So you’re probably memorializing things this weekend, right? I Googled Memorial Day and, thank Jesus, the first result was the Wikipedia page. Otherwise I usually get lost.
According to Wikipedia, “Memorial Day is a US federal holiday wherein the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces are remembered.” All weekend you’re going to sit around and just remember your granddad, or great-uncle, or maybe your neighbor’s cousin who died of a heart attack while serving as a clerk in Iraq, right? I know that’s not true.
If you’re like any of the other baby dickweeds I’ve got working for me, you’re going to go out and get so blind drunk this weekend, you’ll be hungover until Independence Day. You’re going to wake up Monday morning – that sweet extra morning without an alarm clock – with a stranger or two’s hands in your pants. That stranger’s breath will probably smell pretty bad, too.
You won’t be remembering that my dad fought in World War II, where he successfully defended his bunker from an onslaught of Nazis. Fifteen wounded men counted on him to survive, and all he had was a knife with some bullets. He tossed the bullets in the air and hit them just on the sweet spot to fire at his enemies, according to him. But you didn’t know my dad.
I remember Vietnam. I remember specifically not going. My number was called towards the end, so I high-tailed it across Lake Erie and made my way to the sweet, green reserves of rural Canada. I’m not dying in some jungle so that capitalism can triumph over communism or whatever doctrine some leader believes in. Hell, saying the pledge of allegiance makes me nervous.
What will I be doing over the weekend with my extra day off? Hopefully getting blind drunk with the interns and waking up with a stranger’s hand in my pants.
Maybe this year I’ll tell them I’m a Vietnam vet.