The reason I’ve been away from the keys (and will not spend much time at the keys for a few more days) is that I had surgery on Friday. No, it was not an emergency, nor was the condition life-threatening, but it was something that had to be taken care of.

I’m convinced that one of the tactics used by surgeons to ensure a steady income stream is to downplay how positively brutal post-surgical recovery can be, particularly for the first two days. After the first two days, one is just really sore and feels generally weak and shitty. The last time I had surgery with general anesthesia I was five years old. I seem to remember recovering faster back then.

I’m walking about now, albeit SLOWWWWWLY, and sleeping way more than I usually do.

So, that’s the story, peeps.

Later.

There are no spires, fountains, or dramatic figures on The Wall; just 58,261 names – the names of those who served, but who never got to come home. As I slowly walked past each of the many panels covered with names, stopping at most of them, it struck me hard that most of the people whose names appear on The Wall would have about the same age as I am now. I knew a couple of them.

It’s only because of life’s crapshoot and the mystery of how the military decided what each of us would do and where we would be assigned to do it that I was able to look at the names on The Wall instead of being one of them.

May they all rest in peace.

A photo of Audi Murphy’s grave, taken in the rain with a cell phone camera.

Even though it rained heavily all the while we were there, it was a great day with a large portion of laughter and camaraderie and more than a few emotional moments.

I’m beat. I hope to write a bit more about it all once I have collected my thoughts.

Thank you for all the good wishes.

Tomorrow I shall be awake with the chickens, the fishermen, the farmers, the hungry infants and the hopeless insomniacs. Also awake will be Da Chef of da Future (Army Vet) and Ken, my bodyguard (Air Force Vet), two of the Usual Suspects, as we will be heading off to Washington D.C. for Veterans Day.

I have been to the nation’s capital several times over the years, but each time the trip involved business, leaving no time for seeing the things I’d wanted to see. Tomorrow, I will finally get to see Arlington National Cemetery, the Vietnam War Memorial, the Vietnam Women’s Memorial, the Korean War Memorial and the World War II Memorial.

It should be a great day, albeit one of mixed emotions.

The Community Organizer in Chief speaketh.

I have nothing to add.

via Moonbattery

Behold!

This photo was taken in connection with Michelle Obama’s upcoming appearance on the Iron Chef television show, at which time she will reveal the “secret ingredient” that the competing chefs have to use in order to make a “meal for America.” (Her husband’s culinary specialty for a “meal for America” is, of course, the shit sandwich.)

Pictured from left to right are: Alton Brown of the Food Channel, Herself, and Mario Batali.

As you can see, each of them is dressed “in character.” Alton Brown (with the brown plaid jacket and non-matching gray, too-long slacks). is dressed as the nerdy, sciency guy he is on the Food Channel. Similarly, Mario Batali is wearing his trademark chef’s apron and orange Crocs. Not to be outdone, Michelle Obama is decked out in one of her signature clown outfits.

I so miss Laura Bush.

Photo swiped from iOwnTheWorld.com

Dogette, in a comment to this post, asked what was going on with canned peas. I take such questions seriously, particularly when they come from Dogette. Accordingly, I made a special stop at the supermarket tonight to listen in, and here’s what I heard. It ain’t pretty, Peeps.

Le Sueur Peas: Hello there, mon ami.

Regular Old Canned Peas: Huh? What is this mon ami shit?

Le Sueur Peas: We’re French, Bro. Check out the label: “Le Sueur.”

Regular Old Canned Peas: Yo, I have a serious case of the ass with France and with French people.

Le Sueur Peas: Why is that?

Regular Old Canned Peas: Glad you asked. Here’s the short list. Your language, although loved by many, when spoken, sounds like someone is puking; your sidewalks are covered with dog shit; your average woman has hairy armpits and putrid body odor; you make very shitty cars; you regularly surrender to Germans and whomever feels like kicking your asses at any given time; Americans rescued your sorry asses a couple times and yet, to this day, you pretend not to understand us when we try to speak your rotten language. How’s that?

Le Seur Peas: I figure that you’re just bitter, because our President has a hot wife and your President’s wife looks like a Yeti who always looks like she was dressed by a blind person, or someone who celebrates Halloween every day.

Regular Old Canned Peas: OK, ya got me.

The End.

Tomato No. 2: Feh! I have nothing to say to the likes of you.

Tomato No. 1: Jeez, what’s with the uppity attitude?

Tomato No. 2: Dude, we’re organic.

Tomato No. 1: So, that means you grew up waist-deep in shit.

Tomato No. 2: Flat earther!

Tomato No. 1: Douchebag!

The End