Memorial Day

Konichiwa, bitches...

I've aways liked Memorial Day Weekend. It normally has been the weekend where I got together with a few of my old military mates and shot the shit about who did what and how good we looked doing it back in the day when we wore a uniform for our power drunk uncle.

You've seen that before. Yeah, those days.

Yeah man, that is always the shit. Every year, I'd find some unlucky som' bitch (or group of som' bitches) that'll have a beer or twelve with me and pay tribute to the fallen and talk a gang of shit, but this year is a first that I'm not hanging out with the Cold Steel Crew. No ceremonies, no alcohol-influenced tales from the land of sand, no fibbing about maxing one's PT test. It's just me, writhing in pain and periodically losing consciousness due to the medications I'm popping for some staph infection I picked up last fall (thanks to Doc Rod of the Houston VA for the extra work and this important info). Seems that I got infected (probably while in Salt Lake City while utilizing my former trucking company's facilities, maybe from the facility in Chicago where I did my rehab. WAIT... The children's hospital I volunteered from September to January...) while receiving treatment for my torn rotator cuff.

It's cool. I'm pretty bad ass on this one. Just lay around, play a little solitaire, fiddle with my PDA, surf the net a little bit when I'm awake and diddle with the tracks Al and I did a few months ago. I'm keeping busy enough to wanna blank out for a few hours and still have enough energy to go and slave for big oil's stanking ass next week. Sleep is the new black. It looks good on me.

I don't miss the fellas that much, but I wish I could have done something with em this weekend. Every year it seems that someone gets dead or divorced or something, so I hope to hell things stay the same for any impromptu reunions we have in the near future.

I hope you remember that cousin or uncle, your brother, father or son. Your sister, Ma Dukes, husband, wife or auntie that either has served or who are currently serving somewhere in between bites of them tender-ass ribs. Lick your fingers, put em together and say a prayer and thank them for doing the impossible.

Because freedom ain't free y'all. Somebody has to pay so you can get your 'que on.

Time for another nap... With y'all stankin' barbecuing asses