Just got my hillbilly freeloadin' ass back from my quarterly check-up at the gene Taylor VA Hospital in Mt. Vernon, Missouri, and all is well apparently, so, much to Rmoney's dismay, my hillbilly freeloadin' ass should be around chiselin' my check-ups through Barack's second and hopefully Hillary's second as well.
Being a bit of a history buff I go out of my way to talk to the other
freeloaders Vets I run into there. Mitt would be horrified by the expense incurred by some of their experiences. I don't think Mittster or his punk litter could ever, even in their worst fevered fear of taxes nightmares, imagine the tricks these contemptible bums used to misappropriate their lavish healthcare dependencies.
In the little meditation garden out front of the hospital sat Art (names fictitious) in his jean jacket on this cool near-autumn early morning, with a "WW II Veteran" ball-cap warming his pate. I had a few minutes to spare before my lab appointment so I sat beside him and thanked him for his service. Art had left the Ozarks, having first secured his wife and 2 children in his parents' home, at 23 years old to join the Air Force. He served as a nose gunner on B-24 Liberators and flew many missions over Germany and some over Romania. Had at least a dozen of his close friends in his squadron killed. In fact I looked it up a few minutes ago, and Mitt would feel relieved to know that 7,000 of Art's compatriots never made it back from the war to suck up healthcare on his tax dime. I asked Art why he enlisted as having two kids probably would have earned him an exemption. He said that in 1942, watching kids just out of High School going to war, he couldn't stay out, though his wife begged him not to go. Finally, when I could no longer stand being in the company of this old idler any longer I thanked him again for his service and went into the clinic.
More below the swirling orange representation of Mitt's tax money going down the drain...
I checked in at the second floor desk and strolled down the hall to the lab and took a number and a chair. Seated across from me was a big man a few years younger than Art. His black ball-cap had "Korea" stitched into it in gold with a Purple Heart below. "Bill" had joined the Marines in the Spring of 1950 and got out of infantry training just in time to muster into the 7th Marine Division and live through the hell that was the battle of the Chosin Reservoir. "Bill" was luckier than many, he admitted, at least he lived through the battle, though he lost three toes to frostbite and the hearing in one ear from a close ordinance explosion. Over 4,500 men were wounded at Chosin, no doubt adding a ton to Mitt and Daddy George's tax bills over the years. But lucky for them over 1,000 soilders and Marines were killed outright and so required no further expense than a hole in the ground and a widow's pension. I thanked "Bill" for his service when the nurse called me in for my blood draw.... on Mitts tab, of course.
Next I went to the waiting room for team 4.
There I met "Roger", a 65 year old Viet Vet who'd just got his first Social Security Check a few days ago. Great, a double dipping parasite. His SSI check had come up in the conversation because I was curious what kind of work he did, seeing that his left arm ended just below the bicep and was replaced by a prosthesis. Turns out he dispatched eighteen wheelers for most of the years since his return from 'Nam, after training himself how to write with his left hand. I got called in to see the Doc before discussing his injury, and he was probably relieved that he didn't have to tell the story again. I thanked him for his service and he offered the stainless steel hook for a handshake... something I could tell by his grin that he'd done many times before. Damned cocky little pilferer...
My own service is rather poor when compared with that of these three men. I spent five of the best years of my life in the Navy from 1975-1980. I lived a three year Idyll patrolling the Mediterranean Sea on a guided missile cruiser playing gotcha with Soviet AGIs and their noisy diesel subs. Stood a lot of Mid-watches with my eyes glued to the radar scope or keeping a DRT track. Got lit up by a Soviet fire control radar off the coast of Yemen. A lot of my service consisted of trying to drink all the Cabernet in Campania and getting bounced from bars in Barcelona. But at any time I could have been involved in an accident like befell the U.S.S. Belknap and so become a burden on Poor Mitt's pocket book. For my five years of service I reckon I earned about $30,000 or about one three thousandth of what Rmoney and his Merry band of Bainsters grafted out of one sweet steal mill bust out. Compared with the three men I met today my service was a stop in a candy shop. And I met these men in just one morning, in just one of the over 1700 VA facilities nationwide. How it must pain asshole to know that the 13 or 14% he pays in taxes helps to fund the healthcare of these great Americans who saw their duty to their country as much more than getting their Daddy elected President.
Mittster is just lucky this Navy Vet has never won "Despot For A Day" or I would have every last one of his quarter billion bucks poured into the VA and I would present "Roger" with a new generation prosthesis if he'd have it. I would turn his fucking ski Chalet into a rehab center for our returning wounded vets and put his brats to work cleaning their bathrooms until they understood that "service" is more than a punchline in a stump speech.
I hope that when this G$#D!@*$! election is over that Friggin' Mitt and his whole smarmy brood crawl back into what ever hole they oozed out of never again to denigrate these brave they could learn honor from, the poor whom might might teach them a bit of compassion or any of the other less fortunates who litter and despoil their happy hunting grounds....