“A Report On Congress – Not That One! This Congress Actually Has Done Things!”

Prepared wholly by the alleged Richwrapper, former Lance Private Emeritus of The Lost Sons of Bitches out to Cumshaw everything while performing do’s of daring and dones of dement.  Ambassador Extraunordinary and Minister Pleni-pooptential, commanded for the purpose of telling tattles on a gathering of Soldiers, Airmen, Squids Zoomies and Marines at their temporary Field Hospital of West End (Dispensary) Trading Company beer-n-spirits house located on the East End of Sanford, Florida, USA (also known as Snaffurd by me and Bokey by many others who benefited from a Gullah-derived education.

First off: The Squid Showed. Not.  After no debate whatsoever,  Grand Marshall Underarmed, Major Private (brevet) Tom E. Szabo declared Left Admiral Edward L. Kosky Absent.  He may plead his case of With- or Without- at the nearest slop chute or failing that Tell Micky why – or why not – he chose to join the ranks of Canadians hiding from Their Country’s Draft (this time of year!) in our soiled southern climes, to wit: Second-Lieutenant General Otto Garrett, who may be excused as it is well known among Snaffurdidians (or -didnotians) he has to ask kind strangers for six or seven extra hands to find his weak-assed butt.  Which explains his constant stare into the impending sunsets wondering where The Yellow Went.  Otto! There were even more of us willing to wield SeaBats upon your stooped frame than had wanted to post Ex-Fleet Admiral now Seaman Ninth Class Wing Wiper Eddie The K to perpetual Mail Buoy Lookout.

Even notorious Events Dodger Extraordinaire Benny Van Winkle, meritoriously promoted to Civilian Seventh Class after having carefully negotiated the First Law of Helicopters: watch the eggbeater blades, dummy, getting smacked by one is sure to smart (for the parts left on, that is!).  Staff Colonel Van Winkle, attired in a artful dress of red and yellow extolling the virtues of Marine Corps “Fling Wing” Aviation – such a loud tee shirt! promptly went off script and had six lovely formerly full pieces of beer beside his svelte and we’re-glad-to-have-him full frame this side o’ the dirt.  He and Assistant Commandant Szabo compared lies ’bout their butts and suggested the rest of the ignoring crowd of well-dippers go out promptly and buy a half-load of interest, compassion and just plain sympathy, stead of trying to sing out in several off-keys: “Sympathy may be found, dear lost brother-in-arm(s) between two better words in the famous book by Messer Webster: shit and syphilis. Benny broke three Cardinal – ok, one cardinal, one arch-bishop and one bell-ringer – Rule: One, Quit Smiling: This Is SerriAss;  Two, Quit Frowning: Didja See What Just Walked Past?; and, Three: Do Not Molest The Coke (Zero or Diet? Forgot to look!) Head in the booth behind us: that’s Secretary of Offense John Hawkins, resting a few bones before calling each of us aside to review our shameful habits and continued lack of grace and charm.  His rampaging good humor and lack of snarl caused some on the committee concern. And I can not blame them.  Just wish they were our committee.  But the lawyer says Johnny Boy should be released by St. Martin’s Day Next.  Or was that Matins?

No one needs have told the outrages and general asocial antics of The Commandless in Chefs Butch West.  That hog he rode in on had spur-marks and the twisty thingee on top had a brake release unreleased on its quad-rubberband rotor-actuators since no one thought to bring forth a bowl of cracked eggs so the Good Door Gunner With Some Peers and a few without Pears managed to stay upright through three whole quaffs before falling the entourage out from under the Dispensary’s many overhead signs saying, essentially: Don’t look Up: You’ll Spoil The Look AT The Funeral for some medium-slow order drill.  Lifers. What can you do but humor the In Glorious Bastid?  Not much.  So we appointed him Chief Label Inspector Corporal and handed him the whistle which says Do Not Blow.  Butch thrives on challenges: like hanging out with a buncha LeatherTurds.

Your faithful correspondent, I, have no serious injuries to report.  We’re all too old seriously to damage the exchecquer and too used to at least a pittance of liberty – if She Allows! – to want to eat bad bologna sammiches Saturdays and Sundays courtesy Uncle Seminole.  As the only free-standing holder of The Crippled Crutch I declined the honor to serve as Sergeant of the Corporal’s Guard assigned ask why.  And I fully renounce and reject Chairman West’s assertion and Politburo Premier Szabo’s assertion that it is I who still am the blame for this mess.  Au Contraire (sp?) my messmates: this is all Ed Kosky’s fault.

The Fault, Ed, is not in your stars – or scrambled eggs – but in our collective – nice buncha communists, we, no? – judgement that since you were not there to defend yourself, thus, you are it!  Tag!

A special addendum:  For the Life of Me, I failed to include in personally insulting invites two former Active Duty Marines of whom I hold a special fondness.  Henry June, of Sanford, and I first met within the walls of Gunnery Sergeant Richard (Dick) DeVasto’s humble recruit-catcher stand in June of 1967.  I said it would be “neat” to go to boot camp with another Sanford Guy.  Little did I know I was going to be with a different Sanford Guy at Parris Island: C. J. “Jimmy” Clements. He was my fourth squad leader and it wasn’t ’till boot camp was ’bout over that I found out he was from Sanford, too.  What Gunury Sharjhant DeVasto did was to switch my leaving Sanford for PI date from with Henry’s date to mid-September.  No excuse, Henry.  I never said squat.  I have theories and excuses aplenty but the missed play-date with Lance General June remains one of the few regrets I have o’ wearing The Green Pickle Suit. The strain of having to take the hits for my wayward and wonton self well may have strained the relationship retarded-Staff Sergeant of The Admiral’s Honor Guard at Naples, Italy, must rankle. Jimmy’s brother told me he still muttered about standing in front of Sergeant Bonjiorno’s rapid-fire solar plexus punches – that felled neither of us was his only on-going blemish to a well-deserved meritorious Private First Class-hood.  The other uninvitee: another encounter at PISC.  Sometime in my third or fifth week or so a guy standing his weeklong Mess&Maintenance Duty after the rifle range, stared and stage-whispered across the breakfast serving line: “J Richards,” he said: “WhatTheF$#k you doing here?” I later heard Sidney Hawkins had a trying time during Tet of ’68.   I wish all three gennulmuns well and hope one day they will take the degradation under advisement and decide to attend one of our irregular soirees as well. Also in dis-attendance: Fred Woods and George “Peanut” Arnold.  Edgar Jobe as well.  Firing Squads have been detailed.

‘Scuse: I have to get back into my spider hole now: I hear a platoon of Women Marines just having graduated Officers’ Infantry Platoon-Leaders Skool passing by on the next trail. Thass Right! Boyoos! The Marine Crotch finally has yielded: WM ossifers may now take – and surely they will pass, no? – Infantry Platoon Leaders School. I wonder if Quantico – the place, the dirt and the trees and the mud and the bees – know?