Most of the country calls it fall but in southwestern Minnesota we only have two seasons.  Right now we’re in the waning days of “Winter’s Coming,” staring into the icy blue eyes of “Winter’s Here.”  Harvest will start any day now, one farmer will start harvesting his soybeans and then everyone else will have to start.  The first guy gets into the field and it’s like blood in the water for a school of sharks.  We made another 20 gallons of tomato juice on Sunday, that’s around 90 gallons for the year.  A pretty light schedule, there were weekends last year that we made that much.  It was a rough year for tomatoes but we’ve got enough to get through the winter.  Onions, jalapenos, habaneros, the second crop of radishes…  The harvest is here, fat times and celebrations of the same, does Thanksgiving ring a bell?  A time our white supremacist ancestors set aside to thank their native born neighbors and share the bounty of their harvest, remember?  White privilege to the max, those poor triggered indians.

Each batch of tomato juice requires 44lbs of tomatoes, 4lbs of onions (white onions are preferred, of course,) a shitload of jalapenos, a smattering of habeneros, a bunch and a half of cilantro and a few family secrets I’m sworn to keep.  My son (30) blanches the tomatoes, I peel, my Mom mixes all the secret ingredients, my son’s wife helps out where needed and my Dad supervises the entire operation and runs the juicer.  My granddaughter gives the tomato’s their first squishing and follows her Great-Grandmother like a puppy.  It’s a really great day of family and back-breaking labor.  That sound like a strange combination but to me its the “shared hardship and danger” that kept me so happy in the Paratroopers for so long.  These are fat days, feast days that should be made the most of.  While we were making the most of our bountiful harvest the communist fags in the NFL did their best to rain on our parade.  We don’t waste our time watching the NFL much anymore, we’ve already been pushed away, Kapernick was the last straw but seeing communists and idiots praised in the media for kicking me in the balls is a real downer.  It sent me to the dark places in my soul.  I don’t like being there anymore, I lived in them for years, they’re warm and comfortable like a poncho liner on a crispy night.  The dark places are where the prayer from Vassar’s “By an Angel’s Kiss” posts feels warm and cuddly like a dimly remembered teddy bear.

“I’m asking You God, to give me what You have left.
Give me those things which others never ask of You.
I don’t ask You for rest, or tranquility.
Not that of the spirit, the body, or the mind.
I don’t ask You for wealth, or success, or even health.
All those things are asked of You so much Lord,
that you can’t have any left to give.
Give me instead Lord what You have left.
Give me what others don’t want.
I want uncertainty and doubt.
I want torment and battle.
And I ask that You give them to me now and forever Lord,
so I can be sure to always have them,
because I won’t always have the strength to ask again.
But give me also the courage, the energy,
and the spirit to face them.
I ask You these things Lord,
because I can’t ask them of myself.”

Brevet-Lieutenant Andre Zirnheld

The dark places feel ljust like the “Honky Tonk Hustla’s”…

Don’t go siccin’ the VA suicide squad on me, they won’t call till three weeks from Friday and I’m not suicidal anyway; but that’s how the dark places feel, dark anger and rage against… something, it really doesn’t matter what.  That’s what the courage, strength and energy are for.

For 20 odd years I stood at Attention and Present Arms at 0630 when the loudspeakers played Reveille and the Flag went up.  On those odd days all the planets would align and I would be able to stop my car in the middle of the road at 1730 when they played To The Colors and Retreat and the Flag came down.  Stop the car, get out, face the Flag, if visible, or face the music if not.  Stand at Parade Rest during To The Colors then assume the Position of Attention and render a Hand Salute during Retreat; forcing every lackadaisical turd behind me to do the same thing.  They’d have pretended not to hear it if I hadn’t stopped and I could feel their stares recharging my batteries with their petty vitriol, it was like high-test to my NCO engines.  Misfits, malcontents and ne’er-do-wells, each and every one.  On those occasions when I am on-post these days I like to sit up till they play Taps.  It’s normally at 1100 so I wander outside in the dark chill of night to smoke and wait.  Then those heartbreaking tones echo across the still night and I remember all those whose shoulders I stand upon.

My wife and I were on the boardwalk in Santa Cruz CA one fine pacific day.  We’d ridden through Big Sur on the coastal highway past Monetery and on north to the Boardwalk.  We were enjoying each-other’s company and a fine meal when an elderly gentleman and what I imagined to be his grandson and the grandson’s wife sat at the table next to us.  Grandpa was wearing a 100th Division Veteran’s hat.  The 100th Infantry Division was part of Patton’s 7th Army in December of 1944.  When Patton disengaged three Divisions from combat, turned 180 degrees and moved through blinding blizzards for three days to relieve the 101st Division at Bastogne, the 100th Division spread out and covered the other three Division’s territory.  One division did the work of four till the Battle of the Bulge was done.  It wasn’t fun or pretty.  I didn’t eavesdrop but I could tell there were a couple “wahr stories” being told.  I was recently returned from Afghanistan where BG Vogel had given me an 82nd Division coin and said “thank you.”  It was the coin I carried in my wallet, you know, just in case.  After we paid for our meal I stepped over to grandpa’s table, held my coin-laden hand out for a hand shake, “I like your hat, Sir,” I said.  “They gave me this in Afghanistan and told me thank you, I think you deserve my Thank You. Sir.”  There were tears in both our eyes when he noticed the weight of the coin in his hand and looked down.  I took that opportunity to step away before I started crying like a little girl.  I’m certain the tears were the result of an errant squirt of lemon juice aimed at my seafood.  We were on the Boardwalk, remember?  Paratroopers don’t cry.  Nor do White Supremacists.

I was a wet behind the ears buck sergeant when three old guys came into our barracks at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii showing us where the bullet holes from the Japanese in 1941 were.  My God, to be in the presence of heroes!  It was like meeting Achilles or Odysseus.

I was leaving the barracks once on Ft Bragg, 1/325th AIR (Airborne Infantry Regiment.)  A late night after a hard day during All-American Week when all the old vet’s come home to roost like swallows to Capistrano.  Four elderly gentlemen were just coming up the stairs into the barracks.  “We’re lookin’ for the 325!” they exclaim.  I said “You’ve fund the right place!” and helped them carry copious amounts of alcohol up to my Paratrooper’s barracks.  They loved to ask the kids how many jumps they had.  The starry-eyed Privates would answer ten or twelve or what-ever and the grizzled old tipsy vets would answer “hell! I only got four.  Sicily, Salerno, Normandy and Holland.”  The Privates eyes would open like saucers when they realized those were the four combat jumps The Division made in WWII.  I know a lot of the shoulders I stand upon.

Then, right in the middle of our wonderful Sunday harvest, the NFL comes and pisses all over our weekend and all over the shoulders I stand upon.  You know, The Army promised me I’d get to kill some communists.  We sang about it every morning, “if I die on the russian front, bury me with a russian (gr)unt!”  They never delivered on that promise but it’s still on my bucket list.

So, the one bright spot I could glean from the day was a photo of CPT (RET) Villanueva, hand over heart honoring our Flag while the rest of his team hid like bitches from the controversy.  God Forbid they stand the fuck up for America like I spent my life doing.  Hell no, hide like bitches, shaking and crying for a safe place.  You know, like we used to hide in Fallujah when I was a member of 1/505 PIR (Parachute Infantry Regiment.)  If I was to describe the Steeler’s Coach militarily, I’d say he had “sand in his pussy and an abysmal lack of intestinal fortitude.”  I must admit, when I read the article that informed of Villanueva’s rank as a Commissioned Officer I was slightly aghast.  Commissioned officers are prone to ticket punching, sucking-up and even forming the rear half of the centaur and maintaining 24/7 lip-to-spinctner contact with their boss.  I just shrugged that off as one of my Non-commissioned Officer’s biases.  I am a white supremacist after-all.

Imagine my surprise when I saw CPT Villa-gina on his knees with his best “suck-start a harley” eyes a flutterin’, putting a polish on his coach’s and #BLM’s knob.  You better hope for Fiddler’s Green, CPT Villa-gina, Odin won’t take you in Valhalla without testosterone, bummer, I won’t get to drink with you.  Odin don’t give two two-shits about your earthly medals, didn’t John “Winter Soldier” Kerry get a bronze star?  Thank God you weren’t enlisted.  I still have my respectability.

Thank you President Trump for showing more and more Americans who the swamp creatures are.  Here’s a little more angry white music from the dark places…

 

 

 

nessa
Retired Paratrooper, Biker, Tattoo Artist