Sticking It to The Military-Athletic Complex

The military-athletic complex is a pain in my NFL-watching butt. I detest the ginormous flag rollouts that precede most games, the stupid camouflage gear that coaches wear on the sidelines, the fan-boy announcers kissing camouflage backsides and waxing all moist over “our brave fighting men and women who keep us safe,” the staged reunions between some jug-eared soldier and his “surprised” wife, who’s probably been Doing the Doughboy Shuffle in his absence.

Hate it, hate it, hate it. All of it. I especially hate the fact that the Department of Defense buys off the NFL with taxpayers’ dollars (5.4 million of ‘em between 2011-14) in order to inflict these whole-cloth spectacles upon us.

Perhaps it was this long-festering hatred that led to the scene in a Starbucks parking lot a few weeks ago. The parking lot, as usual, was short two or three spaces. I waited while some woman, who was driving a van that was several sizes too big for her, attempted to back out of a space to my left. I eased my car back a skosh to give her more room as she was aiming her van’s rear end and hers in my direction, and I didn’t want that mess landing in my face.

Just as she was finally pulling away and I was about to turn into her space, a white Mazda Miata coming from the opposite direction shot into the space. I had seen this little pussy car pull into the lot as the woman was lumbering her way out of her spot, and I had clearly signaled to the Miata my intention to occupy that spot next.

Out of the Miata came a tall, narrow, white-haired old gent in a racing cap, tweed sport coat, and khakis.

“Why’d you take my space?” I screamed. “Didn’t you see me signaling, damnit?”

 “I just didn’t see you.”

I was about to yell, “Open your eyes next time, you stupid exhaust wipe,” when I noticed the veteran’s license plate on the silly white Miata.

“Are you a veteran?” I demanded.

He drew himself up to his full height, smiled proudly, and (I swear) looked as if he was about to snap off a spiffy salute. He was really quite pathetic and more than a little sad looking, but that didn’t stop me.

“You people think you’re entitled to anything you want,” I yelled as the smile slid off his face. “Stupid exhaust wipe.”

I drove away. He walked away. It was a small victory to be sure, but the next time I watch some dipstick Marine and his delivery-boy-loving wife “reunited” during halftime of a NFL game, I’ll think of the pathetic old coot in the Starbucks lot and smile.

If the unhinged ramblings of our fearless editor in briefs tickle your brainstem, wander over to our Satirical Commentary and snort a line or two.