Shattered Solider Enjoys flashbacks. “Vietnam is my fucking Epcot Center, Man.”

Kids today are fucking pussies. When I sit in the dark at night, drinking my beer and watching TV, I get disgusted. All this talk about people coming home from Iraq traumatized and shit, saying they still hear gunfire and screams. All I gotta say to that is that you kids are softer than the spot where my crotch used to be after it gangrened and rotted off from shrapnel fire.

Back in my day, men were men, and boys were old enough to be considered men. I mean, yeah I’m glad the military has now lowered the enlistment age to 12, but still! What’s everybody talking about that they had such a horrible time in Iraq? I had a blast in Vietnam. And I’m not just referring to that minefield I lost the vision in my left eye in, either.

Don’t you understand that war is a beautiful she-bitch of a fat mama? And the best part is I still get photographic flashbacks reminding me of how good times were. They’re like renting movies at Blockbusters without standing in line next to some fat jerk-off who smells like QuarterPounders and Gummy Bears. Sometimes, I even have flashbacks at the office, and it’s like riding on a monorail at Epcot Center for me.

It could be Monday morning, and I could be swamped in paper work, and just one loud noise from the copy machine and BAM! There I go into the jungle. The flashbacks begin to kick in and I go from being swamped in paperwork to being swamped in the Nang River. Good times. Good times.

And hearing that gunfire in my head is like listening to ocean waves on the beach. Ratatatatatata! I could listen to that sound all day and go to sleep hearing that serenading song. My wife can’t, though, but that’s what the couch is for—for her to sleep on! Hoorah! You thought I was gonna go somewhere else with that, didn’t you? Git ‘R Done!

Aw, shit, just thinking about killing some of them gooks out there in the jungle gets me all horny in ways the doctor says is no longer possible now that my penis is made of aluminum siding.

And then there are the Vietnamese prostitutes you get to remembering. I wish there was a word for when you kiss your forefingers and thumb to exclaim how great something is, not that I could do that anyway, though. Not after I lost my two fingers when they were burned off when one of the boys in my company was using a fucking flame thrower to light his cigarettes. Fucking knucklehead. I’m glad he died in my crossfire. Bam bam bam bam bam! He wasn’t pretty no more.

When I can no longer do two in the pink, one in the stink, that’s when I get angry. And that’s when my trigger finger goes blasty. Kaboom!

So, all I gotta say is this. To all you Iraq returnees, stop yer complaining, get back on the battlefield and play your missing arms and legs like a guitar if it makes you feel any better, you wuss. And if it doesn’t, all you gotta do is wait until phantom limb kicks in, and it’ll be like you never even lost them in the first place. Honest.

War can be fun. So stop acting like it’s the worst thing that could ever happen to you. I mean seriously, have you ever watched “Two and a Half Men”? After watching that dung pile, you’ll see there are much worse things than being impotent for the rest of your life. Trust me. So go on, make America proud, son.

Jimmy Faulbucket, Former Infantryman, current mailman