Gosh, we’ve made it through another of our revered holidays of Memorial Day, and good old Fox “News” and most of the rest of the TV “newscasters” have happily bedecked themselves in Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Old Glory, and gobs of pseudo patriotism. Beautiful! It almost makes one tear up.
Quite naturally, that dear lad, The Donald, was not to be outdone by a bunch of his erstwhile detractors. Good old Fox had footage of him at a Veterans’ gathering spouting about how he’ll take care of our Vets. He even charged that the current Administration takes care of illegal immigrants better than they do the Vets. Then, this morning Fox, solidly in the Trumpf camp now, put him on to tout his philanthropic bona fides. He listed off all the veterans organizations that are recipients of that much discussed six million. We guess you could call this paying up in lieu of service time. Back when agent orange became infamous in ‘Nam, he fought through a few college deferments, and finally got a 4F from his draft board (seems it was bone spurs on his tootsies).
Both Demoblican and Republicrat politicians, having voted a while back to cut the funding of the Veterans Administration, spent the day extolling their support for our veterans, and bashing the VA for long wait times.
Gee, and the King of Beers, now owned by InBev, a Belgian outfit, is changing the name to “America,” and adding E Pluribus Unum and a big US on it’s cans of suds for the remainder of this whacky election cycle.
All this phony/baloney patriotism is enough to gag a maggot!
As we enjoy our cookouts, after having taken advantage of all those wonderful Memorial Day sales, maybe we can take a moment to reflect on what our battered old country could, should, and on rare occasions did represent:
The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus
“Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Come on pappy, we’re outa’ here.