YOU PEE FOR ME, MARINE
You pee for us all, Marine.
This has to do with the video that popped up yesterday. It’s 40 seconds, and it shows four Marines standing above the bodies of some dead Taliban.
Peeing on them.
“Have a great day, buddy,” one of the Marines says to the corpse at his feet.
America is at war with militant Islam. In Afghanistan, the Taliban is militant Islam. In Afghanistan, the Taliban gave refuge and support to Al Qaeda as it prepared the attacks of September 11. In Afghanistan, the Taliban works around the clock to put American servicemen in their graves.
The Taliban is the bad guys.
And the United States Marines are the good guys.
And this is much ado about nothing.
Because the brass are crapping their pants.
“This is egregious, disgusting behavior,” said Pentagon spokesman Capt. John Kirby. “It turned my stomach.”
Kirby’s branch of the service is not listed, but I’m guessing it’s Girl Scouts.
It turned his stomach?
We are a nation at war. We’ve had thousands of Americans die. We’ve brought hundreds of thousands home with losses of limb and mind, and THIS turns his stomach?
That’s not exactly a warrior spirit.
And it makes you wish that men like those urinating Marines were running this operation.
But they are not.
And they will be crucified.
Because our military establishment specializes in throwing young GIs under the bus. Any number of desk jockeys and political generals are glad to backstab as many warriors as they can. In the White House and at the Pentagon, the god of political correctness is fed with the frequent sacrifice of young soldiers’ careers.
You send people to war, but heaven help them if they act like it. Hamstrung by Marquis of Queensbury rules in a bar fight with savages, our GIs are attacked by enemy fighters on one side and government lawyers on the other.
It’s a funny game where no one has their back.
Except the American people.
Which gets me back to my point.
You pee for us all, Marine.
That group of Camp Lejeune snipers is condemned by the political generals, but embraced by the American people.
Because that’s what you get when you screw with the United States of America. You get a bullet through the brainpan, and we’re going to line up to spit on the pieces.
Unless we have a full bladder.
And show the YouTube far and wide, as a warning to your pals. This is what it means to mess with America. The pantywaists in the Pentagon might want to win your hearts and minds, but the men pulling the triggers want to snap your freaking necks.
And some 310 million real Americans feel the same way. Mess with the best, die like the rest. The sooner the better, the more the merrier, and don’t be surprised if it’s not holy water you get sprinkled with.
Real people aren’t bothered by this.
Real people believe this is how war should be fought.
Real people think that we’ve pussyfooted around long enough, it’s time to make the rubble bounce. Pull the B52s out of the barn and let’s light those mo-fos up.
And real people are sick and tired of the feigned indignation coming out of the Pentagon and White House. Life is not group therapy and war is not run by “Robert's Rules of Order.” War is where you kill people and break the will of a society.
War is where you make the other guy cry “Uncle.”
Ask the people of Hiroshima and Dresden.
Or Atlanta, for that matter.
You attack the United States and you die. You die ugly. There are only two sure winners – us and the maggots. And any people, nation or religion that can’t stand that heat should stay the hell out of the kitchen.
So if you don’t want to be blown to bits and pieces, and pissed on by fine examples of American manhood, then you better stay home with mama. You better lay off the jihad. You better learn some manners and mind your Ps and Qs.
Because Lady Liberty is shaking her fist.
And that’s not just some words in a song.
That’s our pledge.
We’re going to kill you, and we’re going to cheer the men who do it.
And the rest of you goat-bearded savages better shake in your sandals, because those Marines pee for us.
And they’re coming for you next.
- by Bob Lonsberry © 2012