american short-timer - in the clutches of the great cause of the day

n the clutches of the great cause of the day
Dying for the cause, is how they're selling it. Dying for The Cause. Goddamned crap. Dying from a cause is what it is. For the rest, you do what you gotta to do get through the day.

When I joined it was just something to do. A chance to go the other way. I joined cause I was nineteen. I knew it all, is how I felt when I was nineteen. Now I know I don't know jackshit about anything and don't bother askin' cause that's exactly what I'm gonna tell you: I dunno. The older I get the less I know and I feel better off for it too. I see the real dumbed out dipshits and they strike me as perfectly happy so that's something to aspire to: ignorance. When's the last time you saw a retard beating himself over the head because he couldn't figure shit out. My point 'xactly

Guys these days join for The Cause and seem perfectly happy to do so. And every now and then I'll steal a toke from the shit they're smoking but somehow it has no effect. Lifers, all they blather about all the livelong DAY is The Cause and the grandness of it all and the historic relevance of this shit and the honor of service and serving and servitude and serfdom and shut-the-fuck UP shit rolls downhill private and no one asked for your goddamned opinion you have no rights private. HONOR. Is what they call it in the same breath. Honor. They throw that word around a lot over here. Like shamanism. Rubbing the rabbit's foot. Like sayin' it more will make it true, somehow.

Be the widget. In the machine. The happy little well-oiled widget somewhere down in the dark innards of the thing. A small, but VITAL part of the whole. And be proud of your little part. Proud little widget. Part of the greater whole. The grander whole. All us widgets, serving the great causes of our time. Shut up and widget on they say. Shut the FUCK up and be proud of your little part you goddamned lowly little sad whiny widget you. Yeah..

Like barnacles, sucking at the underbelly of the whale and pretending we are the emperors of the ocean, making waves, and history. Riding the great underbelly of the grandest beast of the seas at this splendid moment in time, this grand event, this rising.

"Ours is not to reason why..." they shoot back. A throwback to feudalism and landed serfs and our duty as lowly lowly low ones to muster unquestioningly behind some noble fucking turd on a horse who knows more than the bunch-a-us combined, supposedly. THAT's the best they can do. Is all I do all the livelong day. Reason why. You should see the fucking SMOKE pour outta the ears of the goddamned sarges around here when I go on a bender. Why? Why? WHY? WHYYYYYY?

.. go pick up a rifle and go fight for a cause. Better yet, go die for a cause. Something meaningful. Like bringing 'Mocracy to goat herders. At gun point. Better yet, come pick up MY rifle and have it. I'm waiting, WAITING, I tell you for someone to take my shit so I can haul ass outta this fucker. Come be the widget. Be the barnacle riding that magnificent whale belly. Be Napoleanic froth on his rise to greatness, and a bronze statue at a traffic circle. Have at it.

american short-timer


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