by OPOVV, ©2016

(Dec. 3, 2016) — “Who’s the Sergeant of the Guard tonight?”


“Not again.”

“He ain’t so bad. Could be worse.”

“Yeah, like how?”

“Like you could get promoted and act like, eh, well, act like Kelly, okay?”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe we look for the bad guys and shoot them, what do you think of that?”

“I like it, just as I like our soon-to-be Secretary of Defense.  I just hope he has veto power over the Chiefs of Staff’s stupid ROEs. Maybe we’ll have a fighting chance to win, finally.”

“You sound like Trump.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And so you should.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And look what the cat dragged in.”

“Enough. Since I didn’t hear any rounds going off I take it that all the bad guys are still alive and kicking.”

“You got it, Sergeant of the Guard.”

“You know what, Ewert? I’m writing a special delivery note to Santa asking that you get someone just like you when you get to be the Sergeant of the Guard. Look alive.”

“And goodbye to you, too. You going to sneak up on us in 30 minutes?”

“Just do your job.”

“For real, or just make-believe? If for real, then see that group over there? Then I get to shoot them all, don’t I? But since we’re in Obama’s make-believe war, we get to watch them plant the roadside bomb so we can all go home maimed, isn’t that right? Guard duty? Don’t make me laugh.”


“No, it’s not enough, not by a country mile. What in the heck are we doing in this godforsaken place? Are we bringing them democracy? What, they’re going to let little girls go to school to learn how to read and write? They’re going to let women vote? You know what this place is? I look around and see thousands of birds and each one of them has a broken wing.

“I’ll tell you what they do: they let them burn alive, just like they did when that school burned in Saudi Arabia and the firemen didn’t let them out of the burning building because the girls didn’t have a male relative waiting outside to ‘escort’ them home. Hogwash, and I use the word in a pejorative manner; nothing against pigs, you understand.”

“Got it. Well, look, let’s try this. Nichols, do you think you could hit that backpack they’re about to bury?”

“Piece of cake, Sarge.”

“Then do it. Let’s pretend that we’re giving them a little bit of Trump for Christmas, because if anybody deserves it, it would be that group over there.”

“Ho ho ho: we won, you lost.”

“A Broken Wing”



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