DISCLAIMER: People love to say asinine things. I love to say asinine things, too. Sometimes these asinine things are offensive. And to me? That’s funny. If you get offended to the point where it isn’t funny anymore? Go away. It’s bound to get worse.
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Monday was Labor Day. I hope yours was awesome. Mine was pretty neato, despite it being calm. Call me No-Drink Jaebo, if you want. In either case, with Labor Day just passed, two things have happened in the New Jersey.
1. Schools just opened.
2. Veterans are hanging around every supermarket and convenience store with their little jars and fake poppies for you to… um… throw away after you get them.
The first fact I don’t give a crap about. Kids going back to school is something I think they should have done all summer long. ADULTS deserve three months off. Not kids. Kids deserve to be stuck in school year round for eleven years. then when they turn seventeen, either they go to college, or they get a job. If they do neither, we hit them with a car. (Don’t worry, I only hate kids when they aren’t mine and I’m in the mood to hate them for all the wonderful things they get that I don’t get anymore… I have a feeling this idea will change when I finally have my own to… love… and coddle… and whatever. But bitterness of non-youth aside…)
The second fact is what amuses me. You see, under normal circumstances, I also hate old people (and we’re definitely bound to see my reasonings for that as we go along). But these old people are the only exception. I love veterans because they fought the good fight that allows me to bitch and moan on the internet without some government official scouring my every word and forcing me to be PC about everything. These veterans are a blessing to society, and everything they have done makes me proud to be called an American, my brown skintone be damned.
As Americans we watch TV shows where little kids say the darnedest things, but I’m here to tell you, people of America, it’s these old fuckers that say the really awesome stuff. So here we go:
Wawa, somewhere in New Jersey. September 8. 12:35pm.
This little old guy was sitting there basically just watching people drop their remaining change from their sandwich orders into his jar, and saying “bless you” and handing out these little cloth red flowers that really don’t look like flowers, but more like a black piece of plastic on a green stick with a red piece of fabric in an oblong oval cut out and jammed in between. On the “stem” is a piece of paper that says something about the nearby Veteran’s Hall, and how it’s been around since the dawn of man or something.
My dad is a veteran. He served in Vietnam, and he was one of the lucky ones to have never seen heavy combat. But Vietnam was a “fake war” because we never actually declared it. Hundreds of men died for this folly, and our government’s inability to stop thumping its chest. But because of that, I respect the armed forces for the things they have had to do over these years, and the fights they’ve run into on behalf of the idiots in the white house, who tout that “we” have fought these wars, when they were hiding in their bunkers. Assholes.
Anyway… back to the matter at hand. Wawa. Little old dude in uniform with fake poppies. Here we go.
I come back out holding my chocolate “fReal” milkshake and my roast beef and cheddar half sub with lettuce, tomatoes, white onion, mayo and light vinegar. You didn’t need to know that, but now I made you hungry. And that’s cool. I put my hand in my pocket and drop a five dollar bill into the jar.
“Five bucks? Most people just toss in pocket change, kid.” The old man suddenly blurts out.
“My dad is a veteran.” I reply.
“Really, now? What war?”
“Vietnam.”
“Shit. They sent a lot of boys to die in that shit stain.” He replied. “Five bucks gets a prayer for your old man, what’s his name?”
I said his name, and started on my way as a curly blonde lady in her late forties came out of the shop, dropping in a few clinking coins.
“YOU COULD REALLY LEARN SOMETHING FROM THIS SPICATOON RIGHT HERE!” The old man blurts out. “HE’S JUST A KID AND HE DROPPED IN FIVE BUCKS!”
Now, before we go on, note that he just called me a spic. Oh, America.
The lady, turning an awesome shade of pink that I don’t think they made a crayon for yet (get on it, Crayola!), looks directly at me, and with an angry look on her face searches her purse for a dollar. Like I somehow forced her to get a dollar out.
I can’t wait until she’s sixty-five and I can bundle her into my hatred for normal old people. But I figured I would share this nugget of awesomeness with you, the people.
Give money to veterans. Assholes.
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