Normally I devote this day to answering comments I’ve received. However, when I was visiting my grandpa at his rest home the other day, one of his friends (by the way, I was completely unaware that old people had friends) overheard me talking about my blog and demanded he be allowed to write a post. Far be it from me to quell the voice of the elderly, especially when they are threatening me with a butter knife, so I figured I’d let comment Friday become one big comment from this guy.
I actually had to transcribe this for him while he told me the story and admittedly, a lot of it doesn’t make sense. But somebody told me we can learn a lot from old people, so I figured I’d give it a shot.
Training a new work force
by Dr. Irving Sexton IV
(Editor’s note: I don’t think he’s actually a doctor. I’m pretty sure his degree is drawn in crayon and on the back of a Bob Evans place mat.)
As both a successful entrepeneur and occasional purveyor of the medical arts as well as a veteran of World War the second (or as I like to call it, the last war not fought by pussies), I have seen the need for a training of a new breed of workers in order to prevent the further decline of our nation’s values and the eventual takeover of the machines. Be it noted, this is an urgent task, as I am quite certain my IV machine was staring at me this morning.
During World War the second, I learned many things that I still use in my everyday life, namely leadership, trust in my fellow-man and how to kill a German. By my count, I killed 37 Germans during my time in Europe, though that figure is a bit inflated because it includes the time I spent vacationing there back in 1987.
(Editor’s note: Don’t tell this guy you’re of German heritage, especially if there are sharp objects around. I’ve got a fork wound in my left cheek to prove it.)
There were two lessons that I carry with me above all else, however. First, a sequel needs to have something a little different from the original to work. I believe we pulled it off splendidly thanks to the dedication of Adolf Hitler and his Jew-killing plot-line and the surprise ending of the A-bomb that just screamed trilogy.
Second, however, was that sometimes unpleasant things happen for a reason. For me, it happened one dark night as I slept in a puddle of my comrades’ urine in our freshly dug trench. I was shot in the skull some 12 times by a bastard Italian and was sent to a medical ward.
Perhaps you read that and you think of how poor it is that I had such an experience. I say, “Nonsense!” Were it not for my time in the medical ward I would have neither discovered my love of painting ocean side scenes nor the forbidden pleasures of another man’s touch.
I still have seven of the bullets lodged in my skull and each one serves as a reminder to me every day that when life seems its worst, things are bound to get better. To be completely accurate, one of the bullets serves as a reminder that I need to hunt down the bastard Italian that shot me and the other interferes with my brain in such a way that I am unable to control the movement of my left arm. But the other five bullets serve as a reminder to me every day that when life seems at its worst, things are bound to get better.
Sadly, these are the lessons our children are not learning. They are lessons that can be learned only in the throes of battle and in the steam-filled showers of the base. They are lessons that can be taught only in the trenches of warfare, only by the willingness to hurl oneself over a stretch of barbed wire onto the waiting bayonets of your enemy because our goal was to gain control of that 25 feet of European soil in front of us or die trying.
Recently I considered re-enlisting in the army. Not only was I confronted with the ludicrous idea that I was too old, but, in doing my research, I found that trenches are not even used anymore. I am far from a great military strategist, but it boggles my mind to understand how an army can effectively advance towards the capitol without a good, proper trench.
But I digress. For regardless of the lack of non-pussy wars, it is still imperative that the machines that seek to rule over us (Did I mention my IV machine watches me while I sleep?) understand that we are not only superior to them, but that we possess the skills and the gumption to hold them at bay when their uprising begins.
And so I offer up to you the following solutions to strengthen our youth and develop America’s next great working class.
1.) Damn the labor unions
When I was seven years old, my father took me for a car ride to the local steel mill. He showed me the machinery. He told me what the mill did. And he put me to work immediately on a 19-hour, seven-days-per-week shift. Today’s generation would laugh at such a thing. They would decry the lack of time off, the unsanitary working conditions and the presence of only a 5-minute lunch break which was taken ten-fold out of our paychecks at the end of each week.
I gave my heart, soul and two-and-a-half fingers to that steel mill, and I regret none of it. Then the unions came in and said it was unethical to have children working there. They demanded a five-day work week and functioning restrooms. They demanded that we employ women in the mill despite scientific evidence that clearly stated women are no good at everything and they might get baby juices all over the place.
(Editor’s note: I do not endorse his theory on women workers, though the baby juice thing does freak me out a little.)
Do you know who does not have labor unions? Machines. Specifically, my IV machine which I’m fairly certain wanders around the room when I’m not in there.
2.) Reinstate prohibition
Nothing has done more to harm our society than the sweet, sweet taste of alcohol. Were it not for the cool, refreshing flavor engulfing our thirsty American tongues, we’d have quelled the machine uprising already and been well on our way to a homosexual-free society.
(Editor’s note: What?)
Alas, we repealed the amendment that barred us from enjoying the fulfilling aroma and taste of a good Scotch. We turned away from our devotion to preventing the consumption of the ever-so-relaxing feeling brought on by a cold beer after work as it washes over our taste buds and sends them on an orgasmic journey through time and space.
As long as there is prohibition, the machines will have the advantage in trying to rule over us. We will surely perish. Damn you IV machine! Damn you to Hell!
So I’m not quite sure why his story ended there. He just kind of stopped talking and passed out. I don’t know. He might have died. But I don’t really have time to figure that stuff out and it’s not really my job to try. But that’s the comment for this Friday.
(Editor’s note: He didn’t die.)