Sick of the phoney/misplaced "concern for our troops."
By Reluctant Civvy
Concern should mean that you want what the troops want.
You have to be either totally ignorant of what the warrior class is all about (honor, duty, victory) or you have to be a liar, if you back up demands for troop limits with "concern for our troops." That's bullshit. Anyone who truly understands our troops knows that our guys want nothing but to be victorious. They don't want civvies coddling them, telling them it's time to come home. "Now sit down and be safe and have a nice cup of hot cocoa, and don't do anything courageous." Screw that. Warriors want us civvies to give 'em scope to do what they do: defend the innocent, kill bad guys, take care of us. And anybody who really cares about our guys will help them achieve their destiny, not protect them from it. When I'm driving, listening to the news on the radio, and I hear about a helo that's gone down with five guys on board, I get so angry I punch the steering wheel with my fists and curse the scum who brought the SAM in country and the bastards who launched it. I don't know those warriors who checked out that day, but I don't need to -- they were my compatriots and my defenders. And your brothers. I'm terribly concerned about all of my deployed compatriots, but I'm not so self-centered, so short of empathy, to want to call them back. I want what they want, I want them to be victorious, because I'm deeply concerned.
Tags: (all tags)
Sick of the phoney/misplaced "concern for our troops." | 0 comments (0 topical, 0 editorial, 0 hidden)
Powered By: TrackBackr |
All stories and comments here at Enlisted Swine are owned and copyrighted by their authors. If you find something they wrote offensive, that's probably because you're a useless fucking hippie. In which case the year is now 2006. You no longer have any business wearing tie-dyed shirts, or listening to Buffalo Springfield 8-tracks, or sleeping in your hot-boxed VW bus. The world has moved on. Jerry Garcia is dead. So go back to bed, sniff that comforting pillow-smell-melange of forty years of weed and your own dried urine, shut your eyes, and relax into that dream starring you and naked Barbarella. It will all be over soon.