SPITTER
By Uber Pig, Section Diaries
I bet you were one of those flower-power kids nancying around up at SFO, spitting on the grunts as soon as they stepped off charter planes back from The `Nam. One of those too-clever rebels who burned his draft card with a shit-eating grin and then spent his grad-student years skipping showers, slinking around the system, acting all self-righteous and shit. Well so what if The 'Nam was a bad idea, fancy pants? Maybe you should've gone anyway, taken your chances. Then you could've bitched about it later like all the poor kids. And don't give me that old red whine about how The `Nam was an immoral war. You could've headed North to Canada and DX'ed your citizenship. Or you could've gone into the slam, paid a price for what you believed in. That's what Ghandi would've done.
But not you eh, Spitter? No way were you spending time as the new fish in some minimum-security koi pond. Not the clever little piggy. Not by the ball-hairs slapping up against your chinny-chin-chin. Truth is, you spat on those soldiers because it was easier than spitting on yourself. What do the psychoanalysts call that -- Transference? Projection? Cognitive dissonance? Because we call it being a fucking traitor. Spitter. Did you know that some of those soldiers had been knee-deep in the rice-paddy-shit less than 72 hours before? That they were told by their First Sergeants to swallow their pride and to not fight back? That those swallowers were ordered not to dishonor their uniforms by beating you on TV? Yeah, you probably did. Uncle Sam handed Joe a shit sandwich, sure, even we'll agree with that. But it was the hey-spike-yeah-spikes like you who really did the job on him. You're the one who forced him to take that second bite. You're the ones who massaged his throat until he choked it all down.
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