More sad wingnuts
You got a chickenhawk on your back, boy.
This is from Tbogg
Armed with axe handles and pockets full of nickels for the slots, the 101st Fighting Keyboarders, Wolverine division, descends upon Sin City.
It starts out quite innocently. One night you're reading The Killer Angels in bed and you notice you feel a little tingly down "below deck". You nudge your girlfriend, but she's got her eyes closed real tight as she pretends to sleep while trying to figure out if she should tell you that she wants to see other people or that she has just discovered that she is a lesbian and, "no", you can't watch. Next thing you know, you've got your buddies coming over for all night Risk games, but eventually they drift away, get married, have families, have lives.
Now you start hitting the hard stuff: warblogging. Hours spent condensing the combined wisdom of Sun Tzu, Victor Davis Hanson, Carl von Clausewitz, and Tom Clancy into brilliant 13,000-word posts. But you find you can't sleep at night because you want to be the first to shout "huzzah" when Mark Steyn puts up another column about the rise of the Islamojihadidhimmifarians and how Europeans, and by extension, Americans aren't making enough white babies to stem the primitive brownish horde. But it's not enough. Your posts go unheeded or worse, they are linked to by the reality-based rabble who laugh, yes they laugh!, at the feints and thrusts of your mighty sword without realizing that you can save their lives If. They. Would. Only. Listen.
...and maybe hit your tip jar, once in awhile.
With so much passion and so much testosterone coursing through your body, that little vein in you forehead is starting to look like a speedbump and you ask yourself: How can I get them to listen to me?
They know not what they know not, which I know, but they know not that I know it. (Sure it sounds like babbling but read it slowly).
And then one day, you find out that the people who don't take you seriously are going to be meeting in Las Vegas (that heathen city full of loose women and looser slots) in June and one of your acolytes formulates a plan:
Jeff, I have 2 words for you: Oh yeah. Let the four-hour erection commence.
tw: ever, as in best idea...
Picture a couple dozen of us, with axe handles in tow, dropping by to say hello. It would be like an Alaskan seal hunt.
It’s a damn shame I won’t be there until the July.
You know, I did most of that shit, still play wargames, have a bookcase full of history books, but I drew radically different conclusions.
Hubris Sonic and were kicking this around yesterday morning, well, evening on his end.
As you know, he is a former SF NCO, not the only former operator here, but the one I know the longest. He mentions his service when it comes up, or when I ask. We were discussing something entitrely different, when I wrote this:
Nah, they think it's a game, that they chose not to join Special Forces or SEALS because they had higher brain power. But they imagine that they are the most asskickingest people ever. That they think Carroll, who is amazingly brave and composed, was a wimp because she didn't challenge them every day. The idea that she remained levelheaded and saved her life is way, way beyond them.
Its not hate, it's an inflated self-image. Just like Domenech has no clue his selling a Marine Sniper cup is deeply offensive. It's no different than my friend who went to UNC rooting for Duke (yeah, I know, but that's common in NC). They literally think what they're doing now, is akin to what you did as a teenager. They actually believe debating me is the same as going on patrol in Ramadi. And they are encouraged by asshats like Victor Davis Hanson and Max Boot. They think they are saving the west from Islamofascists, which is why they freak when we tell them to enlist. They're more important than soldiers.
This idea that they're manly men and the liberals are scared pussies seems to be a mantra in the GOP and wingnut circles. I've never met as many vets as I have since I've started this site, and I grew up surrounded by vets.
Yearly Kos comes near graduation time, and Jen is going on vacation, so we'll probably miss it, but the idea that some pasty faced white boys could just roll up there and start kicking ass is amusing. And sad. These guys don't get it: violence is a shitty way to solve anything. And these guys have never seen a real fight, with real fucked up people and blood everywhere. Once you do, you never want to see it again.
Which is why I despise Max Boot and Hanson and respect Bill Lind, Tony Cordesman and the folks at Soldiers for the Truth. I may not agree with everything they say, but they talk like adults for adults.
I never mentioned this to anyone besides Jen, because I didn't want to brag, but when I was raising money, I got a donation in cash from Abu Ghraib. In Iraq. Talk about being floored?
I was gobsmacked. I still have it, the donation and the letter it came in.
What that said to me was that people actually serving respected my opinion. Which was remarkable. I guess because I don't mistake what they do with what I do. This is not the same as walking point in Ramadi. It will never be. But the fighting keyboardists don't get it.
When I was in college, Robert Conquest wrote a book about what would happen if the Soviets invaded. For a couple of weeks, as I wandered around the 8th Street B. Dalton, I imagined what I would do. Then I snapped the fuck out of it. Didn't mention it to anyone, didn't write about it, it just sat in my head. Then I realized that was bullshit and it needed to stop.
These guys don't want to admit that they are just spouting out the same old lines you get online and it isn't even all that interesting.
They don't even know what bravery is. Some of the bravest people in Iraq, who may never get a medal, are teenagers who move the wounded around. The medics, the orderlies in places like Balad and onto the aircraft. Why? Because no matter what they see, they cannot react. If you're an infantryman, and your best friend is wounded, you can cry, scream whatever. That 19 year old orderly doesn't have the training of the nurses and doctors, but has to maintain his or her calm in the face of utter horror. They have to be brave for themselves and the wounded.
In the fantasy world of Max Boot, those people are a footnote. To Hanson, they don't exist. But in reality, they are real miracle workers. You don't see doctors in a hospital more than once or twice a day, you see a nurse every few hours. But the people who bring you food and clean you up, those people can keep you going.
And they're the one who will pay a fearful price for their service. The nightmares, the PTSD, the substance abuse are visited hard on these people. But since they don't get made into figurines and they aren't in Battlefield 2, they don't count for these people.
Let these assclowns see violence for real and they'll cry like babies and shit themselves
posted by Steve @ 12:15:00 AM