Book Series – Drafted – Chapter Ten

Book Series – Drafted – Chapter Ten

Tex strolled into Company ‘C’ headquarters. “Hey, Professor, how’s it hanging?”

“Straight as an arrow, a little to the left, thanks for asking.”

“Whoa, too much information. Did you obtain what I asked about?” Tex slipped him a $100 bill.

The Professor nodded. “You bet. I dug up all kinds of dirt on Eli’s draft board. He’s not the first questionable draftee by any means. Look at this article in Life Magazine.”

Tex flipped through the marked pages and the rest of the information. “This is great. I want you to put all this stuff into an envelope and mail it to my daddy. In a couple of days, I’ll call him and make something happen.

“Eli is lucky to have a friend like you.”

“I’m just making this world a better place for my buddies.”

 #

Sarah started her day the same as she always did since becoming an Army nurse. Up at the crack of dawn, a quick shower, then after donning her crisp, white nurse’s uniform, she drove her assigned jeep to the base hospital, arriving at oh-seven-hundred hours.

Just inside the entrance, she grimaced at the hand-colored picture of the stern-faced base commander, General Herbert Wolf, with his pencil-thin mustache, hanging next to a photograph of the commander-in-chief, President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Sarah hurried along the black and white square floor tiles, past the functional plain gray walls, until she reached the elevator, which she took to the sixth-floor nurse’s station.

She signed in, picked up her chart and began her morning rounds, starting with sickbay. Military procedure called for all soldiers, even if dying, to rise up when revelry sounded at oh-six-hundred hours, make their hospital bed, and then sit in the hard wooden chair beside it until the doctor or nurse showed up. It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t have to…this was the Army.

Sarah picked up a tray with a bottle of aspirin and several small paper cups filled with pink Cool-Aid and entered the “upper respiratory infection” ward. She got her usual amount of whistles and woo woos. “Okay, boys, you all behave now.” She turned away so they couldn’t see her smile, secretly pleased that her package still delivered.

The soldiers each wore a blue hospital pajama bottom and a white T-shirt with his last name stenciled in black letters on the front. Sarah handed each one, in turn, an aspirin and a cup of pink panther piss–the affectionate name given by the patients to the administered Cool-aid drink.

“What’s the chance of getting some penicillin or anti-biotic, darling?” One soldier asked.

“Slim to none,” said Sarah, “but you boys will be just fine.” She drew out the word “fine” at the end, which gave away her birth state of Georgia, although she hadn’t lived there for more than ten years now. It didn’t make much sense to Sarah to keep forty men locked up in one big room with no ventilation, coughing on each other like crazy, and spreading germs, but she accepted it as hospital policy, along with not distributing any penicillin.

The doctor arrived at the upper respiratory infection ward right after Sarah finished handing out the cool-aid and aspirin. He started his examinations with the first soldier on the right side of the room. The man held up his T-shirt, while the physician listened to his breathing with a stethoscope. If the Doc heard a raspy sound, “One more day of bed rest.” If the lungs sounded clear, “back to duty.”

The fifth soldier being examined leaned close and whispered, “Doc, please let me out of here or give me some penicillin. I am going to die in this crappy room unless I can escape from all these sick people and sleep.” He slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the doctor’s pocket.

The doctor smiled and announced, “Nurse, release this soldier with a three-day pass.” The other patients moaned in envy as the happy man ran out the door shouting, “I’m free! I’m free!

Doc finished up and hurried out the door, nurturing the hope of another round of golf before night fell or the fall weather turned nasty. Sarah gathered up all the empty cups in a plastic bag and tossed them down a trash chute outside the ward entrance, and walked back to the nurse’s station to write up the morning report. She thought Free car, free housing, surrounded by single men, and they still pay me every month. Nope, not a bad life at all.

Mary, one of the other nurses on duty, asked Sarah. “So, how did the inoculations go with the new soldiers the other day?”

“Well, the usual number of macho guys fainted and we played Florence Nightingale. One rather cute, funny young man did catch my eye and…”

Mary interrupted. “Be careful now, you know the rules about dating trainees, and your father would go ballistic.”

“I’m over twenty-one, so it’s none of his business…and I’ve done nothing with Eli…yet.”

“You are so bad! Is that his name, Eli?”

“Yep, first one I ever met. Wonder what he’s doing now.”

#

Eli, along with the rest of Bravo Company, shuffled out of the barracks and into the cold morning for reveille. “Watch where you walking,” growled Sam, as Horowitz stepped on his foot for the third time.

“Where in the hell’s the flag,” muttered Steve, squinting toward the center of the field as he raised his hand in the salute.

Wolinski, as usual, had his face in mine. “Did you shave this morning, Private Jones? And take off those damn sunglasses!”

“You still need to send me to the eye doctor.”

“You always come up with an excuse. Ask the Professor.”

Wolinski walked up to Horowitz. “You are a slob. Your uniform is a mess and your shirt isn’t tucked in properly. What did you do, rub dirt on those boots? I want to see my face reflected in those toes.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Harry meekly replied.

Wolinski looked disgusted. “And grow yourself a pair of balls.”

This particular morning, the needle got stuck again, and the same reveille passage kept playing over and over. We eventually got tired of waiting, gave up, and wandered off to breakfast.

#

Wolinski pretty much stayed in a foul mood 24 hours a day. After his latest tirade, he had Bravo platoon assigned to kitchen police for five straight days with no sign of a reprieve. I hated KP. It consisted of the worse jobs in the mess hall, like peeling hundreds of potatoes until your fingers bled or facing a sink overflowing with endless greasy pots and pans that never came clean.

“I’ll bet Sarge is upset because our platoon has the worst marks in the whole battalion on the firing range,” said Sam.

I agreed. “I’m putting together a plan about how we can improve our shooting and convince Sarge to give us a break.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll find out real soon…”

#

We were sitting around the barracks killing a half-hour before our next training class. Steve snored away on his bunk while the platoon radio played a song called “Cherry Cherry” by a new singer-songwriter named Neil Diamond. Sam sat on his footlocker reading a letter from home while I plotted how to sneak past Sarge to see Sarah again.

Suddenly the door slammed open and in stormed Wolinski. The Professor followed three-feet behind with a yellow number-two pencil in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Private Horowitz, the first soldier in the first bunk on the north end of the building, announced “Platoon, attention.”

“Louder, you idiot,” commanded Wolinski.

“Attention?” Horowitz tried again.

“What did you say, Horowitz?” Tex asked, and then spotting Sarge, he yelled, “PLATOON, ATTENTION!” Steve sat straight up in his top bunk, fell hard to the floor, and then hobbled up next to me–still in his stocking feet.

“Prepare for inspection,” announced the Professor. “Open up your lockers and then wait at the foot of your bunk.” His job was to follow Sarge around the room and mark down each discovered infraction on his clipboard.

Sarge began with Horowitz. He sat aside the upper tray in his footlocker and then started tearing things out of the bottom and throwing them in a random pattern around the room. “Unauthorized,” noted Sarge, heaving a pair of blue bunny slippers into the air, which luckily Tex saw coming and ducked in time.

Sarge moved next to Horowitz’s wall locker, where he spied a full-length poster hung inside the door. “No pin-ups allowed,” Sarge said, ripping it down. But before tossing it, he took a closer look at the blow-up photo of an elderly woman with a round face, short hair, and dark business suit. “Who the hell is this, your mother?”

“It’s Golda Meir, Sarge,” said Harry.

“Who?”

“She’ll soon be the new premier of Israel and my hero. You know, Golda’s of Russian descent.”

Sarge crumpled up the poster and threw it to the floor. “No political or commie posters either. Write that down.” The Professor scribbled on his paper, Golda Meir, and then drew a line through it.

“Clean up this mess,” Sarge commanded Horowitz.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Horowitz replied.

Turning to Tex, Sarge said, “This area isn’t too bad, Private Riley.”

“Thank you, Sarge. I hired a soldier to come in and tidy up twice a week.”

Sarge frowned. “Well, your area might be in order, but you are in terrible shape. Stand up straight. Suck in that gut.” Sarge slapped Tex in the stomach with the back of his hand–reacting when he hit something hard. “What the hell have you got under there?”

Sarge pulled Tex’s shirt out and discovered a brown money belt, stuffed full of $100 bills. “My God, there must be $5,000 here. What’s with all the cash?”

“I don’t normally carry that much, but I just got a care package from home.”

“Most soldiers receive brownies. I don’t like you, Riley. You’re some goddamn Army reserve puke who bought his way out of serving. Just because you’re rich doesn’t make you a better man. Professor, mark him down for guard duty.”

The Professor started writing on his chart, but when the Sarge turned away to leave, Tex slipped the clerk one of those Franklin bills. The Professor smiled, slipped it discretely into his pocket, and began vigorously erasing Tex’s name.

Sarge arrived at my bunk. “Eli, other than your footlocker display, this area is a disgrace. Your bed looks slept in.”

“Oh no, Sergeant, I stood beside it all night.”

“Try again.” Sarge grabbed the edge of the mattress and shoved my blankets, sheets, and pillow onto the floor. He tried to pick up my toothbrush from its proper spot, but it didn’t move. Sarge gave it another yank and the whole display came out in his hand. “Tell me you didn’t glue your toothbrush to the towel.”

“Okay, I didn’t glue my toiletries to the towel. That would be as stupid as laying it out in a display.”

Sarge sneered. “Professor, mark down this smart ass for guard duty for the next three nights.”

The Professor shrugged…what can I do?

By the time Sarge tore up every display on the first and second floor, the barracks looked like a small tornado had hit it. “You have one hour to clean up this mess and dispose of any unauthorized items. Following the cleanup, I want you in full combat gear and ready for a ten-mile run. You are all lazy sons-of-bitches and I have been too soft on you pond scum. That is going to change.” He turned and stormed out.

Sam said, “Damn if this is easy, what’s his version of hard?”

Tex said, “That man’s got a burr under his saddle for sure. Come on, guys, let’s get to work.”

*********************************************************************************

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Book Series — DRAFTED — Chapter 9

Book Series — DRAFTED — Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

The next day we got up at our normal oh-six-hundred hours, packed up everything we owned in our duffel bag (the Army had found a place for me to store my guitar, golf clubs, and tennis racquet until after basic training). We waited in formation while an officer read the new platoon assignments. They assigned Steve, Tex and me to Sergeant Wolinski, along with several new guys.

Soon as they called out the last soldier assign to our platoon, Wolinski went to work.

“You are the sorriest bunch of recruits to ever stand before me. They had to drag the bottom of the barrel to come with this bunch of misfits. How in the hell am I supposed to whip you pussies into shape? I’m no goddamn miracle worker. If you maintain any hope of graduating, then for the next seven weeks, remember, I am your god, mother, and priest all rolled into one. You don’t walk, talk, think or take a shit unless I tell you to. IS THAT CLEAR?”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!”

“Wonder where he wants us to take our shit?” I whispered to Tex, who only smiled, but in his row, a five-foot-three, rotund, Jewish-looking soldier, wearing an ill-fitting uniform and black round horn-rimmed glasses, broke out laughing.

Wolinski roared over and stood in front of the still chuckling, overweight recruit, “I told you attention. Lock those knees and stand up straight.”

“I am at attention, sir, my uniform is at ease.”

“Sir,” Sarge exploded. “Do I look like a fuckin wimpy officer to you? Now sound off like you’ve got a pair.”

“Yes, drill sergeant,” said the draftee in the same meek voice.

“What’s your name, dick-wad?

“Horowitz, sir. Private Harry Horowitz.”

“Well, Horowitz, it is going to give me great pleasure to grind your pansy, chubby-cheeked little body into the ground. Now drop down and give me fifty.”

“I don’t carry that much cash on me. Would you take a check?”

Wolinski went nose-to-nose with Horowitz. “No, you stupid shit…do fifty push-ups and count ’em out.”

“Fifty pushups, sir,” Horowitz said, his voice shaking, “I can’t do five.”

Sarge exploded. “NO THINKING! I told you maggots not to think. I give an order, you obey without question. I say jump, you say how high. IS THAT CLEAR? …AND QUIT CALLING ME, SIR. I WORK FOR A LIVING!”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!” We all shouted.

“Now, Horowitz, are you going to start doing pushups, or do I have to beat you to death with this rod.”

Harry took a deep breath and bellowed as loud as he could, “YES, DRILL SERGEANT!”

Horowitz dropped to the ground and strained to push his body off the ground, but his big stomach and short arms made it impossible. He started his quivering mound of flesh rocking back and forth, resembling a turtle on its back, struggling to right itself. It was the funniest damn thing I’d ever seen. Every time he pitched forward, Horowitz let out a whoosh and shouted, “One,” followed by “Drill Sergeant.” Even Wolinski had to turn away.

We eventually lost the front two rows to gales of laughter, which got worst when Harry looked up, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. Sarge seized the opportunity to harass the rest of us. “You jokers think he is so damn funny, drop down and join him.”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!” We shouted in unison.

When we started knocking them out, I couldn’t resist asking the guy next to me, “Hey buddy, is that a pushup or did you lose your girl?”

With the whole platoon soon laughing so hard that tears ran down our faces, Sarge went ballistic. “Jones, you are a goddamn smartass. Pick up your duffel bag and put it over your head and hold it there until I tell you to drop it. The rest of you worthless piles of dung…ON YOUR FEET! Forget riding on a bus to your new quarters, we’re going to run. Sling those bags. RIGHT FACE! No, Horowitz, the other way. Jones, start running clockwise around the formation with your bag held high above your head–and don’t you dare drop it. DOUBLE-TIME, MARCH” The platoon moaned but moved out on command.

Sweat rolled down my forehead, and stung my eyes, as I jogged around the formation. I reached exhaustion after the first mile, but wouldn’t quit. Whenever Wolinski looked my way, I managed to give him a smile–no satisfaction from me, you bastard.

Some of the platoon members weren’t going to make it. Their heavy duffel bag kept swinging into their bodies and knocking them down. Wolinski finally called the platoon to a halt. Most fell to the ground, gasping for air. I dropped my bag, bent forward, and took long deep breaths, trying not to heave. My arms shook. No way I could have lasted much longer.

“You pukes had better take this training seriously. What you learn here just might save your sorry ass in Vietnam. Now form up ranks. Eli, back in line.”

We did as requested–without laughter this time–and arrived without further incident at our new barracks. A thin, pasty-white gentleman entered soon after, wearing Harry Potter-type glasses and carrying an official-looking clipboard. He announced, “Bravo platoon, I’m the Professor, company clerk, and the person to see if you want anything. When I call out your name, come forward and pick up a set of name tags for your lockers–Pat Riley?”

“Here, y’all,” said Tex in his southwestern drawl.

“Steve Butler?”

“Here.”

“Harry Horowitz?”

“I’m Horowitz,” the pushup champ said, sticking his head out from behind his bunk.

“Stand up when the Professor calls your name.” I joked.

“I am standing up.” Harry protested.

“And you must be Eli.” The Professor handed me my tags.

“Why did you guys laugh at me?” Harry asked as he joined the gang gathered at the foot of Steve’s bunk.

“Sorry, Harry,” said Tex. “Your pushups were too much to watch.”

“I guess I did appear pretty silly.”

“So, what’s your story, Harry?” asked the Professor. “Did your mother want you to join the Army to become a man too?”

“Heavens, no, I’m in the New York National Guard. After basic, I’m headed home to work in my father’s jewelry store.”

I smacked myself in the head. “Why didn’t I get in the National Guard?”

“Because somebody better connected took all the open spots,” said one of the new guys, a handsome Afro-American, standing nearly six-foot-two, very muscular, and weighing about two-ten.

“Greetings, fellow draftee,” I said. “Who might you be?”

“Samuel Goodwyn, if it’s any of your goddamn business.”

“Take it easy, my friend. Tex and Harry here may have beaten the system, but Steve and I are in the same stinking, sinking boat as you.”

“If we were in a boat together, you’d probably make me row.”

“Not in a thousand years,” I said.

“Me neither,” frowned Steve, “Who rained on your parade?”

“An unproportionate number of black men are dying in Vietnam…and right before I start my junior year at the University of Alabama, they draft my sorry ass into the Army. Can’t say I’m real happy about it.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “are you the two-time, all-American, pro-scouted, a thousand yards a season, Sam Goodwyn?”

“You know me?”

“Are you kidding? Everybody in America knows you.”

“Yeah, well, the Army doesn’t give a rat’s ass about football,” said Sam. Nobody disagreed.

Our discussion broke up when Sarge ordered us outside to draw our weapons so we could practice close order drill. Off we went at a trot. “Listen up pond scum. When I sing out a line, you repeat it each time your left foot hits the ground. Ready? I don’t know, but I’ve been told.”

“I don’t know, but I’ve been told.” The platoon responded.

“Eskimo pussy’s mighty cold.”

“Eskimo pussy’s mighty cold.”

“Sound off.”

“Sound off.”

“Bring it on down–now you say…”

We nailed it on the first try, “One, two, three, four…one-two…three-four!”

Holy cow, Bravo Platoon, Charlie Company, running and singing at the same time. Next, we’d try simultaneously rubbing our stomachs and patting our heads. Our talent knew no bounds.

We sang another verse. “G.I beans and G.I gravy, gee I wished I’d join the Navy.” This time, a few guys harmonized. Sarge said we were “sounding good.”

We arrived six blocks later at the armory, a brick building with bars on all the windows. Inside we formed a line against the wall across from a metal mesh cage. They kept the rifles stored in double-deck gun racks behind a locked metal door. The sergeant had each trainee go into the cage one at a time and return with a bolt-action rifle with a wooden stock and a simple v-notch sight.

Once we all had a weapon, Wolinski stood in front of the platoon and demonstrated our new toy. “This is the M-1 carbine. It is an accurate weapon when used properly and will kill you dead anywhere within 100 to 250 yards. In combat, this baby is your favorite mistress–you will sleep with it, eat with it, and keep it by your side at all times.”

“Hey, Sarge,” said Steve. “This isn’t the gun they show on TV.”

“No oatmeal for brains, it isn’t. That weapon is an M-16–a fine killing machine that rarely jams. But first you need to learn how to break the M-1 down, reassemble it, and qualify with the weapon on the firing range, then you’ll train on the M-16. But in the meantime, understand this, the M-1 is a rifle, not a gun.”

“What’s the difference, Sarge?” Tex asked.

“I’m going to teach you a poem, so you’ll never forget. This is my rifle.” Sarge held it aloft. “This is my gun.” He grabbed his crotch. “This is for shooting.” He pumped the rifle up and down twice. “This is for fun.” Sarge squeezed his crotch twice. “All right you guys try it.”

Sarge was right. I would never forget the difference between a gun and a rifle, or he might force us to do the stupid poem and hand motions a second time.

Wolinski continued the training. “Okay, men, let’s learn some basic rifle commands. When I say dress right, extend your right arm, and turn your head right–everybody except the last man in line, who keeps his head forward. At the same time, all, except the first man, start shuffling right until your fingertips touch your buddy’s shoulder. When I say “ready front,” drop your arm and face forward. Got it?”

From the confused looks on the faces around me, I could see disaster coming, but Sarge pressed on. “Platoon, attention. Dress right, dress!”

You could only describe what followed as a first-class clusterfuck. Rifles dropped, soldiers crashed into each other, and when some guys stuck out their left hand instead of their right, they poked the eyes of guys that turned the correct way. Horowitz managed to launch his rifle in a nice arc that terminated with a thud into the back of Tex’s helmet, thereby knocking the tall recruit to the ground.

“STOP!” Wolinski screamed. The veins on his neck popped out like a weightlifter hoisting 600 pounds. We all froze in our ridiculous individual poses. Sarge pushed his way through to Harry and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat until Horowitz began to cry. “You are the dumbest fuck I have ever met.”

“Take it easy Sarge,” I said. “He made a mistake.”

Without warning, he turned and smacked me across the face with the back of his hand. “Shut up, Jones.”

The slap stung and made my jaw ache. I fought a powerful urge to hit him back–instead, settling for the most hateful stare I could muster.

When Tex recovered, the platoon managed to move an arms-length apart, execute a right should arm, a left face, becoming ready to move out. For the next several hours, we practiced left face, right face, about face, to the rear march, right and left shoulder arms and parade rest until Wolinski looked satisfied.

By the time we finished our evening chores of buffing the floors and cleaning the latrines, we were ready to hit the sack. Somebody had a transistor radio tuned to WABC in New York City and the singsong voice of deejay, Cousin Brucie. He introduced “Sunshine Superman” by Donovan and the rocking bass line soon had everybody in the barracks humming along.

Lying in our bunks, I said to Steve, “Sarge has always been mean, but today we witnessed his cruel side.”

“Harry is still upset, and I can’t believe he backhanded you.”

“The man is crazy.”

“Isn’t what he did illegal or something?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know, but he’d better not try it again–even if he does catch me sneaking out of the barracks.”

Steve shook his head. “Oh, no…what are you planning now?”

“I want to see Sarah again.”

“Is she the nurse you met when we got our shots?”

“Yeah, I’m going to ask her to play doctor.”

“You’ll never sneak past Wolinski.”

I grinned at Steve. “Wanna bet?”

***************************************************************************

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Ten Reasons Hillary Clinton Is Qualified For President

Hillary Clinton
Generated by IJG JPEG Library

As we head into the home stretch of the 2016 presidential election, I thought it important to take a close look at the two leading candidates and review their qualifications for the highest office in the good old U.S.A. Today let’s begin with the democratic nominee, Hillary Rodham Clinton.

  1. She is already very aware of all the secrets of the White House, including the alarm code, the location of the kitchen, how to board up the Kennedy Room to keep Bill out, where they hide the official stationary, and how to plan the menus for State Dinners.
  2. She has eight years experience as a US Senator from New York, a state she knew little about before she moved there to get elected (knowing it could never happen in Illinois or Arkansas). She got three major bills passed that she sponsored — naming a historic site, a post office, and a road, proving she is very good at naming things.
  3. She has four years international experience as Secretary of State under Obama (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em). Continuing her hawkish ways in the Senate, where she voted to approve the war in Afganistan and for the Iraq resolution, she advocated the US military intervention in Libya, thereby achieving the trifecta of annoying most of the middle east. Adding to her international experience, Mrs. Clinton also has vacationed out of the US several times, called a friend in Rome once, and has a preference for French perfume.
  4. As First Lady in Arkansas, she learned all about southern cooking and can prepare homemade grits, roadkill, hog jowls, and collard greens without throwing up. If the presidential thing doesn’t work out she could open a restaurant in Hope called Monica’s Cafe.
  5. She is very smart about technology. As a Federal employee, she managed to set up private messaging system software and a private server that violated State Department protocols and procedures, and federal laws and regulations governing recordkeeping requirements and send unsecured secret messages for four years without getting caught. She also holds the Donkey Kong record score on the Secretary of State’s office PS-4.
  6. She is an author of five books and an experienced public speaker to corporations and Wall Street earning her thousands of dollars personally and in campaign funds (again she will be okay financially if the presidential and restaurant things don’t work out). A side benefit — as a writer she can compose her own acceptance speech, as well as her annual state of the union speeches, and fireside chats, thereby saving her and the taxpayer money, which can be applied to the increasing costs of Obama Care.
  7. She is a lawyer and will be able to represent herself in any future legal cases of violating Federal/state laws and or constitution issues, like abolishing the second amendment. Another cost savings for the taxpayer to counteract the millions of dollars going to fund liberal programs of supporting illegal immigrants with free education, medical care, welfare and 50% off coupons to Taco Bell.
  8. She is a “mature” woman, so taxpayers don’t have to worry about paying for six weeks of maternity leave (although she is already receiving social security payments, from a dwindling resource).
  9. She will get rid of Homeland Security so we can open up our borders to any and all people who want to come to this country without a passport or background check, giving them Federal jobs, a reasonable $100,000 stipend each to help them relocate, a get out of jail free card, and a lifetime subscription to the magazine, Terrorist International.
  10. Although claiming not to understand Bernie’s “socialism” or “religious” views, she still admires the man’s hippy protesting roots, because she and Bill were young and idealistic once in college. She plans to pardon Bernie if she is elected and not send him to Guantanamo to be with all his other comrades.bill and hillary

Please recognize the ten comments above are purely my personal opinion, are based on little to no facts, and do not reflect the opinions of management. They are presented in an attempt at humor and to bring a smile to your face if you are not a Democrat, any of the persons named, or a member of Congress. I plan to give equal time to lampooning Donald Trump…right after the election.

 *   *   *

Richard Allan Jones is the author of the adventure/comedy novel Drafted which is available at amazon.com and the upcoming political thriller, Identity Check.

Hillary Clinton’s Best Qualifications for President in 2016

bill and hillaryHillary Clinton, a liberal Democrat and Bill’s wife, was born in Chicago and raised a Methodist. She became the first First Lady in USA history to enter politics when she was elected as a Senator from New York, even though she had never lived there previously. She hopes to become the first woman president in our history and to coin the term “zillions” of dollars in national debt as she rolls out both new and old programs to redistribute this country’s net worth to everybody both here and abroad…at least until we are taken over by Russia or one of the many other aggressive world powers since our military will likely be broke and all our personal weapons removed so we have no way to defend ourselves.
Anyway, here are my suggestions on her best qualifications:
1. Yale Law Degree (like many of the other politicians running)
2. Eight Years in the White House (she already knows the alarm code & where the kitchen is located)
3. Eight Years in the US Senate where she co-sponsored all of three bills and had to rest after the effort.
4. Experience testifying in Washington about her e-mails, Benghazi, interns, super-PACs, wall street sponsored speeches, etc.
5. Loves to fly for free as the most-traveled Secretary of State in history visiting 112 countries during her four-year tenure, traversing 956,733 miles — enough to span the globe more than 38 times — and spending 401 total days on the road. (Not to mention all that tax-payer funded free food!)
6. She believes in same-sex marriage as long as it is between a man and a woman.
7. She believes in HUGE government, the more people on the dole, the better. Considering 100 cabinet positions and expanding the IRS to collect all the new taxes necessary to fund all the programs & support promised during the campaign.
8. Supports women’s rights including the right to wear pants suits for all occasions and having your partner carry your purse without making a face.
9. Supports your right to turn your recreational guns back into the government so they can redistribute to criminals & crazies who need them for work.
10. Loves Obamacare and supports every illegal alien’s right to free government health care as long as the rest of us pay for it.
11. Raised in a wealthy middle-class household, but served on the board of the corporation Wal-Mart, so she knows poor people, the downtrodden and poorly dressed.
12. Hates war but supported US invasions of Afganistan, Iraq, Lybia, Canada, and Colorado.
Don’t forget to VOTE!
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Richard Allan Jones is the author of the comedy-adventure DRAFTED on amazon.com and former Washington DC lobbyist who also loves free travel & food.

My Dad, the President

Every time I write about something “political,” somebody gets upset. But my new novel, “Identity Check,” has politics as a central theme, so I might as well get use to it.

Pollsters predict that after all the smoke clears that the 2016 presidential election will likely offer Clinton vs Bush. Sound familiar? That would mean our latest series of presidents would be Bush (41st), Clinton (42nd), Bush (43rd), Obama (44th)….and then Bush or Clinton…again.

It got me to thinking about families in politics. Was George Bush and G.W. the first father/son in the White House? Nope…it was John Adams (2nd president) and his son, John Quincy Adams (6th president). john quincy adams

Benjamin Harrison, the 23rd president, was the grandson of William Henry Harrison, the 9th. Teddy Roosevelt (26th) and Franklin D. Roosevelt (32nd) were distant cousins. William Howard Taft (27th) had a son and grandson who were both U.S. Senators. And then there’s the Kennedy clan.

Having a recognizable name (or being related to one) has always helped in politics, as well as business or entertainment. Could a Diane Rodham (with Republican parents) get the Democratic presidential nomination? Maybe, but she has a much better chance as Hillary Diane Rodham-Clinton.Generated by  IJG JPEG Library

Jeb-BushYou need to remember the name to vote, but before you decide which box to check, look at the person behind the name and what they stand for. Don’t judge Jeb Bush on what his brother did, or Hilary Clinton based on her husband Bill’s popularity and accomplishments.

Most importantly, register, cast your opinion, and be part of the process. Who knows, it may be the start of your own political dynasty.

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richallan-300dpi-3125x4167 - CopyRichard Allan Jones is the author of the comedy/adventure, Drafted, and the upcoming political thriller, “Identity Check.”

 

Alms For An Ex-Leper?

Monty-Pythons-The-Life-of-Brian-The-ex-leperA writer is suppose to write every day, right? But I have to be motivated by a topic to feel it is worth my time and yours. Do you care about which cereal I ate for breakfast this morning…I don’t and I was there. At the same time, I need to write on this blog more often to develop my writing skills, and give you, the readers, something interesting to peruse when the boss isn’t watching, or you are tired of looking at clips of cats doing silly things.

With that in mind, I’m sharing the headline from today’s paper where the L.A. City Council has passed a resolution to increase the minimum wage to $15.00 an hour by 2020. Some 80,000 worker are impacted by this decision.

This is amazing to me on several levels. First, that the minimum wage is only $10 now. That barely buys you a happy meal, even with an employee discount. Secondly, that 2020 is only five years away. Who knew that I would live that long…the 21st century…era of Buck Rogers…and where the hell are all the flying cars. And finally, when I was earning minimum wage, back in the 60’s, they paid me a whooping $1.25 hour.

I know, inflation; the sixties were 50 years ago; new cars only cost $3,000; a cheeseburger at the golden arches was $.25, fries $.15, and the ketchup free.golden arches

But still…did I really work an eight-hour day and get paid only ten bucks…before deductions!  Was I insane or just didn’t know any better?  Some of my jobs were considered “fun” — like being a lifeguard or working as a DJ at a radio station, but seventy dollars for a seven-day week! …social security and medicare got more money a week than I did!

Back to our minimum wages in 2015…$400 bucks for a five-day week seems like a lot; but new cars cost $30,000; a hamburger at a west Hollywood restaurant runs $14 (with fries), although the ketchup is still free. These folks have to be thinking the same thing I did back in the 60s…am I insane? No wonder it is so hard to get people to drag themselves out of bed, face a hellish commute, and come home exhausted every night. Forget trying to save for retirement. money

So, Mr. Government Official, I say get these cheap corporations to pony up a decent wage that keeps up with inflation…don’t wait another five years to make this right.

As for me, I’ve picked out my corner, got a nice tin cup, a set of slightly soiled rags to wear, and a legible sign that reads, “Alms for an ex-leper.”

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Rich Allan is the author of the comedy/adventure “Drafted” now available on kindle at amazon.com, as well as the soon to be released thriller, “Identity Check.”