Obama sends FORM LETTERS to parents of fallen Navy SEALs.

I used to think that nothing this asshat of a president could do would shock me or anger me any more than I already am.

I was wrong.

At the RNC this year in Tampa, Gateway Pundit is reporting that the families of the U.S. Navy SEALs killed last August have all received form letters from Obama.

Form letters that the selfish, arrogant son of a bitch couldn't even be bothered to sign himself.

They were signed with an electric pen.

So help me God if this asshat gets four more years in office.

So. Help. Me. God.

Let's put HIS ass in uniform and see how he feels. . .

The commander-in-chief sues to keep his troops from voting.

Seems like a science fiction headline, eh?

Sorry. It's a factual headline brought to you by the communist and socialist faction of our governing institution, aka Obama and the Democratic National Committee.

I remember when Al Gore and the communists did this in Florida in 2000, whining that the military vote was unsupervised and took too long to get to the polls to count.

It disgusted me to the point that I took my little shoebox full of ribbons and medals and certifications and other such military memorabilia and tossed it all in the fireplace.

That is exactly what my military service had become worth--garbage.

I took several days off from work because the state of mind I was in was one of pure danger to anyone who agreed with the Dems and Al Gore filing suit to disallow the military vote.

You see, I've been there in remote places outside the U.S. borders filling out a ballot and handing it to a chaplain for courier service back to an FOB where it was collected with other remote ballots, SECURED, then helo'd to a divisional squadron or HQ depending upon which branch of the armed forces was closest. Then it was shipped to the states.

Sorry, Mr. Gore, that some of those votes weren't exactly on a timeline to you and your fellow communists' liking, but the troops WERE, after all, out there protecting YOUR ASS. Fine way to repay them, you son of bitch.

As for Obama? He's never been my president and never will be. But since he likes having the military chauffeur him around and he likes all the photo ops with the military and likes referring to himself as commander-in-chief, then let's put Barry's ass in uniform and stick him in a combat zone and let him stand directly in harm's way for a few weeks or months.

Let's delay his mail from Moochelle and his kids. Let's feed him the same MREs the troops are eating rather than that bullshit Moochelle is forcing into the schools. Let's have the CIC forego his weekly golf games in exchange for IED patrol duty.

Hell, he killed bin-Laden didn't he? Simple grunt patrol should be a snap for this poser-in-chief.

But let's let him do all of that then see how he likes having his vote argued in federal court and disallowed--over THREE DAYS of additional time for early voting.

Let's see how the arrogant, fraudulent sorry-assed son of a bitch likes that.

The first shot.

I'm not (usually) one to give a lot of inordinate attention to talk about "the second American revolution."

 Quite frankly, I don't think we have the balls.

Someone at the VFW, however, pointed out that during the first American revolution, it was only something like five or six percent of those able to who actually took up arms and kicked the redcoats' collective backsides.

And since the latest statistics today show that less than ONE PERCENT of all living Americans have any military service. . . .

I make no illusions about being young and fit enough to go running and jumping through the woods and urban forests and skulking with face paint and exotic black guns in each hand. As the more experienced (read: aged/"been there, done that") of us relate over cold adult beverages, that is a young person's role.

Us older folks will still be there, however. If the government and left-wing loonies only knew just how organized many of the former military types actually are, and how quickly we can actually organize, arm ourselves and deploy, there would be an explosion in the sale of Depends undergarments.

Several years ago, I was at an event in Oklahoma where the overwhelming majority of us present were veterans. We had all five branches of the service represented and "war experience" ranging as far back as the Korean War. Somehow or another, talk about "what could we do?" began, and within an hour, we had "organized" ourselves into a rather formidable force.

The younger infantry and Marine guys bore the weight-bearing roles, a couple of former Army SF guys (Ranger, Green Beret) who were of the Vietnam era did offensive and recon mission planning, some of us "non-infantry" types organized into supply and logistics and transportation and intelligence roles, one of the Navy guys was a retired machinist and opened his shop to fabricate and repair anything we might need. Etc etc.

This was less than four-dozen veterans of all ages and we organized far quicker, more efficiently and with better immediate resources than the majority of SWAT teams within a two-hundred mile radius.

Bear in mind, there are millions of us scattered throughout America.

What makes us a formidable force is the fact that we have all served and because of that, we instantly understand discipline and chain-of-command and the need to either lead or be led. No arguing, no egos, no whining--just doing it.

It's something, as any vet will tell you, that you never forget. It becomes part of your DNA in boot camp and it never leaves you.

The other thing that bonds us together is the fact that we desperately do not want a war on our soil ever again, especially a civil war. But to protect peace, one must constantly foster strength.

But if a civil war is going to happen, a situation such as what is happening with a family-owned business in Colorado will be the catalyst.

 In a nutshell, the Newland family started and built a small business in the HVAC industry and over the years, built it into a thriving success story that now employs around 250 workers. The problem is Obamacare and the Newland's religion--they're Catholic. Obamacare is requiring that the Newlands provide abortion services, sterilization, birth control, etc to their employees even though such actions are in direct conflict with their religious doctrine.

The Newlands, standing on their religious freedoms, declined and Eric Holder's DOJ filed suit, in essence telling the Newlands "you can keep your religion or you can keep your business. Choose one."


An injunction was granted, but the government's argument against such was the following:

According to the Obama Administration, however, the free exercise of religion is something done only one day a week in a house of worship. It argued that the “Plaintiffs’ free exercise claim fails at the outset because for-profit, secular employers generally do not engage in any exercise of religion protected by the First Amendment.”

This is unbelievable. It's also frightening.

It's also a perfect combination for "the first shot" to occur.

I'll go on record as stating that I will not stand idly by and watch an American's religious freedoms being trampled by a thug administration that routinely defecates on the Constitution for no other purpose than to further empower itself.

A word to the government: None of you ever wore a uniform or badge. You're sole "authority of enforcement" comes from those who do or who have. We swore an oath to the Constitution--not you. We'll defend the Constitution against any and all enemies.

Don't forget that.

It wasn't free then. It isn't free now.

Freedom.

Independence.

It came with a price. 

Never forget.

Attention law enforcement--veterans are quickly getting fed up with you.

I guess the day has come.

When I was growing up, I could almost always count on a man (or woman, rare as they were) in a police officer's uniform to be one of good guys. As long as I wasn't doing anything wrong, I had nothing to fear from them.

That is simply not the case today, although I have zero fear of cops.

I used to be one. I know how utterly unprepared they are for actual, real, explosive violence. I also know that one-on-one, or two/three-on-one against a prepared, trained individual, they are hopelessly ill-trained and ill-prepared.


And yes, even with their guns and tasers.

What brings up this threatening, ominous post today?

Maybe the fact that I'm fed up with incidents like this one that took place in Wisconsin.

Here is a Marine veteran being arrested for exercising his First Amendment RIGHT at a political rally. What's more, the fat police officer tells the Marine he's going to "get his ass kicked."

The Marine states to the officer that he took an OATH to protect, defend and preserve the Constitution. The First Amendment is a huge part of that Constitution. The cops who arrested this Marine took the same oath.

The difference is that one of the people involved in this incident defended the Constitution and did so in a far away land where people tried to kill him. The other person crapped on the Constitution right here at home and in an expression of one of our MOST precious freedoms--the right to protest.

Unfortunately, stories of modern-day law enforcement's gross abuse of power and authority are becoming far too common. It used to be almost scandalous if a story broke about a dirty cop or one who ran ramshod over someone's rights or got overly brutal.

Hell, now we have cops murdering citizens and the great majority of Americans don't even blink.

Typical of the sheep.

However, I know from the talk amongst my vet friends that a lot of former soldiers, sailors and airmen are getting fed up. More than fed up, we're getting mad.

Fighting mad. Fighting BACK mad.

I know what cops are taught at the academy. I know how cops are taught to shoot and how to fight in unarmed or hand-to-hand situations. I also know how U.S. servicemen are taught to shoot and taught hand-to-hand. There is a huge difference. We're not trained to restrain--we're trained to disable, to cripple, to kill. It was taught to us that if it ever came down to using our unarmed combat tactics, we were already dead and our mission was then to take whoever and however as many as we could with us.

Soldiers and sailors and airmen have a natural loathing of firing on the flag. Translation to civilians, that it is to say, we loathe the idea of having to wage war against our own citizens--and law enforcement is considered civilian citizens.

There is a difference between being a drunk sailor at a frog-hog bar in Little Creek or at a beach hangout in Coronado and having the local cops roust you for drunk and disorderly, opposed to having a group of sheriff's deputies bust in your door at 0300 on a no-knock warrant and then shoot you over a dozen times and kill you for being "non-compliant" as was the case in southern Arizona some time back.

Homeless vets getting rousted and roughed up is nothing new. David Morrell wrote a famous novel about it that turned into a movie you might recall, known as First Blood.

The big problem is that there are some righteous cops out there. There are even cops out there who are vets themselves and who saw hostilities in lands far away. However, I'm not reading any stories or reports about them desecrating the Oath they took or flagrantly crapping on people's rights.

But I'm also not reading or hearing about them raising hell with their alpha-hotel comrades who ARE.

That's where it has to start. Righteous cops who revere the Oath they swore speaking out against the bad element that is growing like an out-of-control cancer in their profession.

You can push the sheep of this nation around. They'll take it. But a whole bunch of veterans are starting to get really tired of it.

In Wisconsin, the cops arrested that Marine because he did not want to fire on the flag. Those two slobs with badges, had the Marine exercised his training and experience, would've stood exactly zero chance.

And if law enforcement decides to make war on America's veterans, then God help law enforcement.

You started it, not us.

The most sanctimonious self-serving SOB in history.

This needs to be read by every single real American.

Far too angry to type any more.

Hanoi Jane. Ready, Aim, Fire.

I got an e-mail the other day. It was one I've seen circulating for a few years, and some of the stuff in it was largely false.

But it still burned my ass.

It was an e-mail reminding me of the Left's incessant and unending love affair with one of the more notorious, infamous traitorous pieces of slimy human sewage we've had in several centuries.

That would be Hanoi Jane Fonda.

Lot of the younger generation have absolutely no idea who she is. But since Clinton liked her and Obama likes her and the sagging-boobed bra-burners of the 60's like her, they think she must be cool.

She's not.

Anyone who goes to the enemy in the middle of a war, gives aid and comfort to the enemy, speaks out against her own country, speaks out against the military men and women of her country, and then who volunteers for numerous photo-op propaganda pictures with the communist North Vietnamese is a traitor.

I remember all too well the Hanoi Jane urinal targets. Many, many, many a beer at various NCO clubs was recycled into useful ammunition and then fired appropriately at this skank's likeness.

A while back, Hanoi Jane got all pissy because QVC cancelled an appearance by her on its show at the behest of thousands upon thousands of infuriated vets who promised to boycott the channel forever. QVC did the right thing. Fonda was pissed and bemoaned the "mentality of a boycott."

Isn't that ironic? The left is constantly calling for boycotts of ANYONE they disagree with. Well screw them and screw Fonda.

So, for some of us, a trip down memory lane. For some of the younger generation, an educational experience.

There are some things that you just never forget.

This is one of them.

The unseen enemy.

All gave some. Some gave all.

But some gave more than all. They gave everything including their soul.

By their own hand.

This Memorial Day, as I have for so many in the past, I'll raise a toast to four cherished buddies I served with. Same unit, nine of us. We were all tight. There are only five of us left. Cancer got one. All that stuff they sprayed around in Vietnam. He was the oldest of us, our senior NCO and an E-9 whose 0-6 cherished him for almost twenty years, beginning at some Thai base a mouthful of klicks west of the Ho Chi Minh trail when both were scared FNGs. The Chief trained and taught us. He nurtured us with his experience. He picked us up when we fell, and kicked our asses when we loafed. Most of all, he taught us to never quit and to always do right by your buddies, no matter what.

His death was inevitable and gruesome to witness. He never married. The military was his wife, all of us snot-nosed slick-sleeves he taught were his offspring. This will sound odd to those who never served, but we loved the Chief and he loved us back. He fought Death to the bitter end.

Never quit. Always do right by your buddies.

Fuckin' A, Chief.

That left eight of us, all long since civilians but now, today, minus three.

The other three took their own lives. Vic was the first. Upon his return to civilian life, the ex-husband of a woman he married accused Vic of being the most vile of creatures. . . . It was not true. When we got word of Vic's death, we were stunned. When we got confirmation of where the rumor had started, we were outraged.

Fortunately for the ex-husband, karma was kinder to him than we would've been. A doped up punk who'd stole a car hit the ex-husband when he was drunk and walking home from a local beer joint. The punk went into the slammer and the ex-husband went into the ground.

The son of a bitch got off easy. We had every intention of killing that ex-husband slowly and painfully. We were still young and not very many years removed from our service.

What shocked us, though, was that Vic was fighting a war of his own that none of us had any idea of. The vile, false accusation opened a door in Vic's mind that we doubt even he knew existed. And from it spewed demons that fed on doubt and mistrust and the destruction of self-esteem. Vic had served honorably and was undoubtedly the most popular among us. Quick with a joke or a light of your smoke, as the song goes, he was masterful at tactics and strategies.

But then some son of a bitch, tossed aside like the worthless garbage his ex-wife found out he truly was, could not handle the rejection, carefully starts, feeds and nurtures a rumor to destroy Vic's reputation in their small Tennessee town. In doing so, he inadvertently unleashed an enemy inside Vic's mind that would ultimately destroy him because nobody but nobody fights that kind of an enemy alone and prevails.

A few years later, one of our guys who now lives near Stone Mountain in Georgia got a call from North Carolina. David was found dead. He'd taken a bunch of pills, then fashioned a noose and a flimsy stool underneath an old oak tree branch. As the pills took effect, he stumbled, the stool fell out from under him. The handcuffs he snapped on behind his back ensured that drugged up or not, he would not be able to reach up and attempt to free himself..

He left a note. He also left a wife and little girl.

David had acquired a bad drinking problem. Real bad. It ran in his family for generations. It cost him several jobs. They had been evicted for failing to pay the rent and his wife was fed up. She took their daughter and headed for her parents home in western North Carolina.

David's suicide note was full of grief, guilt and mountains of remorse. But the demons he was fighting, like Vic, didn't allow for him to reach out to us. We were his buddies. We would've and COULD'VE straightened him out. We had all fought alcoholism and we had all beat it, so much as anyone ever beats it. But we were all sober and had been for a fair amount of time.

But the bottle is a sonofabitch and the sonofabitch beat David.

He'd been arrested a couple of times for public intoxication--never for driving while intoxicated. His suicide note proudly noted that no matter how messed up he got, he never drove after going on one of his benders. He even said he didn't want to be "that guy" in our group who screwed up by getting drunk and running over someone.

Always do your buddies right, he noted. It was his last line in the letter--the letter that stays in a shoebox in his buddy's basement near Stone Mountain.

Six left.

We went a little more than ten years without losing anyone else. But we were to become one less, yet again.

I'd just buried my last grandparent not a week before when I came home to a blinking message light. To the veterans reading this--you know all about that sixth sense we sometimes have?

It was there as I watched the light blink.

The message could've been from anyone. My banker, my parents, my brother, former co-workers asking me how my first month of retirement was going. But it wasn't. It was from an older gentleman from a VFW post in Illinois, acting upon a specific written request from another buddy of ours who lost his fight with the demons.

Chris came from a farming family. He inherited a small family farm. He'd married, raised a son and daughter and sent them to college. Then came 11 September 2001, and the ensuing economic collapse.

The bankers came to get the farm. Chris had taken a lien against the farm to help put his kids through college. The kids had no idea their dad was in the financial trouble he was. Or the trouble they thought he was in.

You see, Chris only owed less than $40K against the loans he'd taken out against the farm. It's land and net value far exceeded that. But the bankers played their tricks and our buddy was convinced he was going to lose the farm. Rather than call us, or even ask his wife to, he became depressed and depression kills.

The hardest part of this was standing at his graveside, the frigid February winter air stinging our faces and making our eyes water. Belay that. Our eyes were already watering up. The kids, who all referred to us as their "uncles" since Chris was adopted as an infant and raised an only child, could not get over their daddy's suicide.

They each had the money to pay off the paltry $40,000 in debt owed to the fucking bank.

But it was the debt, his wife told all of us at the family dinner table that night after the mourners had left, that triggered the depression. She'd seen the depression in him before and on many occasions. It didn't take much to set it off--bad weather, crop failures, crops hailed out, death of a friend. . .

Why didn't he call us? Any of us? I had my pilot's license by then and could've been up there in six hours and land on the strip he plowed and cut out just for me when I told him I'd finally gotten my private pilot's license. Chris' buddy was running the family dairy farm the next state north up in Wisconsin. He took Chris' death the hardest of all of us.

We worried he'd be next, but he assured us he wouldn't.

We made a pact on Memorial Day 2002 that no more of us would die by our own hand.

I'll be the first to admit it's been tough at times, for all of us, but we're buddies. We re-affirmed our pact to always do right by your buddies.

According to a news story I read this morning, a veteran commits suicide every one hour and twenty minutes. That's eighteen veterans a day dying at their own hand.

I'm well aware of the social and religious morés against suicide. I'm well aware of people's scorn and often times contempt for those who take their own life.

But let me tell you something. A veteran never absolves his or her oath to their country. All enemies, foreign and domestic.

But there's nothing in that oath about the enemies, the spiritual enemies--the demons, if you will--that you can't fight by yourself.

My message to everyone this Memorial Day is as follows:

Veterans--If you need help, ASK FOR IT! There is no shame. You are or were a United States soldier, sailor or airman. You represent the finest we have ever produced in this country and this country, damn it, owes you.

So ask someone, anyone. Any VFW or American Legion post and there will be a host of soldiers and sailors and airmen who will help you out. Call your local police and tell them you need help and why. An awful lot of cops are vets also. And cops know all about demons, trust me--I was in that line of work a long time ago.

Civilians--If you see or know of a veteran that needs help, please help him or her. Without being patronizing, but if you haven't served, then you have no earthly idea what these people sacrificed when they put on a uniform.

We gave up EVERYTHING. . . our rights, because the military is NOT a democracy--our job was to DEFEND a democracy. We gave up individualism to become a unit and a team. We gave up the comfort of our hometown to get stationed God only knows where around the world. We gave up comfort and peace by volunteering to be stationed to areas where there is no comfort and we fought wars in order to provide peace.

These veterans who gave all, but at their own hand deserve to be remembered, respected and honored on Memorial Day. They took the step forward when their nation called for volunteers, and they pulled on a pair of combat boots and said, "I'm ready. Let's go."

And most of all, they did their buddies right while we all shared the same uniform.

For some vets, the war begins when they get home and out of uniform--no matter what their job was on active duty.

If you're still reading, please share this link:

Veterans Crisis Line & Hotline.

My fellow Americans, your Commander-In-Chief.

This just in. . .

With this being Memorial Day weekend, maybe we should take a pretty good look at the asshole who is our present Commander-In-Chief of all armed forces and military personnel.

Maybe all those drugs he inhaled, snorted and allegedly sold while in high school and college has affected his reality-challenged brain. Take this headline, Obama Twice Mistakenly Mentions ‘My Sons,' While Defending Contraception Mandate, and story for example.

I mean, hell, he's had his two DAUGHTERS for more than ten years. You'd think he'd have it down.

Maybe he was thinking if they were sons, they'd look like Trayvon Martin?

And yet there are still numbnuts in this country who want this bozo for another four years.

Semper Fi to a 12-year-old warrior.

(This week is Memorial Day week. As a veteran, I'm not satisfied with having just one day to observe an ever-growing list of friends, buddies and patriots who gave all in defense of Freedom.

As the percentage of those of us who stepped up to the plate and served our nation and fellow citizens now falls below a paltry 1.5%, I and other vets continue to salute, admire and praise the present and next generations of warriors who offer a blank check up to the people of the United States for an amount of up to and including their life, in defense of this nation.

Today's post was sent to me via Facebook and it exemplifies the honor, commitment and duty still present in the greatest fighting force the world has ever known, the United States Marine Corps.

Click on the link to The Blacksphere. I think you'll find these are our kind of people. American patriots from all walks of life.

--AOA


Every now and then, in the middle of the constant barrage of crap that’s just pissing us all off these days, we come across a story, a feat, an event that just makes us stop in our tracks. This was one for me.

Cody Green was a 12-year kid in Indiana who was diagnosed with leukemia at 22 months old. He loved the Marines, and his parents said he drew strength and courage from the Marine Corps. as ...he bravely fought the battle into remission three times. Although he was cancer-free at the time, the chemotherapy had lowered his immune system and he developed a fungus infection that attacked his brain. Two weeks ago, as he struggled to fend off that infection in the hospital, the Marines wanted to show how much they respected his will to live, his strength, honor and courage. They presented Cody with Marine navigator wings and named him an honorary member of the United States Marine Corps. For one Marine, that wasn’t enough ... so that night, before Cody Green passed away, he took it upon himself to stand guard at Cody’s hospital door all night long, 8 hours straight.

Nowhere on the face of this planet is there a country so blessed as we to have men and women such as this. I wish I could personally tell this Marine how proud he makes me to be an American. God ... I do so love this country.

~~Lori Boxer for The Blacksphere

What we leave behind.

From the e-mail stack.

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly.

I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes and a sealed letter from his previous owner.

See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.

I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."

____________ _________ _________ _________

To Whomever Gets My Dog:

Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. He knew something was different.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after them, so be careful. Don't do it by any roads.

Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit," "stay," "come," "heel."

He knows hand signals, too: He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He's up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. It's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.

And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you...His name's not Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this ... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is "Tank." Because, that is what I drive.

I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.

Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me.

If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.

Thank you,

Paul Mallory

____________ _________ _________ _______

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.

The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.

"C'mere boy."

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered.

His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek.

"So whatdaya say we play some ball?" His ears perked again.

"Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?"

Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

# # #

If you can read this without getting a lump in your throat or a tear in your eye, you just ain't right.

A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America' for an amount of 'up to and including their life.'

That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country
who no longer understand it.

"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."
G. K. Chesterton

Drug-crazed, Nude Man Breaks Into Marine's Home--Met With Three Bullets.

From the "Not just good news, but damn good news" stacks. . .

We need more of this.

Don't mess with a man who's been trained to improvise, adapt, overcome.

I wonder if someone is going to challenge "stand your ground" on this. . .

A country that needs total eradication.

Afghanistan.

Eradicate it. Bomb it off the face of the map. One big stinking, glowing, oozing crater.

It's beyond Man's ability for redemption. A nation of stone-age savages with IQs less that of even our most ardent liberal elected officials and their constituents here in America. A wasteland of upright animals who pose as men only because evolution lingered long enough to give them facial hair and dicks, otherwise they never would've left the primordial ooze.

There are few places on Planet Earth that are more of a waste of oxygen, sunlight and resources than Afghanistan. Even Detroit has more redeeming value than Afghanistan.

We're fighting a war over there in which there is only one way to win: Total and complete eradication of the country itself. Nuke it, then nuke it again. Then nuke it some more to ensure that it will remain uninhabitable until the sun finally fizzles and goes out.

Any country who produces a predominant culture of creatures who routinely abuse and disfigure their young women the way these piece-of-feces Afghans do DO NOT deserve a place at the table of Mankind. Period.

The only thing more disgusting is that we have liberals in this country who stand up for them.

We should export them (the Afghan culture supporting liberals) to Afghanistan in between Nuke #1 and Nuke #2.

Good riddance.

Proof the U.S. Air Force rocks!

(From the e-mail stack)

For those that remember the Golden Age of Rock 'n Roll.

Remember those great instrumental songs like Pipeline, Drums, Drums, Drums?

Do you remember Dwayne Eddy and Sandy Nelson?

Do you remember the Ventures and their great instrumental "Walk, Don't Run"?

Did you know that the original drummer with the Ventures when they started out was a 17 yr old high school kid who is now a general in the US Air Force?

Watch this clip where the Ventures get him up on stage to sit in on that famous song.

Speakers WAAAAY up--You're gonna love it!

Here is proof that the Air Force Rocks! Thought everyone would enjoy this history.
Some of you don't know the Ventures. Those that do, enjoy the clip, a little long but should bring a smile to your face.

A new low for a bottom feeder (that would be our president).

I'm too mad to do much typing on this one. I'm simply going to give you the link to the story.

This SOB has got to go in November.

Has to go.

Ron Paul Attorney General, Michele Bachmann Secretary of Treasury, and the rest of the 2013 Cabinet.

Let's face it. Romney isn't exciting anyone. Newt excels at irritating us. Santorum confuses us. Ron Paul is ignored.

While each has some strong points about them, none of them are what we need.

A good president appoints the right people, which is why our present Chosen One is so weak and ineffective.

But he still hasn't figured out that he's no longer community organizing. Or is he?

What the winning GOP candidate needs is to tell America, and the world, who his Cabinet will be. Do that, and the Dems do not stand a chance.

With no further adieu, here is my proposal for a landslide winning Dream Team 2013 Cabinet. Some departments would be combined, others outright eliminated--beginning with the Department of Homeland Security (moved under the Attorney General's responsibility), Housing (totally eliminated), Health and Human Services (moved under Treasury) and Interior--give the parks back to the States.

Attorney General: Ron Paul.

No one is stronger on the Constitution than Congressman Paul. No one. As AG, anything this government does will have to pass constitutional muster. No pass, no play. As a bonus, he can review the new president's Supreme Court nominees' records and decisions.

Paul would put an end to much of the BS presently carried out by today's law enforcement such as no-knock raids, random checkpoints for motorists, and gross abuse of authority under color of law. When it comes to the law, you cannot go wrong by strictly following our Constitution--and that is what we desperately need.

Secretary of Treasury: Michele Bachmann.

Bachmann understands tax law--the single biggest inhibitor to new business growth in America today. Furthermore, no agency abuses or intentionally intimidates the American citizen more than the Internal Revenue Service, although the numbnuts at the Department of Homeland Security are quickly catching up. Appoint Bachmann as SecTreas and instruct her to clean house, revise the tax code, abolish IRS, and make America prosperous again. To help her do that, we'll appoint--

Herman Cain, Secretary of Commerce.

Cain's record on private sector achievement is unmatched by anyone presently serving in government, and I would dare say, anyone who has ever served in government. The Commerce Department's entire raison d'etre is for the purpose of job creation, sustainment and helping keep the economy healthy and vibrant. Herman is the man for the job.

Secretary of Defense and Veterans Affairs: Congressman Alan West.

The Florida congressman and combat veteran understands the military, the American fighting man and woman, and more importantly, unlike the nimrods inside the Beltway, he understands our enemies. West has been there while hardly any of our present serving disgraces have. John Kerry doesn't count--Purple Hearts that he requested for wounds treated by a band-aid, then coming home to malign the very people he served with should have had him tried for treason and hung by the neck until dead. We need a warrior who's been there, done that leading our Department of Defense. West is the guy.

Secretary of Education and Labor: Mark Levin.

Levin has written two back-to-back New York Times bestsellers about what is wrong with America. He is an absolute Constitutional scholar and outspoken critic of today's educational system. He's also a strong supporter of Hillsdale College which teaches the Constitution.

I propose combining Education with Labor because I see the two as inter-related. Education results in a smarter, better, more affluent labor force and a better product for America. To that end, Secretary Levin would work closely with Secretary Cain.

Levin has no fear of the NEA or any other teachers' unions, is not afraid to step on toes, and doesn't give a damn what the media thinks of him. Give him Education with the instructions of cleaning house, fixing the problem.

Secretary of Agriculture and Energy: Rick Perry.

Perry has already served as Agriculture Commissioner for the State of Texas and Texas' standing in the world of agriculture is unparalleled. When it comes to energy, no one in Washington understands energy better than the Texas governor. In Texas, there is oil, natural gas, wind and solar power and the major universities continue to explore additional forms of energy creation. Why put a Beltway lifer who thinks gas comes from their Exxon credit card in charge of the nation's energy production?

Secretary of Transportation: Chesley Sully Sullenberger.

You know him as one half of the heroic flight crew that safely ditched his French-made Airbus in the Hudson, stayed aboard until all passengers and crew members were safely out, then exited the plane.

Sully is also co-chair of the EAA (Experimental Aircraft Association) Young Eagles program which provides first time small airplane rides to youngsters. Sully is a military veteran and airline captain who has traveled all over the U.S. and the world. Unlike our past appointed SecTransportation jesters, Sully did the driving rather than the riding. He knows what is needed to traverse America, North America and the world. He knows what gets in the way and what helps. Sign him up.

And finally--

Chief of Staff: Sarah Palin.

No explanation needed.

I miss Iraq. I miss my gun. I miss my war.

Yesterday, I talked about my home on the internet, Cast Boolits. I mentioned we have a lot of vets there, from wars ranging back to Korea to the present wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and elsewhere.

One of our members had this piece e-mailed to him.

If you're a vet and reading this, be prepared. It's haunting and it will take you back to your days of innocence that we still futilely search for on occasion.

If you're not a vet, please understand the men and women coming home from Sandland. They've been through a lot. A helluva lot.

Do not categorize them just because some ate sand, were sniped at and saw friends disintegrated by IEDs, and others worked in semi-air-conditioned tents making sure necessary supplies and support got where it was going.

When the shit hits the fan, which is what combat is, there IS only one team--and if the linemen don't block the other guys, then the quarterback and running backs get knocked on their asses.

In combat, that translates into dead. No instant replays. No challenges.

Just dead.

These are the words and thoughts of one such young man. Never have I ever read such a succinct description and soulful pouring of a tortured heart as to what happens to a person.

I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.

A year after coming home from a tour in Iraq, a soldier returns home to find out he left something behind.

By Brian Mockenhaupt

A few months ago, I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news.

I watched insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not meant to be seen, no longer whole.

The images sickened me, but their familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my stomach ached, hollow.

I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this house, in America, my life felt very foreign.

I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could continue, with futures not so uncertain.

But in quiet moments, their relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.

I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I wish they weren't.

Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it. I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us.

At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.

I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had made their lives better, a redemption of sorts.

But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned.

As an American soldier, you have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and helpless.

That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and explosions and manliness and courage.

When my neighbors and I played war as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary, usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game. We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons. In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really no freedom at all, but a lonely burden.

Yet even at its lowest points, war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear them all the same. Something's going down.

For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting.

Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange.

Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.

On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed, or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in the street, creeping.

We stop at intersections, peek around corners, training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter. Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where it's safe. Safer.

The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out, cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.

I salute you, Brian, with every ounce of respect I can muster. Your generation of veterans makes my generation proud, just as we strived to make the generation that trained, nurtured and fought side by side with us proud.

God Bless you, Brian, your comrades and God Bless every single man and woman who stand at the ready to defend us from evil.

Wounded Warrior Project. Guitars For Vets. Lots of groups out there helping veterans like Brian come back to what our generation called "the world."

Like the vets, these organizations don't ask for much, but they give a lot.

Help them out.

We owe our veterans.

Hooyah! Marines urinate on dead Taliban. Obama, Clinton pissed.

Seems the Obama misadministration and the usual legion of cat's reproductive genitalia are moaning and whining over a video of some U.S. Marines urinating the on the three dead bodies of some Afghan enemies--reputed to be Taliban.

My first thought when learning of this was, "Big F***ing Deal." After all, dead terrorists need to be pissed on.

Live terrorists need to be pissed on.

But, as expected, the liberal pacifist factions come howling forth calling for court-martial, investigations, punishment and Hillary Rodham Clinton is tripping all over herself apologizing to the Afghan president, who himself is pissing and moaning over this instance.

Here's my response to the Afghan president. Now, I'm not the secretary of state, but unlike either, or any, Clinton, I served and I'm a veteran and I have every bit as much right to say what I want to these assholes as our ineffective government does.

So here goes:

"Mr. Afghan President, Kiss my ass. Sincerely, An Ordinary American."

Where is the outrage from our stupid-assed secretary of state when IEDs destroy and maim U.S. Marines? Where is the outrage from the chickenshits calling for court-martial and punishment when suicide bombers blow themselves up in the middle of a Marines' barracks?

Liberals hate America. Anything we do to stand up for ourselves, they hate. Liberals were losers when they were kids. They were never picked for athletic teams, nobody gave a damn that they won the sixth-grade spelling bee, and they always sat in folding metal chairs pulling at their putzes on prom night because even the school librarian's daughter wouldn't be seen dancing with them.

Now that they've grown up, the only way they can get attention is to be pacifist losers and "protest" the very men and women who are living and fighting in foreign lands and who have the guts to fight for freedom and liberty, regardless of where it is--when the chickenshit liberals refuse to fight for it right here at home.

Fight for it? Hell they refuse to even support it! They think the government has all the answers.

The comments at the end of the story in the Washington ComPost are most telling of all. An awful lot of posers writing in, claiming to be vets. Maybe so, but my bet is IF they even served, they were REMFs of the worst order.

That is, IF they even served. . . which I find highly doubtful.

And to the Marines that pissed on the dead Taliban? I raise my soft-drink glass tonight in your honor, and when the alarm rings this morning and I have to head to the bathroom for the usual morning mechanics, I'll be thinking of you guys urinating on those dead pieces of terrorist crap.

I think I'll have an extra glass of water before I go to bed.

Semper Fi.

Where our freedom comes from.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,
HE LIVED ALL ALONE,
IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF
PLASTER AND STONE.

I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY
WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,
AND TO SEE JUST WHO
IN THIS HOME DID LIVE.

I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,
A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,
NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,
NOT EVEN A TREE.

NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,
JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,
ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES
OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.

WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,
AWARDS OF ALL KINDS,
A SOBER THOUGHT
CAME THROUGH MY MIND.

FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,
IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,
I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,
ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,
SILENT, ALONE,
CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR
IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.

THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,
THE ROOM IN SUCH DISORDER,
NOT HOW I PICTURED
A UNITED STATES SOLDIER.

WAS THIS THE HERO
OF WHOM I'D JUST READ?
CURLED UP ON A PONCHO,
THE FLOOR FOR A BED?

I REALIZED THE FAMILIES
THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,
OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS
WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.

SOON ROUND THE WORLD,
THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,
AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE
A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.

THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM
EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,
BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS,
LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.

I COULDN'T HELP WONDER
HOW MANY LAY ALONE,
ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE
IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.

THE VERY THOUGHT
BROUGHT A TEAR TO MY EYE,
I DROPPED TO MY KNEES
AND STARTED TO CRY.

THE SOLDIER AWAKENED
AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE,
'SANTA DON'T CRY,
THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;

I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,
I DON'T ASK FOR MORE,
MY LIFE IS MY GOD,
MY! COUNTRY, MY CORPS.'

THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER
AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,
I COULDN'T CONTROL IT,
I CONTINUED TO WEEP.

I WEPT FOR HOURS,
SO SILENT AND STILL
AND WE BOTH SHIVERED
FROM THE COLD NIGHT'S CHILL.

I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE
ON THAT COLD, DARK, NIGHT,
THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOR
SO WILLING TO FIGHT.

THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,
WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,
WHISPERED, 'CARRY ON SANTA,
IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE.'

ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,
AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.
'MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,!
AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.'

Soldier pawns Purple Heart to pay bills.

A soldier on leave from Afghanistan has bills. More bills than he has money to pay them.

Kind of like Congress.

Except unlike the overwhelming majority of cowards in Congress, the Senate and the White House, this man has the guts to lace up a pair of combat boots and place himself in harm's way for his country.

He comes home for the holidays and has to pay bills. That lavish salary the military pays him only goes so far. So he pawns one of his Purple Hearts to help meet his obligations, because meeting obligations is part of being a soldier. Dodging obligations is part of being a politician.

And so now his decoration, awarded to him for being wounded in the line of duty and service to his nation, sits in a pawn shop. The owner has been inundated with offers to help this young man.

Read the story.

First off, I'm glad the owner of the pawn shop stated he has no intention of selling the vet's medal, and instead has it tucked away for whenever the veteran repays the loan.

However, not sure the veteran may be able to scrap up the money to ever repay the loan.

Our commander-in-chief just finished berating Congress, and the nation, for not hurrying up and passing his fraud of a "payroll tax cut extension" and even went so far as to solicit hard-luck "What the extra $40 means to me" stories from around the blue states.

Then he takes off for a four-million dollar vacation to Hawaii, and a soldier has to pawn his Purple Heart in order to make ends meet--for bills accrued while he was away fighting and bleeding for freedom.

The CEO of Walgreens received a 36% salary increase, plus another huge stock options bonus while the employees, according to shareholder information received on average throughout the company, less than a 1.3% raise, while their healthcare benefits package costs increased over 10% and deductibles doubled and tripled.

Two weeks ago, this same CEO sent out an internal memo to his field vice presidents that he wants 25% increased production from all employees. What an asshole.

Reminds me of when our president berated us, Americans, for being "lazy." Another asshole.

Something is very wrong in this country right now. Very wrong.

It's wrong because we, as a nation of sheep, continue to put up with it.

Wounded soldiers pawning medals born of their own blood to pay bills. CEOs pushing for exorbitant raises and bonuses, earned straight from the wallets of their employees.

Something is very wrong.