mouth about my birthday until my fingers snap off from exhaustion on my computer.  Like I said, most (or all) of you aren’t even going to read this or, if you do, are waiting to find something upon which to comment.

Sigh…okay, I’ll give you something.  Which was the saddest movie moment for you?  I’ll go first.  Mine was when Spock died in Star Trek II.  Until he came back to life.  Until he died again in Star Trek Beyond.

"The fuck you say!"

Feel free to comment.  If any of you are still here.

Turning 65 (if you’re math smart, you would have figured that out with the “middle-aged” comment) has left me introspective.  It is the last of “milestone” birthdays.  To wit:

2:  I get out of diapers.  To which I'll eventually return.

"No joke."

5:  I started school.  Which only involved crayons and naps the first year.  Those tricky bastards.

13:  I became a teenager.  Zits included, free of charge.

Those.  And an incredible sense of fashion.

16:  Driver’s license.  Also, boners become unpredictable and relentless.

18:  Legal adulthood.  And legal drinking age.

To the generations that followed ours, please accept my sincere apologies.

21:  The real legal adulthood.  Including drinking age (once again, my apologies).

25:  The age when I could get a credit card.  Yes, yes, I realize younger people can do it now.  I really hope that makes up for that drinking thing.

30:  Nothing particularly noteworthy comes to mind, but 30!!??

35:  I could be president.  Meh.

So could he.
BFD

50:  At the time-“My God, I’m FIFTY?????”   Now:  “Fifty?  Fifty would be nice.”

61:  Boners are like common sense in Washington.  Infrequent.

This makes me sad.

62:  I retired and started collecting Social Security.  Yes, early.  Screw it.  Money’s money.

Actually, 67 is the last “milestone” year.  That is the year during which you’re considered to have reached full retirement age.  After that, my choo choo is lurching toward its final destination.

As I look back on my life, I realize that…regrets?  I have a few, but then again too few to mention (apologies to Frank Sinatra.  Whose choo choo has reached its final destination and been taken off the tracks).

My first regret was after my first experience with alcohol (“Tab?  That’s not Tab!”) as a high school junior.  It was embarrassing, so embarrassing that my sister laughed at me, so I won’t go into any detail. Probably no surprise, it involved a girl.

My biggest, totaling my car forty-three years ago, bore something of a silver lining.  As bad as it was, it resulted in my remaining in the Navy.  True, I got out for a bit a few years later, but the Navy made a tremendous  impact on my life.  Considering no one got seriously hurt and my career wasn’t torpedoed (couldn’t say the same nowadays), I’ll chalk that up as an ultimate good.

Although, it was hell for a little bit.

My first marriage?  Well, while it seemed little more than dating on steroids which eventually failed, it could have ended in disaster.  Thank goodness we didn’t reproduce.

My second marriage (yeah, I’m a player) also wound up on the rocks.  However, that could have really been bad.  But, it wasn’t.  If nothing else, it resulted in two of the joys of my life:  my son and daughter.  And, since my ex-wife and I are on friendly speaking terms, that is a regret which really isn’t a regret.

I regret leaving the Navy before I was able to serve two years in the rank to which I was selected.  On the other hand, I really don’t regret it all that much because I would no longer be separated from my kids.  And that was a good thing.

My only regret, which has no positive aspect, was hurting someone who didn’t deserve what she got.  I won’t go into it here, on the off chance that one of my friends, finding themselves impossibly bored,  reads this.  It’s possible, nay likely, they’d figure out who  I’m talking about.  Since this happened a little over five years ago, the hurt is still fresh.  And that’s something I truly regret.

My joys?  Luckily, they outweigh regrets by a long shot.  Since I’m considerate of my audience (both of you), I won’t go into a long spiel about what they are.  In short…

1.        My children.  If the goal is to give the world something which is a little better than yourself, mission accomplished.  I couldn’t be prouder of my little boy and girl (who aren’t so little anymore).

2.       A woman who, despite my dismal marital track record, treats me better than anyone ever has.  For some reason-mental illness?-she wants to be my wife.  For that, I am beyond grateful.  And remember?  Player.

3.       My career.  When all is said and done and the book of my life is being written (written  mostly by me.  See Shag Carpet Books), the chapters on the Navy will be some of the most significant.  After all, without the sea service, I wouldn’t have near the stories I have.

4.       My family.  Beyond the kids, I have a wonderful family.  More than once, I’ve been told how blessed I am that I have a amazing family network.  With the exception of our father, noted crazy person,  my family continues to shape who I am.  My brothers, sister, aunt, and cousins bring me great happiness and comfort.  And amazement that they even talk to me.

Well, I would say that about wraps it up.  You know, now that I have written this, it really was a cathartic exercise.  When I started writing, I was a little depressed at the prospect of becoming eligible for Medicare, with my  erecti brown hair a fond memory.

Little blue pills half off at CVS

After reading a…sort of… brief summary of my life, I realize that I have led a blessed one.  I know that I have a lot to look forward to.  No, not baldness.  But, the peace which comes from relishing family, friends, and the adventures which await.

That, and getting the senior discount at IHOP for, hopefully, decades to come.

 

THANKS TO ALL WHO’VE HELPED ME LIVE A LIFE WORTH LIVING.

 

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

I have got to finish this book.  It's fascinating.

Interesting Thought

 

    When I was still in the Navy, and still had brown hair and everything worked  I often took business trips (look, just because I was in uniform didn't mean I didn't have business trips).  Whenever I would took a flight somewhere, I headed to the bookstore after the TSA strip search.

    There I would buy a Diet Coke and an issue of National Review.  I was rarely able to find the magazine anywhere else, so I took the opportunity to purchase William F. Buckley's brainchild to "review" the goings-on in the nation (huh, so that's how they came up with the name.  Clever).  Anyway, each issue was fairly lengthy and often took me an entire flight to finish.

Wonder how they came up for the name of this magazi......ohhhhhhh.

    Since retirement, though, I haven't had the opportunity to travel much (I did plenty from 1976-2005, thank you very much).  As a result, I didn't get a chance to peruse my favorite Conservative publication much.  Occasionally, I'd find it at Barnes and Noble.  But, that was about it.  You could forget finding it at Wawa or 7-Eleven.

"No, but we do have mummified hot dogs, coffee that could strip paint, and farts disguised as hoagies wrapped in cellophane." 

    So, it was with that in mind that I decided to purchase a yearly subscription.  That way, I can examine each story at my leisure without having to worry about finishing it before landing.

Or getting the stink-eye from that woke scold in front of me.

    The National Review is no fan of Donald Trump, that's for sure.  To them, the Big Cheeto is the second coming of Benito Mussolini or, at the very least, a circus clown in a three-piece suit who stores a trove of classified documents in his toilet.

"But, I at least made the trains run on time."

    While I don't subscribe to every bit of their anti-Trump invective, I'm no fan of the man from Mar-a-Lago.  I wasn't during the 2016 primaries and I'm certainly not now.

"So, you're telling me there's a chance...'

Yeah, no.

    However, the latest issue (pictured at the top.  You're welcome) featured an article which went to the very heart of the effects the Trump train will have on the 2024 election.  I found myself nodding my head in agreement with pretty much everything it had to say.

    While I won't regurgitate everything (once again, you're welcome), it made some cogent points which would be worth your time to examine.

    Basically, the writer feels that Trump, even though he'll probably walk away with the GOP nomination, would be a disaster in the general election.  Despite what a lot of my friends (and stranger friends on Twitter) think, I agree with this.

    You've probably heard most of the writer's arguments.  But, he pointed out something that I had not considered.

    Dukakis, Gore, and Hillary failed to win the presidency for the Democrats (I would also add Kerry and Mondale, but why pile on?).  Guess who was not offered a return trip to the Dem nomination?  Dukakis, Gore, and Hillary.  

For the life of me, I never understood why Dukakis didn't resonate with the voters.

    It seems that the Democrats never hand the ball to a one-time loser, once they, uh, lost.  The writer gives grudging admiration to the smart way they play politics.  You could make the case that Gore and Hillary lost by razor thin margins, but the fact is, they did lose.

    Thank you for playing.  Now take your whiny sour grapes and dread foreboding of environmental doom elsewhere because we're not putting you on the field anymore.

And promising book career.

    Donald Trump who, despite his pompous bombast, has been on a losing streak.  A very good case could be made that his ego and big mouth cost the Republicans control of the Senate in 2020.  What's more, the purported red wave last year may have been tamped down because of Trump's inability to shut his piehole.

"Quite frankly, the losers at National Review have no idea what they're talking about because their magazine was started by some dead guy who had a speech impediment and, to be honest, I'm not a fan of people who aren't living anymore or who had a speech impediment if they even were alive even though some mental defectives would claim that William F. Buckley didn't have an impediment at all but spoke like an upper-class white guy which I clearly am not because I identify as an orange guy who wouldn't drink that Clydesdale piss disguised as Bud Light and who just leases that big airplane which doesn't contribute to climate change because our engines are fueled by Cheetos.  CHYNA!"

    Okay, many of you believe that Trump didn't lose the 2020 election.  In that case, I have nothing to say to you because you've convinced yourself.  Like hardcore Leftists, your partisan goggles and hero worship render you incapable of objective thought.  

    Personally, I think his personality was so repellent that a good many didn't pull the lever for Orange Julius last election.  This includes me.  Mind you, I didn't vote for Snowy Joe (I'm not insane).  Rather, I went for the Libertarian candidate.  That said, I don't believe the Delaware Department Store Dummy got 81 million votes, either.

    The reality that the Democrats are far better at playing the game than the Republicans does not bode well for any shot of common sense and wresting control of the White House away from a decrepit old man.  Who may decide to launch nuclear strikes just because they're no longer making episodes of Matlock.

"And those damn kids lighting bags of dog poop at the front door."

    I never considered that, once you lose as a Democrat, you'll never get a chance to run for president again.  Republicans, on the other hand, seem hell-bent on throwing The Donald back into the race.

    The writer made another very good point:  just because you're anti-Trump doesn't automatically mean that you're pro-Biden.  The two are mutually exclusive.

    Needless to say, I hope I am wrong about all of this.  But, I have a real fear that we'll have to deal with four more years of Progressive insanity.

    In any case, if you find yourself at the airport, you'd do well to pick up a copy of National Review.

    Just make sure no woke lunatic spits in your Diet Coke.

      

Once Upon a Time...

 Happy Independence Day!

Or, if you're not an American, Happy Fourth of July!

With Apologies To Rudyard Kipling

 

Dear Ole Dad
The Charmer

********

Okay, so Father's Day was a few days ago.  Meaning this is late.  Or you're just now getting around to reading this.  No, it's late.  Sue me.  Anyway, the following is not only based on fact, it is fact.  And now you know why I am the way I am.

********

If

 

If you can keep your church offering when saps about you

Aren’t buying jelly doughnuts or chocolate milk,

If you can trust yourself when everybody else

laughs as you scratch yourself with a fork,

If you can blame anybody but yourself

when the car conks out on the off-ramp even though

the gas gauge says “empty,”

Or being allowed first in line, say “sucker”

Or being complemented, say “doofus”

And “dressing up” is washing your hair with soap and

bathing in Old Spice:

 

If you think fancy cuisine is an

onion sandwich with yellow mustard,

and canned sardines that make you burp

or liverwurst that gives you gas,

yet can save room to suck hot peppers from a jar;

If you can get a sunburn using only a bottle

of Baby Oil and iodine,

and peel enough skin to give each child a buck for the

“biggest piece,”

If your feet smell like Italian cheese and your teeth fall out

before you’re 40:

 

If you can share your philosophy on  

people of other races, faiths, and culture,

and not get beaten up,

If you can manage to use all varieties of the Lord’s name when

bashing your thumb with a hammer,

Or the ‘F’ word when talking to a priest

when draining your pool into his yard,

If you think all God’s creatures, great and small

take a final ride to New York State

If you can make fun of the overweight while

sporting “man boobs”:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one hand of pinochle with uncles and aunts who aren’t related,

And lose, and laugh and say, “Eh, what the frig?”

even though your children need new clothes,

If you could say, with a straight face, that you didn’t get the

promotion because you really like manual labor,

If you can sneak into a drive-in movie through the exit at four in

the afternoon:

 

If you can cover your entire home with shag carpet-even the toilet

tank-because you “found it” next to the new Holiday Inn,

If you can set the walls on fire putting in a dimmer switch

and keep your composure long enough to yell, “Get the hell out of the

house!”

If you can replace every bedroom door with plastic fold-outs that

fall apart in six months,

Yet find time to make beds out of particle wood that collapse before

the doors,

If you think electrical tape can fix everything from a frayed wire to

a broken bone,

And finishing painting the house is optional:

 

If you can talk to crowds and keep making fun of them,

Or set yourself on fire while on the toilet,

If neither foes nor loving friends like to hear you speak,

If you can fill the air with one blast of your after-dinner

flatulence or your carton of Kools,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And-which is more-you’ll be a Man, my son!

A man which no one will like to admit knowing.

But, a man nonetheless.

 

   

Happy Memorial Day?

 

    I wonder how many of you say that without realizing the last Monday in May is really not about the unofficial start of summer?

    NOTE:  Okay, I’ll grant you that June, July, and August are pretty cold in the Southern Hemisphere, which sounds like a crappy deal for our friends down under.  Until you stop to consider they also don’t have Joe Biden and Donald Trump.

    NOTE FOLLOWING A NOTE:  That last sentence is sure to tick off both sides of the aisle.  You’re welcome.

    On the other hand, Australia does have Olivia Newton-John.

"Not anymore!"

 

Too soon?

    Lost among the hoopla of Bud Light-free backyard barbecues, fireworks (for those looking to get a jump on Independence Day), trips to Jersey beaches (to watch the annual washing ashore of mob hits), and tropical storms (in Florida) is the true purpose behind Memorial Day.

Some celebrate in their own way.

    Originally called Decoration Day, recognition of those who gave their lives in the recent Civil War was officially proclaimed on May 5th, 1868, by General John Logan of the Grand Army of the Republic (weren’t they all full of themselves?).  Planned for May 30th, it drew former foes together to plant flowers and otherwise spruce up graves of war dead from North and South alike at Arlington National Cemetery.

    NOTE: Which, incidentally, was on the site of Robert E. Lee’s home.

"Vindictive pricks."

    To be sure, women in the South were also “decorating” gravesites of their dead from the “Great Cause,” when they weren’t saying “Bless your heart” or “Kiss my grits.”  In fact, some sources state that those practices even predated the end of the war.  What’s more, some states in Dixie even had their own Decoration Days, mostly in May.

"You know, Letitia, after we're done, I could use a hot dog."
"Oh, bless your heart! They haven't been invented yet."
"Well, kiss my grits!"
Told ya.

    NOTE:  For my non-American friends (and products of the Mississippi school system), the American Civil War (or “War of Northern Aggression”-sheesh, those people can really hold a grudge.  At least they weren’t vindictive pricks, though.) took place between 1861 and 1865 between the “North” and the “South.”  I could bore you with the whys, whens, and whats about one of our most horrific conflicts (this side of a San Francisco CVS), but I won’t (no sense cracking a book).  Let’s just put it this way:  a lot of people died and the blue team won.  Oh, and it wasn’t technically a “civil” war.  Because, let’s face it, there’s nothing civil about getting your head blown off by a cannon ball.

"If'n we survive this thing, we'll get a three-day weekend!"
"Bless your heart, the Yankee Congress hasn't invented it yet."
"Well, you kin kiss my grits!"
Well, whaddya know?  Even the guys.

    Decoration Day remained an observance of Civil War dead up until after the First World War.  Following one of history’s most idiotic conflicts (which didn’t end up being the “war to end all wars” after all.  Suckers.), it was decided that May 30th would be set aside to honor all American war dead.

    NOTE:  And those who lost their lives during peacetime in service to their country.

    The name, however, stuck until it officially changed to Memorial Day in 1967.  No matter what it was called, though, Americans throughout the nation took time out to honor those who had fallen.

    What seemed to many to be a civic duty began to fade after Congress passed the Holiday Act of 1971.  An effort to consolidate some federal holidays into three-day weekends, it shifted Memorial Day to the last Monday in May.  The inexorable transformation from solemn tribute to summertime bacchanal had begun.

    I try my best not to be a crank about the avalanche of car commercials, barbecue tips shows, or “ABBA to ZZ Top-The Memorial Countdown of the 500 Most Popular Hits of the 70s, 80s, 90s, and Whatever the Frik We Call the First Decade of the 21st Century!”  It’s hard not to get caught up in the hype of a country poised at the brink of gloriously warm weather (sorry, Aussies) and summer reruns.  Hey, I like to walk around with my shirt off and scare wildlife like any other middle-aged guy.

    Still, I remember when Memorial Day used to be about the Soldier, Sailor, Airman, Marine, and Coast Guardsman.  Parades, wreath-layings, air shows, flag-raisings:  those were what I remember.

    But, if I think back really hard (you could take that dirty), I also remember my shirtless father (I’m still in therapy) incinerating hot dogs from Shop Rite on the grill while listening to Best of the Ventures on his 8-Track player.  All while we played fetch with our dog-using my little brother’s bathing suit.  With my little brother still in it.

Like this.  But, not as tasty.

    When we weren’t playing catch with the Lawn Darts, that is.

"Those damn kids and their lawn dar....ooh.  Hot dogs."

    Ahhhhh, good times.

    So, when I get up tomorrow morning, I’m going to fly my flag before heading off to see the Memorial Day parade.  I’ll place my hand over my heart when the national anthem is played at the wreath-laying.  And hang on to every word spoken by a veteran from either the American Legion or the VFW.

    It is then when I’ll remember.

    Then, I’ll go home to see if I can cook a hot dog better than my dad.

    Now that I think of it, I guess the saying fits:

    Happy Memorial Day!

    Still, never forget it should also be Blessed Memorial Day.

    Two things can be true at the same time.       

Back In My Day

     My original intention for this blog was to make millions offset the occasional serious post with some which were a little more lighthearted.  In essence I wanted the “nonsense” posts to outnumber the  “stuff” ones. 

    Well, sadly, there’s far too much in the way of serious goings on which compels me to throw my two cents in.  I still won’t make millions, you understand, mostly because hardly anyone reads these things, but at least I get to voice my opinion.  Then, having spouted off like a drunk uncle (or Trump) at the end of the bar, I’ll disappear into the Internet in search of the odd Karen video or an “Everything Wrong With [insert movie title here]” review.

    NOTE:  You should seriously check out the “Everything Wrong With” videos.  They’re pretty funny.

    In fact, the absurd comes at me so fast that, as soon as I decide on a topic, something equally ludicrous leaps into the headlines.  The good news?  I have no shortage of topics.  The bad news?  I have to decide which of these I’ll tackle.  That would work if I wrote a  column every day, but I try to keep these to once a week.  I mean, my two readers have lives to live, after all, most of which involves attending to things that  actually matter, rather than the insane ramblings of a “back in my day” old grump.

    Most importantly, I don’t get paid.

    To demonstrate what I mean, I had originally intended to write about my experiences with free online college courses at Hillsdale College.  Then, the androgynous lunatic Dylan Mulvaney wrecked Bud Light as a brand.

The title would have been
"Dude Pretending to Be a Chick On a Can of Clydesdale Pee Pretending To Be Beer.".

     But, then?  Something else equally crazy rears its deranged head.  Thus is the topic of today’s essay.  Don’t worry, I’ll get to it.  But, first, a word from our sponsor…

 

Cruex. 
Official sponsor of NCAA Womens Sports

    As the two of you who’ve read It’s Not Just a Job, It’s An Adventure, and my latest opus, Tony the Pony  know, I spent quite a bit of my life in the United States Navy.  Far be it from me to bore you with a rehash of events you probably haven’t read about, but let me say that this chapter of my life is one of which I am very proud.

Still available by the truckload on amazon.com

    To call it the most meaningful would not be an accurate statement, though.  Hands down, the birth of my two children was.  That they turned out to be wonderful human beings is a credit to their mother, despite her shocking lack of taste in men.

    My time in the Navy does come in at a solid number two.

    From service aboard two aircraft carriers to flying above the Arctic Circle on antisubmarine warfare patrol missions, I felt that I was a critical part of a national defense team.  Nobody would dare challenge us, I thought.  The men and women with whom I served had my back just as much as I had theirs.

"That look like a nice, clean, gas station to you?"

    For over twenty-five years, there was no doubt in my mind that the United States was an unquestioned, unchallenged superpower, especially after we outspent the Russians into oblivion.

    Yessiree, the big bad Soviet Union had almost overnight become the trailer park of Europe.

    Before we became the trailer park of North America.  Another story for another time, though.

    Sure, once I retired, I lambasted those who came after me as softees who didn’t quite rise to our level.  (I really did use to say “back in my day.”). I mean, we didn’t have the internet, cell phones, or turn-down service in the barracks (oops, sorry, that’s the Air Force).

    That all said, I never doubted that, if the call came, the United States military would rise to the occasion.  Even though  I was no longer in uniform, the "youngsters”  had the watch.  We were leaders of the free world and those who challenged us did so at their peril.

    However, all services, including the Navy, have lately experienced recruiting shortfalls.  Apparently, a life of service is not as attractive as it once was.  Not nearly as many young men and women want to enlist or are even qualified to do so.  A serious dilemma, to be sure, one which the military desperately wants to address.

    One solution adopted by the Navy, one which causes me to doubt whether we can field a robust fighting force anymore, is to designate an active-duty drag queen as a digital ambassador for recruiting.  To Navy brass, doing this will surely boost numbers and polish a tarnished image.

"It's Not Just a Job," indeed.

    Don’t get me wrong.  I have zero problem with drag.  Good grief, it’s an art form which has been with us for a very long time.  Even though it’s nothing I am remotely interested in, if you want to play dress-up and belt out Liza Minelli tunes, go for it, my man.  Knock yourself out.

    But, a campus coffeehouse is not the same as the South China Sea.

    As the face of an armed service whose sole purpose in life is to break things and kill people, yeah, no, I’m Stevie Wonder.  I can’t see it.

"Betcher ass.  Who is this again?"

    Unless the Chinese, Russians, North Koreans, and Iranians are deathly afraid of a Sailor wearing pumps and a blonde wig cavorting with a broom on the mess decks of a nuclear aircraft carrier, this has got to be the biggest brain aneurysm in Naval history this side of the schizophrenic unform changes. 

"Hey, check out the caboose on this swabbie."

    I'm sorry.  That was an uncalled-for cheap shot.  Forgive me, Jesus.

"I'd love to, but you make it so difficult."

    You may not like it, but the world is a very dangerous place.  And people prepared to visit violence, not mascara, on the wolves out there is just an absolutely critical part of it.

    Facts trump (no pun intended) feelings.  All day, every day.

    Who does the Navy think this will attract?  The thousands of teenage drag stars out there who are itching to wear lingerie and stilettos under their Dress Blues?  Certainly not Kansas farm boys who will now think that the Coast Guard is the smarter way to go.

Drag

Not drag.
On a personal note, how crazy is it that this seems normal??

    Good grief, I never in my life felt that hollowing out of the military was being done by design.  I’m not so sure now.

    The biggest worry I have is…who is going to be afraid of the American military now?  Hey, be all kinds of woke and inclusive you want.  Feel good about yourself, cupcake, while those who protect you have become a joke.

    DO NOT get hung up on that this is a gay thing at all.  Homosexuals have been part of the world’s militaries for millennia.  They have served honorably and with distinction.  Part of what I was going to speak on about my Hillsdale college courses was that the Spartan military established and nurtured physical relationships with each other, to the detriment of wives they didn’t see all that often. 

    If you think that made them any less dangerous on the battlefield, tell that to the tens of thousands of Persians they slaughtered on the plains of Plataea in 479 B.C.

    I daresay not a single drag queen was in their ranks, though.

"Seriously, we had enough to worry about."

    In essence, I sincerely hope I’m wrong.  I’d love to be an old crank who just harps about the good old days.  In the past, I dispensed good-natured ribbing to those who followed me in service.  Even though I kidded about them being soft, I never really felt that way.  At no time did I feel this country wasn’t in good hands.

    However, it pains me to say that I’ve grown old enough to see my beloved Navy become an object of ridicule.

    Part of me yearns for “back in my day.”

"Yer darn right!  I'd love to remember where I was again. 
Speaking of, where am I?"