Bile XXXII, Post-OIF II Bile

I got back from Iraq in September of 2004, and put up a few volumes. This one is my favorite from that period. Any who wish to receive other archived copies should leave a comment, and I'll send them directly to you. Now, without further ado...

• It's all about endings and beginnings, sports fans. I shit you not. There is inevitably something that often goes missing in our daily lives, which is commonly so fundamental, that we don't even notice it when it runs out under the crack in the door. Think about it.
  
  Tomorrow, as you go about your lives, many of you who are unmotivated by your job, your car, your house, whatever...you have probably lost touch with something that was there before that did motivate you. It just kinda went away and you can't really pinpoint the exact time that it left. Ever wonder how that happens?
  
  I do. I think about that shit constantly. How exactly do we come to take for granted those things which we treasure above all things? One who isn't as familiar as we are with human nature might think it illogical. But for some reason, shit like that is as constant as the changing seasons. You get in a groove, the groove becomes a rut, the rut takes you places where you'd rather not be, you become miserable and want to just chuck it all in and do something else. Where did the groove go? Huh? It's still there somewhere. It truly is.
  
  Trick is, it ain't gonna find you. It is up to you to find the groove. To reclaim that place that seems so fucking righteous.
  
  I recognized its passing. I felt its loss. But, I knew where it was.
  
  I knew how to get there. It took me awhile, but today I found that fucker...
  
  LUUUCCIEEE! I'M HOOOMMMMME.
  
  It's kinda like that first hit of single malt on Friday night...
  It's
  BILE
  Vol. XXXII
  Talkin'bout my Discrimination, The European Libertarian Nightmare, and why you should trust large, intrusive gubmint.
  
  1) "I'm weak, cry for me. Just don't make me carry anything heavy." Earlier today, St. Michael of Ann Arbor tried to kill me. Yep, Laura has been instructed to sue him for wrongful death when I fucking stroke out in front of the computer. Ya see, he sent me a buncha shit, most of which I'll dutifully talk about in a minute, which was cleverly designed to cause me to throw my coffee cup at my XO and curse at my computer, and thus entice me to come home with the bit in my teeth and write this shit. Meanwhile, my blood pressure reached levels previously thought impossible by modern medicine, and the ringing in my ears reached a level that was unprecedented, even taking into account my relative presence to explosions larger than 50k NEW and my steady intake of inhuman amounts of coffee and nicotine. While I banged my head on my keyboard in response to Mike's untoward attempts on my life, I also offended my erstwhile Wolverine by expressing discrimination against those who might be calorically challenged. I achieved target lock. He's right. I am a discriminating bastard. Bigoted. What follows is a list of those individuals whom I discriminate against:
  - I discriminate against those who can't do what they claim they can do. (Bullshitters)
  - I discriminate against those who can't follow simple fucking directions. (Incompetent motherfuckers)
  - I discriminate against those who take credit for achievements they did not contribute to. (Lying Careerist Assholes)
  - I discriminate against those who cannot adhere to simple rules of logic. (Dipshits and/or Stupid motherfuckers)
  - I discriminate against those who refuse to take responsibility for their actions. (Assholes)
  - I discriminate against those who seek to make themselves better by bringing down better, more talented men. (Weak Cocksuckers/Bullying motherfuckers)
  - I discriminate against those who try to replace the end with the means. (Bureaucratic Parasites)
  
  Should I be found wanting by those who sit in judgment for the above propensities, so be it. I feel that, at this point in my professional and personal life, things like this must be said...must be shouted. Else we as Marines end up like all the rest of the branches: a buncha incorporated assholes trying to justify our existence.
  
  The great thing about being a Marine is that our existence is justified every fucking day. We don't need to dream up a PR scam. We have been somewhere on this green Earth for the past 229 years kicking the living shit outta some wog or other for the betterment of the Republic. EveryGoddamnday. Projecting our interests, our influence, our ideal. We may not conform to this newfangled idea of treating our men like summer campers. We may actually demand that the people who swear an oath to the Republic in joining our particular service Branch conform themselves to the traditions that made us who we are. We might actually be INSENSITIVE [gasp] and UNCARING [wheeze] to the plight of those presented with special problems. We don't fucking care. Sorry, not our job. That's why there is a Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) to help weed out those not mentally or physically able to accept the challenges of doing what it is that we do (not that they catch all the unsuitable fuckers that I have to discharge...sorry, another story). What is it that we do, you may ask? We shoot fuckers who need shooting. In the face, when possible. Twice, when necessary. As General Mattis says: "It's a hoot". Semper Fidelis. Pray that you don't see me in a Human Resources department near you...
  
  2) "Today in England, John Locke spins free of his grave. Film at 11"
  This is what Mike tried to kill me with today. This folks, is what happens when you don't have a constitution that is very fucking specific about the relative duties of all the governing bodies. This is why each of you should beat anybody who proclaims to you, or your children (for the love of Christ) that the Constitution is a "flexible and living document". Nuh-Uh. It ain't flexible. It's definitive. It sez it all right there. All we gotta do is follow the fucking directions. Any questions? Read the fucking document. Thank you. Else we end up like this:
  
  [CNN.com]"Dog owners in Turin [Italy] will be fined up to $650 if they don't walk their pets at least three times a day, under a new law from the city's council.
  People will also be banned from dyeing their pets' fur or 'any form of animal mutilation' for merely aesthetic motives such as docking dogs' tails, under the law about to be passed in the northern Italian city.
  'In Turin it will be illegal to turn one's dog into a ridiculous fluffy toy,' the city's La Stampa daily reported.
  Italians can already be fined up to 10,000 euros and spend a year in prison if found guilty of torturing or abandoning their pets, but Turin's new rules go into much greater detail.
  Dogs may be led for walks by people on bicycles, the rules say, 'but not in a way that would tire the animal too much.'"
  Wholeeefucking shit! If that wasn't intrusive enough, check this motherfucker out:
  [From "National Geographic KIDS" (for the love of God)]"People in Reggio Emilia, a town in central Italy, must pamper their pets or pay a fine of up to 500 euros (about U.S. $600) according to a new law. Dog owners are required to provide roomy doghouses, and owners of a single canary or parakeet must buy a second bird so their pets won't get lonely, according to the law. And you won't find pets sporting racing stripes in Reggio Emilia. Citizens there may no longer dye their pets' fur."
  Would somebody explain to me, for the love of all that is holy, when domesticated animals began to share equal rights as family members? C'mon now. Few things here:
  1) What if I like to dye my neighbor's cat day-glo orange? The cat can't tell. It's a fucking cat. What? Does the thing go to a bar and get laughed at by other cats? No! Nobody cares but people, and apparently people in Italy are less concerned about protecting their right to do whatever it is they want with their property than they are with oddly colored domesticated animals.
  2) What if my neighbor's cat wants to be day-glo orange (which would actually be pretty convenient, to tell the truth)? Who would know? Who would care?
  3) By what fucking right, ever conceived by anybody who has ever spent more than six seconds thinking about political philosophy does a governing body start telling me that: a) I can't conform to centuries of traditional animal husbandry by cropping the ears and tails of puppies to make them better able to move around the house without bloodying their ears/tails on the corners and walls of the house; b) I must walk my pet three times a fucking day. I challenge those fat fuckers to identify any 24 hour period where they themselves have walked at least three times; c) There is a fucking zoning code for housepets?! Their homes must be roomy, and any single birds must have a friend? Whaaa? How 'bout Joel, my oldest? Do I have to import a young Philippino woman to befriend him? Where does it end?
  
  Kids, stay away from Italy. I may bitch about the slippery slope that the Republic seems to be on, but this shit makes me glad to be exactly where I am. Thank God for Locke, for the Idea. Thank God for Jefferson, for codifying that Idea. Thank God for Madison for the sanity check. Thank God for Washington, for kicking the shit outta them Limey Bastards.
  
  3) Epilogue
  Gentlemen, as I said in the early part of this missive, life is indeed about perspective. Kazman calls "perspective" the second most sublime word in the language, second only to "fellatio". I am inclined, (as I am in most cases where Kaz has managed to shower and change underwear sometime in the past two days,) to agree with his logic. That being said, I am very happy to report that a young man began his young career as a baseball player last Thursday. Daniel, my youngest son, came to bat twice in his first organized baseball game. In those two at-bats, he made contact with any flying object in his zip code. Therefore, despite the fact that my eleven year-old daughter pitches better than the 30-something coach who has been appointed to do so, Daniel James Adams started his "baseball life" with two stand-up doubles, and scored twice as well--showing his genes by running through two consecutive stop signs by the third base coach. His happiness at achieving the seemingly simple task of reaching base and, subsequently, scoring safely brought new meaning to the seemingly mundane shit that I do in preparation for going back and doing the things that I have worked so hard to perfect. It's the joy of practicing something to a fine point, and then executing it successfully...when it matters. Because training is about the execution of a task, not the result. Daniel reminded me that if you can stay fixated on the execution long enough, the result is a foregone conclusion.
  
  Brothers, just execute the plays as they come to you...
  
  
  Rally round the family...with a pocketful of shells,
  Unclean
  
  (Mike, I hope you're taking notes on this parenthood shit.)