Neanderpundit

I’m sure all the moontards will be up in arms- but I have to tell you, watching Al Zarqawi get 500 lb bombed to Allah has pleased me no end. After yesterday, which was a 17 hour clusterfuck (more later: that’s a rant that might need a whole weekend to compose)waking up to the death of this assclown is gonna make it a beautiful day.

Think about the box of albums in the basement. You know, the one covered up by a pile of rags so the wife doesn’t accidentally stumble onto it. The box with the Lionel Ritchie album. The Hall & Oates album. What were you thinking? Clay Aikin? What in the HELL were you thinking? Dan Fogelburg? Foghat? What the FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?

Pull a chunk of spoiled meat out of the trash and slap yourself around with it a little.

Now think about the mailboy. The one who pushes the little cart all around the building delivering people’s mail. The one who wears his pants nice and tight so all the girls can get a god look at his package. Even though his package would shame a medium sized chipmunk. What was he thinking? And Sue, in Marketing, who calls the building maintenance man four times a week in to her office to change the location of pictures so she can watch him stretch those big, tattooed biceps up over his head while she rides her stapler until her chair is soaked. What was she thinking?

As you go through your day, think about all the people who have deserved that ceremonial slap in the face, and realize that as much as you’d like to deliver it personally, for the time being, leave that punishment to The Lord.

of course he’s gonna be busy with Zarqawi for a couple weeks. There’s a guy needs some industrial strength bitchslapping.

62 years ago, My uncle, Calvin Wyatt, was scratching his way across Omaha beach. As far as I can determine, he was not in the first wave- I believe he was in the 116th Infantry, from what information I was able to gather. Probably why he survived the war. He didn’t talk much about it. He talked instead about his fears, saw the homes and farms of the people of France and thought about his home and farm. Thought about how easy it would be for us to be attacked on our own soil. Thought about the horrors of war.

Calvin dragged his rifle and pack, wet and nasty, across that beach, up those hills. Waded through a tide of blood. Bodies and body parts. Omaha beach was a meat grinder, and he saw it with his own eyes.

Calvin was 20 when he hit the beach. Wiry and tough. A kid, who had his whole world ahead. Less than a year earlier he had stepped out of the county where he was born for the first time. Now,he’s setting foot on the european continent for the first time, bullets whizzing, mortars going off. He survived. He made it through.

There were other fights, no doubt. There were other moments of fear, but I imagine none so harsh as that moment on Omaha beach when he jumped out of that Higgins boat.

In Normandy, in a foxhole, on his 21st birthday, October 19, he caught mortar shrapnel in his right arm, which shredded him. And put him out of the action, once and for all.

Medicine in wartime france wasn’t much to speak of. They managed to put some of the pieces together. He lost the elbow permanently, and never bent that arm again, it ended up at a permanent slight angle. And it caused him some pain for the rest of his life.
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