Here it is,  the twenty-third of September in the year of our Lord two-thousand and thirteen, anniversary of not only the birth of that glorious man, Jonn o’er This ain’t Hell way, and my sorely missed friend, CSM Chris Raines (God rest his soul, miss him), but also the creation of the Victory Girls. Yeah, happy birthday to us, minions!

Now, it is a magnificent 70-ish degrees and raining this lovely morn, and as I stare out these double glass doors into this concrete jungle filled with the assertion of every male doctor’s manhood, I think very little could improve upon this day.

But I didn’t say nothing could.

My day would be exponentially improved if our country didn’t have a weak-assed walking vagina for a President, one who actually gave a fat rat monkey’s ass about those who have volunteered to defend it (and him). You know, a Commander in Chief whose idea of a successful Saturday evening was ensuring at all costs the safety of our country’s citizens in harm’s way, not eating filet of soulless celebutante instead, right before sending all of our birthday money to terrorist organizations. I bet he even put it in a real card instead of on a store-specific gift card like stingy aunts do.

On the other hand, I would most assuredly settle for elected leaders who understood that their positions were temporary, ones who didn’t neatly fold their spines into tiny origami swans and do the exact opposite of what those who hired them desired. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Mr. Cheeto-colored Speaker.

Perhaps, though, I should not be so greedy and just ask instead for a broom. Yes, I think I would simply like for not only the Victory girls to receive brooms, but everyone else as well. There’s some serious filth that nneds to be cleaned out in our once-glorious country, and it’s time to get started.