Sgt. Dickface Carter barked at the sheepish newly-delivered recruit, “You are shit, you have always been shit. Your olfactorial repugnance, turd-like demeanor, and general flush-worthiness is unlikely to change during our brief interlude.” Private Nutsinavice hung his head low and silently accepted the verbal tirade (and testosterone-fueled military caste assignment) ushered forth by the commonly accepted governmental authority figure. Everybody knows you don’t mess with the Sarge (remember what happened to that pole-smoker Gomer Pyle on TV?)
Private Nutsinavice was a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. A decade later it wouldn’t have mattered that he took a year off high school to get his head together before pursuing his collegiate studies. Being the typical rock music listening, pot-smoking, horny-ass teenager, Joey wanted to forestall the inevitable onslaught of the murderous adult psychopathy for as long as he could manage. But as shit luck would have it, Joey’s number came up in the draft. The “Live at 5” lottery shuffle (and his corporeal fate) had been pronounced by the evil American Eichmanns who decide these things in private smoke-filled rooms devoid of pesky democratic input.
Joey had heard about the Yippies, the draft card burners, the Canadian dodgers, and had ingested enough cannabis to temporarily open his neurosomatic circuit (propelling him into multi-dimensional space far and away from the barking patriarchal dogs of war and chaos). However, Joey still had both feet in the anachronistic reality-tunnel of his patriotically jingoistic minders. His high school chum Barney (an emerging far-right Bircher) used to fuck with his headspace by railing on the commies, the red dinks, and other perceived threats to the privileged White male power structure. According to Barney, it was their patriotic duty to salvage the shining shitty on the hill on the account of divine providence (or some other nonsensical rambling he had regurgitated from the pages of the National Review).
It would be a few years before Womyn were guaranteed the right to personal liberty and bodily autonomy in Roe v. Wade. Didn’t history clearly demonstrate that young men were to be the cannon fodder employed to guarantee the survival of the state? What would Joey’s parents, grandparents, friends, and neighbors think if he tucked his cowardly anti-patriotic tail between his legs and let other men fight in his place? In quiet desperation, Joey silently wished that this shit will be over before he takes a loaded M-16 into the jungle and is violently ushered into the abyss in the name of the doomed-to-fail, corporate/military, domino theory death trap.
After Joey packed his bags for boot camp, he fired up one last spliff for the road. His mind detoured into a fantastic post-modern realm where stuffy old bourbon-drinking bastards did not have the authority to earmark a human into involuntary servitude for the sole purpose of spilling another man’s blood in furtherance of a never-ending, murderous, map-carving agenda. Just as the sacred plant’s teachings were being integrated into Joey’s semi-conscious state, the alarm clock jolted him into the reality of the next moment. Joey boarded the bus in the cold morning air and joined the sons of sacrifice for the military-industrial occult ritual in the orient. You might find Private Joey Nutsinavice’s name carved in granite on a wall at these coordinates (38° 53′ 28″ N, 77° 2′ 52″ W) in North America.
“Vietnam was the first war ever fought without any censorship. Without censorship, things can get terribly confused in the public mind.” ~ General William C. Westmoreland