Self Portrait: Kakazu Ridge Revisited (77th Infantry Division Living History Reenacting on the island of Okinawa, Japan)

I earned one of my Army Achievement Medals as a junior enlisted, US Army soldier while assigned to a strategic level Signal Battalion.  I earned that medal by continuing to pursue the reenacting and living history endeavors without any change in the enthusiasm I had for them prior to going on active duty.

I miss my time on the island of Okinawa, Japan.  I earned much needed military historian practical knowledge while working closely with my Battalion S3 Officer in Charge while I was a Private First Class.  He was an older Major who spent time in Desert Storm.  It was a hell of a time, working with that gentleman.

It enabled me to appreciate my own time at war by learning from men and women who spent time in the Middle East with next to nothing for equipment as advanced as the stuff I would use.  These older officers and NCOs went into Kuwait in 1991 with equipment that hadn’t changed much in the years immediately following the Vietnam War (M1977 Equipment/Gear).  A young man could not help but respect that fact, especially considering that young man’s living history and reenacting experience prior to his own time in service.

My vision is for men and women, regardless of race, creed, religion, and everything else outlined by the Army as discriminatory, to join me in my endeavors to success in the activities of Military History Living History & Reenacting.  Basically be a legal adult, American, and willing to be humbled through military history, and everybody can get along.  Even if you’re not exactly the best person when you start this endeavor, either physically, socially, or both, these activities will enable you to better yourself and others simultaneously.

The best part is that this battlefield which uses simulated blank ammunition is much more forgiving than real combat.

I promise you that if you perform to the best of your abilities, you will gain respect for yourself, respect for others, tactical experience, and emotional and social bonds with others that cannot possibly be gained anywhere else, not even on a real battlefield.

Become a student of yourself by becoming a student of military history!

Pictured below is my best attempt at recreating a moment in the past while serving in the Army in 2009.  My mentor who assisted me throughout the creation of my 77th Infantry Division “impression” was a real life combat veteran who served in the regiment I was researching.  The man’s name was Roy, and with his assistance, along with the positive technologies found using the internet, we were able to tell his story through living history.

Roy gladly told me the details only another soldier with a military history background may readily ask about; things like bayonet lugs on M1 carbines, the supply and health problems experienced with the HBT cotton uniforms, and jungle fighting in leather boots just to name a few.

Roy is now dead, but thanks to our mutual efforts, Roy will live forever, so long as I can remember him.

Rest in Peace, Roy.

(Please note that the unit who took Kakazu Ridge were men of the 96th Infantry “Deadeye” Division, and not personnel from the 77th Infantry Division.  I created this impression to remember Roy; this photo opportunity gives the memories of Roy a chance to better bond with the memories of another infantry division that fought on Roy’s immediate flank.)

Kakazu Ridge Revisited 2009

“Cattle die, and Kinsmen die…” -Havamal


“STOP WATCHING PORN!” or Operation Kill Fee: Why The Pornographic Industry Has Direct Ties to 19th Century Slave Trade Tactics, Techniques, & Procedures (TTPs)

“Stop watching (((Porn))).”
-Varg Vikernes

If even those simple words from a reformed, convicted Norwegian murderer and alleged church burner who now lives peacefully with his French wife and little army of happy little children on a small permaculture farm in France, cannot possibly convince you that the entire pornography industry is anti-human and bad for your individual health and prosperity, I am not sure what I can do to convince you either.

It’s a bad habit that I’m also trying to break myself.  It is a habit that has pathologically morphed into an addiction like a cancer in my life over the last decade.  It is an addiction that manifested in earnest after I joined the United States Army of all places.

The majority of my issues with porn are service-connected, and many other veterans, both male and female, have little to no way of utilizing mental health services of the US Department of Veterans Affairs because the VA, unsurprisingly, does not see pornography as a problem both in theory and in practice.

I have personally had to listen to several psychologists, psychiatrists, medical doctors, and social workers who are paid hundreds of thousands of US taxpayer dollars every year, try to convince me that my use of porn was “totally fine” and “totally normal.”  How cute, adorable, and (((diverse))) of them to think such (((tolerant))) thoughts.

That being said, I’m still going to try to convince you right here and now that pornography is bad.  I am especially writing to all of you Bug Men out there in Clown World who have a pornography habit worse than the one I have had for about ten years (and I thought mine was pretty bad).

Apparently, some of you mother fuckers out there in Kasperlewelt don’t need to be placed into concentration camps full of degenerate misfits who will NEVER  be able to possibly figure out that Arbeit really does Macht Frei.  Apparently, you’ve already jumped past all of that fun stuff full of handsome Waffen SS guards, playful German Shepherds, smoking hot Waffen SS auxiliary female guards in their housewife clothes, and you instead placed yourself into solitary confinement filled with filth in some undisclosed location on a giant Communist peasant farm near a Synagogue of Satan.

Here is a quick glimpse into what I have personally witnessed when looking into the mind of the average consumer of one of the “hottest” pornography “fetishes” of the modern day.

Stop Watching Porn

Known as “cuckoldry,” or as its more specific illegitimate sibling “interracial cuckoldry,” it is a so-called “fetish category” that has negatively affected multiple generations of men and women around the world, particularly white people, myself included.

The proliferation of the fetish on both the internet and in the real world is nothing short of a new version of the Champagne Socialists’ 1861 slave plantations in America with racial roles reversed, and the Barbary Pirates’ disease infested harems during the First Barbary War of 1801 with racial roles intact.

The First Barbary War was one of America’s first officially declared military operations not unlike the “undeclared” war currently going on during the Gulf War Era of 1990 to a date to be determined.

The First Barbary War was carried out by, with, and through one of America’s first military allies: Sweden.  This does not surprise me in any way, considering that President Thomas Jefferson and King Gustav IV The Adolf of Sweden were two extremely hardcore men.

In recent years, many different entities have thrown their opinions into this topic that suggest pornography consumption is destructive, only to be labelled many subversive labels by Leftists across the planet; Leftists who, whether wittingly or unwittingly, have very important financial and economic stakes in the continued existence of, and proliferation of normalized ideas and trends created by the porn industry.

Some of the entities who have spoken out against the pornographic industry, other than the most infamous Alföðr of Black Metal himself, include:
Fight The New Drug
GQ Magazine
No Fap
Your Brain on Porn

Even another man named Marcus Follin has said many truths that are simple and easy to understand about why porn is bad for us.  Keeping to his own culture that he understands best, Follin focuses especially on why pornography is bad for white men of the West, or in military terms: for white men living in the countries of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO).


Follin is a European Nationalist, body builder, former Swedish Army soldier, mixed martial artist, and modern day living embodiment of mainstream popular culture’s idea of Vikings and the god Thor himself.  Marcus Follin portrays a semi-fictional character named The Golden One on YouTube, and just a few days ago, he released another easily digestible set of statements regarding the disgusting ramifications of pornography:

I am not here to sell you some kind of twelve step process.  I will be 31 years old in February 2019, and pornography has been in my life since childhood.  Porn has been an integral part of every day life for many decades for most people, even in marketing and advertising, so it’s inescapable for those of us not fully tuned into what is at stake here for the majority of people living in NATO.

IF you are a white man living on earth right now, and you’re a resident and citizen of a NATO country, chances are dangerously high that you are in fact being directly targeted by special interest groups.

These special interest groups want you alone in either a poorly maintained prison cell you might call a bedroom at your parents’ house, a house that you’ve mortgaged for an insane price that is devoid of any real culture or loyalty from a woman, or in an apartment you can barely afford while being surrounded by a bunch of other ideological slaves who also seem to think that having “roommates” who all use the same modern day equivalent of a Primus stove in an upscale Manhattan apartment, is normal.

These particular special interest groups want you isolated there in your apartment “cell” while you clutch your “cell” phone, sitting or lying in your own filth on bedsheets made in Communist China that are stained with “chicken tendies” grease from food that I have literally watched ants avoid eating for weeks in my backyard.

They want you covered in your own semen stains and body odor ripe with chemicals released during masturbation that repel women no matter how many showers or other actions you take in life to correct this repellent.

The special interest groups want you that way especially during and after Civil Twilight hours for any number of strategic level political or military reasons.  This includes illegitimate special interest groups that fall under the umbrella term “terrorists,” whether or not those terrorists consider themselves terrorists.  I don’t care if you dismantle a happy home brick by brick, or with a bomb in the shape of a hammer and sickle.  A terrorist is a terrorist.

They want all of you there, even all of you NATO soldiers out there on active duty.  They want you to forget about this truth while you are performing tasks like standing guard, fire watch, and radio watch at night in warzones by yourselves or in small teams while the rest of your comrades should be sleeping.  Instead, they are masturbating to pornography in between binge watching degenerate entertainment “shows,” eating and drinking cancers and sugars right into their bodies, and playing massive multiplayer video games that are proven to stunt adult maturity in men and women deep into old age.

Don’t believe me?  Log out of your Fortnite, PUBG, GTAV, Arma 3, DayZ, or whatever other currently supported massive online multiplayer faggot fucking game for a second, and take a look at this:
Pornhub Insights Program

That’s right, Indo-European white man: every time you spend minutes, hours, days, and even years of your life consuming porn, there is someone out there “recording that” as publicly traded information.

While they are trading the derivatives of your future for you, you are killing the derivatives of your own genetic past.  Every time you ejaculate, you are spilling millions upon millions, perhaps billions, of living sperm.  Each one of them were potential human beings who could have been given the gift of human life if they had been properly spilled into a woman who gives a huge shit about you and your well being as a warrior of and for the truth.

Just as women unscrupulously abort children each day, we as men are aborting the very essence of life itself each time we ejaculate anywhere that isn’t in the company of a caring woman.  Without us, there would be no human consciousness of the world the way we have it today, especially because of the Western Men who conquered the lands that would have never been able to possibly share this idea I am sharing with you today, in the manner that I am, for the betterment of everyone, not just white people.

Man is the keeper of the very seed that springs forth the matters of human life and death themselves onto Planet Earth, and no bleeding vagina and constantly dying eggs will ever be able to compete with that force of nature that is housed in a man’s venerable testicles.  There will never even be a real competition, no matter how many snarky comedians, politicians, celebrities, and other morons of the “amusement” class of people are duped into convincing all of us otherwise.

Wake the fuck up, White Man!

Get your dick out of your hand, your head into a military science book, your feet into combat boots, your bodies outside your prison cells and into a fitness routine, your stomachs into a diet that supports and sustains healthy human life that is prepared for very real physical war, and get your strong arms around the waists of the young women out there who are just as terrified or as angry about all of this as you are.

If you’re going to take out your frustration about all of this onto something, do it with those ladies by way of “old fashioned” sex, or with some other healthy occupation of time that is not being actively spent on preparing for this: a very real war someone else created to genocide you.

For the rest of you who aren’t white: I am “checking my privilege” by not speaking on your behalf.  Do whatever the fuck it is you’re going to do with this information, because I’m not going to even make the attempt to talk to you about it because I know you’ll call me a racist or some other Communist or otherwise Leftist “word” invented in the last 150 years.  If you want to, I’ll even “self arrest” myself and send this to every major “non-profit” “anti-hate” group on the internet if it has to come to that.

If a convicted murderer and alleged church burner who reformed himself into a Pagan permaculture farmer with a very healthy family; a bodybuilder and former Swedish soldier who still respects boys with teddy bears who might happen to see him when they walk by their big brother’s open bedroom door; an American Special Operations Forces combat veteran (me) who earned the NATO Medal in a war; GQ Magazine which is arguably the most successful and relevant men’s magazine on the planet; and two special interest groups dedicated to studying the negative effects of porn on a scientific and social level, cannot possibly get you to wake up and realize that people are trying to start a new American Civil War and international Barbary Slave trade simultaneously all around the world, I don’t think you can be salvaged as a human being.

That’s it, lads.  If you will excuse me, I’ve got to go back to lightly oiling my V42, and checking on that huge shipment of Corcoran Jump Boots and black face paint.  There’s a place in Cypress I want to visit, and I’d like to make it a paid vacation for some of you to come with me.  I hope Cypriot women like Paratroopers, because I’m really fucking horny, and they’re really fucking hot.



“Simon Says:” So-Called Consultant & Big Brain Simon Sinek Believes That Corporations Are Supposed to Help The Millennial Generation “Finish Growing Up” By Creating More Social Experiments

To: Simon Sinek, et alia.
From: E. Julius Hauser, Endeavors to Success
Subject: I Quit.
CC: Your Producers.
BCC: All of The Other “Millennials” on Planet Earth

At the 11 minute, 45 second mark, Sinek goes into his “vision” for a Corporate groupthink initiative that will help fix the things people like him created in the first place.  Conveniently, and as expected, he went almost eleven minutes straight defining a problem that, arguably, is not a real problem; before concluding with the strategic level vision that private corporations will be able to accomplish something that governments have yet to master: generational mind control.

Conveniently, he leaves the audience with a small, poorly worded thesis statement on this vision, and, almost as if the producers of this dumpster fire of a video planned it, his voice trails off, the video ends, the audience claps, and the viewer is left to their own assumptions on just how the corporations and their government lobbyists are going to solve “The Problem.”

What will be their “Final Solution,” I wonder?

It’s something I witness as being the worst parts of Capitalism and Communism all thrown into a small soundbite:

“I hate to say it…” Simon begins to say.

No you don’t, mother fucker. You love this shit.  You love this shit, and you know it.

You love to say this sycophantic garbage, you corporate sociopath.  You eat your own shit like it’s caviar, and people pay you for it. I could hear the smugness in your voice, and a quick internet search for photographs of you did not disappoint me or my instinct-driven senses one bit.

I digress.

I am a “Millennial,” and like a lot of us Millennials, I also don’t want to “do anything with my life.”

I say it that way in quotations, because what people like Simon Sinek look at as meaningful life on this planet, I look at it as total slavery to a robotic tyranny.  It is an automated tyranny that depends on humans to feed it, but it was never set up to give anything back to the humans.  It will never be that way, because something that isn’t alive in the first place cannot show human emotions or an appreciation for human life.

Humans are more important than Hardware” -Special Operations Forces Truth #1

It is a robotic tyranny, one hell-bent on the reduction of human life to nothing more than strategic movements along a predetermined pattern of a bunch of cubicles on a marketable, supply-chain-driven course.  All of it is connected by an asphalt prison yard, a prison yard full of artificial game trails called roads, highways, and interstate highways.

The prison yard is full of men and women who have been tricked into thinking that they are hunters on this so-called game trail, when in reality they are the prey.  It’s a prison yard where metallic boxes on wheels called automobiles are commonly used.  The automobile as I see it is a physical object that is becoming decreasingly qualitative but increasingly quantified.

The automobiles are flung around in a hardly controlled chaos for hours and hours all day, racing up and down the game trails, mindlessly billowing out carcinogenic fumes that killed the horses they replaced.  Whether it’s direct fumes from exhaust pipes, or indirect off-gassing via “plugging in” the automobiles at night to some electronic device, some process to make the automobiles appear “alive” will require cancer causing properties to be released into the world during the device’s manufacture and use.

Simon, if you’re going to take that much risk creating or maintaining a system like that, one that requires the use of such a horrifying object that drives inside of such a horrifying prison yard, at least make it a cool automobile.  Make it something that is able to be used in a war, like a Panzer.

At least make the prison yard something that can’t be mass produced without the skill of mankind’s best yet most underappreciated tradesmen: the road workers.  Make the prison yard out of something historical and wholly human, like a tenured cobblestone lane or brick road that has cultural meaning, instead of an artificial lava flow of asphalt mixed with tar that gets replaced every few years not unlike the rootless multiculturalists traveling over top of it.

The reason I “don’t want to do anything with my life” is because people like this guy Simon Sinek are already out there, waiting in philosophical ambush for “overthinking” people and Millennials like me.  They are just WAITING to begin the process of making money off of me by pushing their buttons, pulling their levers, inventing their new labels to describe me and my unwillingness to behave in their image.  They will even get the pharmaceutical companies involved to deal with me.  They’ll make sure the government lets them do it too.

They will point at me with what appear to be cosmopolitan fingers to the culturally inept, and they will write their books about me that the same culturally inept people will buy and read like a young nymphomaniac college girl who needs sex, or a man with COPD who needs to exhale.  They will try to uncover something about me as though I am living in someone else’s open-air theater play.  All of them are already prepared to talk about me and all of it like I’m some kind of victim, or test tube subject.

I will become the latest “victim” or “test tube subject” for people like Sinek to be studied, analyzed, vaccinated, expatriated, and repatriated all at once; altogether trapped in something that people like him created who will deny responsibility of creating even in a court of law.  The entire time, he will sit comfortably with the knowledge that I will have given him every right, or so he thinks, to do these things to me because I signed some contract, or agreed to some kind of terms of use or terms of service.

That’s how these people think, and you need to be alarmingly aware of this.

Instead of honoring my humanity regardless of my circumstances, he reduces me, condenses me, limits my entire generation and me into a talking point: Millennials, and what’s wrong with us.  He does this, all while trying to portray himself as “the good guy,” even though every last one of us in my generation who were paying attention, all watched him carefully.  We watched him as he stepped out from the same pack of bad guys who traveled to our metaphorical farm, compound, bunker, castle, or combat outpost.  We saw them coming from miles away.

Sure, we even watched those guys do it with the optics people like Simon Sinek provided us, but we knew from the start that by using these fancy new metaphorical binoculars the bad guys gave us, there would indeed be some kind of catch when we accepted the gift of the new technology.

We knew that eventually they’d come back for some kind of tribute, or tax, or some other form of fancy worded theft, or enslavement to an idea we don’t want to act upon on someone else’s behalf.  No matter how fancy their so-called “gifts” of technology or social media or incorporated groupthink are, the Millennial generation’s gut instincts simply will not let this happen.

Something deep down in our gut tells us that ecologically incorporated people like Simon Sinek are going to have some kind of “condition” or “term of use,” something we have to agree upon before we can use this metaphorically convenient pair of binoculars that act as a place holder to explain what it is this asshole is trying to trick us into accepting.

(“Run-on sentences are not allowed?”  Fuck you.  This is my website, not yours.)

What people like him and his stinky band of mass produced, business suit wearing tribesmen were not expecting is that we Millennials used his own optics against him to observe him from miles away.  We watched as he came back with his big pack of fortune telling gypsies and hand rubbing merchants, all of them dressed in suits and ties that suggest regency in spite of their rootless, cultural bankruptcy.  They came here so they could perform some kind of feel-good ritual that would certainly get us to dance the way they want us to dance.  Right?

We aren’t gonna dance just because you tell us to, Simon.  I thought people like you would have learned that after creating the business model which states that people would have to pay money just to talk to other people of the opposite sex no matter the distance of proximity (read: online dating and smartphone applications like Tinder and Bumble).  However, I guess even people like you truly are dumber than your own smart-sounding ideas.

Multiple decades of experiencing all of those “formative gaps” Simon Sinek talked about did not exist in a vacuum.  In our parents’ absence while they suffered through the tasks of people like Simon’s corporate slave plantations, we young Millennials were forced to hone our survival instincts.

Mainstream media called it being a “Latchkey Kid.”

I tend to call it “That One Long Decade of Time When I Wished That I Could Have Been With My Mom And Dad A Lot More Because Being A Teenager With Neither of Them Being Around Most of The Time Was Very Unpleasant.”

I mean if we’re gonna get personal here.

What Simon Sinek observes as childishness among other things in so many words,  I call it survival in order to make sure my own children will be able to identify and fight this nonsense, and effectively fight people like Simon, fighting them physically if necessary.

That’s one thing about Millennials, we people who were blessed with experiencing our youth at the turn of a fucking millennium, and not just the turn of a century: we are REALLY good at detecting bullshit.

What Millennials are not good at -and God bless us for it- is being able to compartmentalize bullshit in a meaningful, tangible way that will make someone else a lot of money hand-over-fist.

Millennials fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in academia in colleges across the world, so we don’t finish our degree.  We just drop out.

We fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in the business world, so we don’t give our two weeks’ notice.  We just quit.

We fail at being able to compartmentalize bullshit in the fields of art and science, so we don’t complete what we started.  We just stop.

Because our time-tested, survival-based worldviews do not fit with the corporate, mass-produced groupthink that dehumanizes those of us who make the scientific discoveries or put the paint onto canvas, we go underground.

We go out into a wilderness unknown to the corporate slave plantations that those plantations will then claim, will demand, will violently declare is the lunatic fringe.

“Sole proprietor?  What are you?  Some kind of lunatic?”

We just can’t seem to get it right when trying to play with this subject of complete bullshit, but then again, why make that a skill?  Why play with shit all day?

“What are you?  A corporate coprophiliac on Prozac?”

Moreover, why play with SOMEONE ELSE’S BULLSHIT that was shit out onto that asphalt prison yard that was paved over what was once a beautiful meadow, or stout acreage of oak trees?

Simon, I’d rather play around in a military history museum and learn about why I DON’T have to repeat the same mistakes someone else did, than do something “meaningful” with my life.  I’d rather “sit around doing nothing” than “Do Something” that is going to continue wrecking our fucking planet.

“Recycle or die.” -Jason C. Allen, fine artist, Sunray Eco Art

I’d rather imagine jumping into a Viking longship and plundering the next village down the coast or up the river, or imagine jumping into a Tiger Tank to kill the Communists who were braver than your ilk who seem to exude the eerily similar behavior of Communists.  I’d surely play make-believe in the woods faster than agreeing to sit trapped inside your hell.  It’s a convenient, climate-controlled hell shaped like an office cubicle, to be sure.  It’s a suggestive hell what has a small patch of grass next to it, with a few overly pruned and fruitless trees, a square pond made from cancer-filled water runoff, and whatever wildlife are still left barely alive during this, the so-called Holocene Extinction Event.

But hey, at least Corporate Policy made the “nature trail” outside the office a “no smoking” nature trail.  Right, goy?

I want to honor the fact that the planet is a massive, open air military history museum, and to honor the truth that it has always been someone’s battlefield.  While I want to honor that, people like Simon Sinek seem like they want others to continue perpetuating some massive psychological and physical war that doesn’t need to keep happening over and over again on a wider and wider scale each time.  Each time the war happens, it would appear that people spend less and less time tending to the humanity of the warriors who were compelled to fight it.  What is worse, people like Sinek appear to want the civilian bystanders who are caught in that war’s wake to “do something with their lives” while being simultaneously forced to make sense of the war.

In doing so, the civilians will be perplexed by that war for the rest of their lives, a process that will fuel the next war after they are dead and gone, and a process that will line the pockets of hand rubbing merchants with that sweet, sweet currency that doesn’t actually exist except in the eyes of some all-seeing, non-human central bank.

Yes.  The planet is constantly hosting war.  The clear feeling of war might not be wherever you are, as you read this jumbled up mass of thoughts I started writing to nobody in particular around 2am.  The war might not be raging in full swing near Safety Harbor, Florida, at least not for me as I sit here in this cramped Florida Room with windows on all sides from waist to ceiling.  It is the equivalent of a back porch, and I’ve been humbly living this way for about four years now, with about 150 square feet, give or take the space I have to actually walk.

I use this place as my bedroom, office, “whack shack” or “masturbatorium pornographia,” dining room, toolshed, woodshop, military history library, historical archive, study hall, music room, listening post, observation post, operations center, and other various parts that would be better suited for the castle in the kingdom that I have not yet built.  The castle will be bristling with weapons systems in my kingdom.  It will be a kingdom manned in every neighborhood by an army of kind, brave men, who I will have the honor to call Brothers.  Somehow, in some odd form of reality, all of them will be Kings over their own kingdoms, and it shall be called America.

That’s right, America.  We are still out here, we don’t do drive-by shootings, and we don’t quit.  We assault through the enemy, and move to contact to take the objectives.

No, the war might not appear to exist here in Safety Harbor at the moment I am writing this.

However, somewhere out there, there is a person, usually a man, moving about freely under his own liberty.  He has the ability to receive the order at a moment’s notice to put a weapon in his hands, and be prepared to fight alongside other men.  Ideally, in this day and age, that weapon is a rifle, and those riflemen, those Minutemen, are fighting to survive in a very real conflict.  It is a war that exists here and now in the United States of America.

Many times, this conflict is not openly acknowledged by the civilian bystander, because the new war is still in its infancy stage of psychological conflict on most parts of the battlefield.  In this instance, I support the abortion of infancy.

Chances are, as I write this article, those men fighting for this survival are Millennials.

Chances are, if a person isn’t directly engaged in the conflict, they are a civilian bystander caught among three options to either join the warriors, fight the warriors, or simply observe the warriors either close up or from far away.

I return to the main point.

It appears clearly to me that Simon Sinek fails to realize anything I just mentioned.  My conclusion is evidenced by the content in his feel-good pep talk that was characterized by unthinking applause and laughter, and dry-erase board “art” illustrations that were animated to add gravity to a speech that had no weight in the first place (((other than the weight of revenue and returns someone makes off of making up these assessments about my generation))).

These people aren’t fully fucking human, including the people who clapped for this guy, and including the fucking retard who spent hours drawing pictures on a dry erase board that illustrated an overpaid person’s garbage dump ideology about how to “fix” me or “fix” my generation.

“Leave me the fuck alone, I have the right to remain silent!” ought to be the battlecry for the Millennial generation.

It always seems like when people entice us to get up from our chairs to talk to us about doing something; it seems like when people get us to walk away from whatever meaningful thing we were doing at the time, for both ourselves and the real people to our left and right; it seems like the experiences we are promised to receive after we agree to abandon our own goals are NEVER, EVER what we get when we finally arrive to perform the incorporated tasks for people like Simon Sinek .

“Hey, if you could just do this thing for me real quick, that would be great,” incorporated people like Simon Sinek are quick to say.

No.  No, I think I’m good, Mr. Sinek.  Matter of fact, I just got a call from somebody named Washington, telephone extension 1776.  Some guy named Jefferson wrote something important, and he wants me to proofread it for him.  Something about independence or something, in a very very declarative tone.  Jefferson won’t be done with it until next year around the summertime.  Says he will need it finished by July.  Says he needs someone to engross it for him in August… whatever that means.

By the way, I’m taking an extended leave of absence for massive depression.

Your office building is really fucking depressing, and you don’t even follow your own rules that your own people invented in the first place.  If I want to walk into a climate controlled building, I’d rather be in a military history museum, or art gallery, or private laboratory or something… maybe even a strip club or whorehouse at this point.  At least the girls there “put out.”  All the girls here around the office just want to write me up on a Human Resources complaint because I wasn’t the right guy on the right day of the right month of the right year to flirt with them.  They keep leaving the residual derivatives of their birth control in the water I’m drinking out of the water fountain too, and my only other options are to either drink the water from that water cooler filled with black mold that’s supplied with those big bottles made out of the plastic that my body will slowly absorb, or risk drinking water out of that square retention pond outside by the “non-smoking nature trail,” whatever that means.

I guess what I am trying to say is that you can have your metaphorical binoculars and corporate ideological optics back, Mr. Sinek.  I guess this means you, your gypsies with their crystal balls, and your merchants with their incessant hand rubbing can get off my property now too.

I need some, uh, some Living Space, you know?  Some Lebensraum or something.

I think that’s what my crazy cousin called it a few years ago.  He called it that, and he hired one of my other cousins to train a bunch of modern day knights to make sure we got the Lebensraum.  The knights wore these S shaped things on their collars.  Another group of cousins had to learn how to jump out of planes, climb tall mountains, go on long walks in the desert, land on dangerous coastlines in small boats, use a bunch of different guns, flamethrowers, rocket launchers, and explosives.  Eventually they were ordered to go fight and murder my other cousins with these crazy looking knives designed by these two ex-cops named William E. Fairbairn and Eric A. Sykes.

Yeah, apparently my two groups of cousins suffered heavily.  People like you said that my cousins owed them a bunch of money or something, so they decided to start a war.  Just like you, these people claimed that they owned all of this fake money and debt that can’t be found anywhere except on paper in some weird looking guy’s bank filing cabinet, so they decided to start a war.  They also said that neither group was doing “enough” for their countries just like you’re saying, so they decided to start a war.

I can’t remember the details, really.  I could tell you more about it without sounding like a complete dumbass, but your corporate network administrators keep blocking me from researching the history behind it when I’m on my lunch breaks.

I think it was called The World War Two or something.

Anyway… “I’ve been here eight months, and I don’t think I’m making a big enough impact.  I quit.”

Bye, Simon.

A Disgruntled Millennial

Last Three Feet.  Win the mind, win the day.

The Fading Names Upon My Palm: Afghanistan Update 13 NOV 2012

(Originally written and published on 13 November, 2012, at a remote Village Stability Platform (VSP), Kandahar Province, Afghanistan.  Originally written to friends and family back in America.)

(Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan, or CJSOTF-A, required that no matter what, a Village Stability Platform or VSP always had to have one US Special Operations Forces Soldier on the premises.  I was that SOF Soldier, with six other conventional Army soldiers that day.  We had no medical personnel with us that day, and the rest of the reduced platoon-sized element was miles away.  This is our story.)

In times like these, the clock seems to stand still.  Yet when it’s over, one realizes just how much time has passed.  My eyes have grown weary.  The pots of coffee I have concocted continue to be made, with the utmost need to fill the coffee grounds filter to the limit.

The lines on my face feel more and more existent.  Some of our brothers are outside the wire as we hold down our Kandahar Province “Alamo.”  It’s our home, our fortress that was once a village elder’s large Qalat, or compound.  Its venerable mud walls shield us from prying Taliban and civilian eyes alike.  Seven men currently stand fast in this place while the rest have left to accomplish a mission.  We are the vanguard before they come back; we are on our own.

What transpired today will remain heavy, but for good in due time, on my heart.

It happened just before noon.  I had come from my four hour radio watch shift.  3 men accomplish this task in our operations center as we operate under the auspice of a skeleton crew.  The guard tower, what’s Mk 19 grenade machine gun and M249 Squad Automatic Weapon arm it; is occupied by the remaining 4 men.  A Special Operations Forces PSYOP Sergeant (me), some infantrymen, a cook, and a mechanic; we’re bonded by the hardship of “holding this shit down” while everyone else is gone.

I was just settling in to take a nap before I would have to come back on guard; when I got word that a MEDEVAC would need to be called.  My heart sank.  Just weeks ago, my comrade Sergeant Clinton Keith Ruiz was murdered by an Afghan Police Officer in a different province in Afghanistan.  This still weighed heavily on me.

At the moment, I tried running through the list of names, and the faces that held them.  The eyes, the smiles, the laughs of each of these men with whom I am bound by a cause, and a brotherhood.  Which one was it out there on that mission?  Was it gunfire?  An Improvised Explosive Device (IED)?  Something more sinister, like a rogue interpreter, or Afghan soldier who finally sank his cause’s teeth into an American soldier?

Quickly, I confirmed what this was.  Fortunately, I was quickly informed that it was actually two local civilians.  They had hit an IED, and were now outside our compound gate.  In a way, my feelings made more of a lateral move than a step forward or back in how my emotions ran.  This was still a bad situation.

We were undermanned, and we needed to think fast.  K, the other Sergeant still here, and I quickly formed a plan.  We were able to maintain security, keep at bay the worried and belligerent Afghans who brought the casualties here, keep the radio watch going, keep the tower manned, have the casualties brought in to the compound to be treated, and the other civilians who brought them here informed once this was complete.  We were “holding this shit down.”

B, an infantryman, and I began scrambling through the medical shed, grabbing and prepping all that we would need to treat and stabilize these two Afghans before a MEDEVAC bird could be called.  18 gauge intravenous needles, Ringer’s Lactate intravenous fluid, intravenous lines, medical tape, Ace bandages, tourniquets, rags, Combat Gauze, alcohol wipes, medical gloves, stretchers and saw horses on which they would lie, casualty feeder cards, blood pressure monitors, stethoscopes, trauma sheers, and numbers of other tools of the medical trade.

As it stands, when an American or partner nation military member is wounded, treatment does not have to be complete prior to a bird being called.  Time is of the essence to save a warrior’s life.  Civilian casualties, however, must be fully treated and stabilized in order to receive MEDEVAC.  This is to ensure all birds currently on station are being utilized at the utmost to support the fight, and the people fighting it.  It’s just the way it is; I don’t make the decisions.

My Combat Life Saver training, and other tidbits of medical knowledge, quickly flowed through the front lobe of my brain like some sort of fire hydrant completely open.  Tourniquets were applied to shattered legs.  I would tell them through my Afghan interpreter that the excruciating pain they felt from the tourniquets was a good thing.

“It means your leg is still alive, and the pain means the tourniquet is tight enough to stop your leg from bleeding.”

Ace bandages were wrapped around charred and bleeding shins that had been padded with hemostatic Combat Gauze.  The smell of blood and voided bowels have since been well known to my senses from this deployment; this situation was no different.  Afghan clothes were soaked with blood, one man had quite frankly shit himself, and his hand had been torn apart from the IED blast.  I maintained awareness of the situation, but tensions were high.

That being said, we were able to maintain a relative calmness frequently seen in a highly trained warrior doing the right thing.  We, as a group, hardly know each other except for a few weeks of interaction, but our just cause in protecting ourselves, innocent lives, and each other, rang true.  We were like a perfectly working machine, even without the years of team building.  I don’t even know some of my fellow soldiers’ first names, but today I was shoulder to shoulder with heroes, most of them less than 24 years old.

I took vitals on a man, counting his breaths, taking his pulse, constantly asking “Yuckh?  Yuckh?  Ya yuckh?  Jor-ee yuh?”  I would ask him in his native Pashto tonque.  “Cold?  Cold?  Not cold?  Okay?”  I was holding the man’s hand as he looked into my eyes, showing clear pain.  I didn’t want him to become cold, and go into shock.  He shook his head no.

“Ya.. ya..Jor-ee.”  No.. no.. I’m fine.

At one point before the helicopter arrived, he and I made hand gestures, coming to the conclusion that I should just put him in direct sunlight to stay warm.  I nodded, and helped get him there; his ankle was shattered, and the fracture had been open through the skin before we gave it a pressure dressing.

I ran to and from the treatment area and the operations center.  K, the other Sergeant, was busy sending up the MEDEVAC request while I relayed more administrative information to him.  He needed their names.  I quickly ran out to the treatment area, and with nothing but a permanent marker I had used to mark times on tourniquets, wrote the men’s names on the palm of my left hand: Sharafadin, and Sadullah.  Sadullah was beginning to get drowsy, and cold.  I made sure he was covered with a wool U.S. hospital blanket, and worked our interpreter to his limit, making sure he kept talking to the man to keep him awake.  I ran back to the operations center, and passed on the men’s names to K.  The bird was inbound.. Call Sign DUSTOFF.

We did what we could to stabilize them as best as possible, and scrambled to prepare to move them to our helicopter landing zone.  We were covered with their blood.  Used and broken medical gloves, gauze packets, used and bloody tourniquets, torn apart Afghan clothing; remnants of medical care laid everywhere in bloody heaps on the gravel that had been laid in the common areas of our qalat (Afghan compound).  We loaded the two men onto the civilian all terrain vehicles (ATVs) we press into military service.

D and I made our way to an RG-31, and readied it for landing zone security.  We could hear DUSTOFF coming, the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter’s rotors slapping through the sky, creating a static electricity that, had this taken place at night, would create an eerie spinning glow.  K and B moved toward the gate in one ATV as M brought the other.  Our interpreter was there every step of the way, keeping the worse man awake and talking.

DUSTOFF’s pilot strained his voice across the crackling, secured radio communications net, and we gave him the Landing Zone Brief.

“DUSTOFF, LZ is secure, no current threat assessed, method of marking is yellow smoke, and be advised that there is a tall object 70 meters to the west of the HLZ.  Popping smoke.”

DUSTOFF saw the smoke as it rushed from the smoke grenade.  I gunned the RG-31 armored truck out the gate with the ATVs quickly coming behind me.  The UH-60 Blackhawk plunged through a thick cloud of moon dust onto our Helicopter Landing Zone (HLZ).  D manned the M240 machine gun and minigun mounted in the RG-31’s turret as I maneuvered us into our security position.

The village next to us now gave us an audience, one of which I was careful to watch every few seconds.  Dozens of children and adults looked on as the dark machine dropped from the sky with a large red cross on a white background emblazoned along its fuselage.  We were not the first American warriors to sacrifice these moments of fleeting youth to save the innocent; we won’t be the last.

Yellow smoke from the M18 smoke grenade poured out to the west as the rotor wash sent smoke and Afghan moon dust everywhere.  The crew of the helicopter met K, M, and B as they made their way to the helicopter cabin with the casualties.  At this point, we were leaving their well-being in the hands of a higher power, and higher headquarters.  They’d be taking the men to a hospital to be treated.  I don’t think the helicopter was even on the ground for more than two minutes.  It went “wheels up” in another flurry of moon dust, and D seemed entranced by the sheer might and ability of our military and combined arms utilization.

Hours would pass, during which time I wiped down areas where bloody hands had touched surfaces.  Bio-hazardous materials like used gloves, tourniquets, used intravenous supplies, and clothes were burned in the burn barrel.  The medical and triage areas were again prepared for patients; the war doesn’t just stop after something like this.

In these processes, hand sanitizer managed to erase some of the writing on my palm.

I look down at my hands now, and see dirt and grime near permanently affixed to the creases and cracks in my weathered hands.  And on my left palm, the names of Sharafadin and Sadullah are all but gone except for where the ink had soaked deeply.  I feel though, that unlike their fading names, the two men will return to us, and their village, fixed and healthy; so long as their Afghan hospital allows proper healing and treatment to grace them.

Another day down in the history books kept in my mind.  I am expecting six more months of this place.. I’ll talk to you soon.


Who Were These Men?

(Note: This is an “internet draft” before the article goes to physical print. -EJH)

  • Daytime.
  • France.
  • January 1945.
  • Vosges Mountains region.
  • One of the coldest winters documented in this sector for many years, insomuch as a stranger like you knows.
  • The snow has finally stopped falling.
  • You cannot feel your fingers or your toes, and it has been that way for days.

A platoon of young American soldiers moves steadily through a village on fire.  For days, the village was shelled, shot at, besieged, taken by the enemy, liberated, retaken by the enemy; changing hands multiple times in hand to hand combat between Axis and Allied forces, until American forces could finally work their way into the town permanently.


The Germans?  They were men fighting to hold the village who had been in constant combat for years without pause.  They were young men assigned to arguably one of the toughest, best trained, best equipped elements in their entire sector in January 1945.  They were young men and teenage children of the 6. SS Gebirgsdivision “Nord” – the Waffen SS 6th Mountain Division “Nord.”  They were the spearhead of the last German offensive on the Western Front: Unternehmen Nordwind – Operation: North Wind.  They had traveled thousands of kilometers by all manner of transportation and on foot from the Arctic Circle to get here.  They had moved by rail through the Hell on earth that Germany had become in the wake of the constant day and night terror bombings over every major city.  Before they could reach France, they had already lost men to enemy aircraft when their train could not be completely covered and concealed in a tunnel.  It was a moment most of them had never experienced before because they were not used to dealing with enemy aircraft.  Spending years in constant combat against the Russians, away from their families, these men had achieved their objectives in the north.  They were able to stop the Communists from gaining access into the heart of the Third Reich by way of the Scandinavian corridor.  Now, they were on their last assignment: to stop Americans they had never met in their lives, many with names just like theirs, from breaching the West Wall, or Siegfried Line.

The Americans?  They were brand new, fresh to the entire European Theater of Operations.  They were young men from all over America.  Some had never finished high school.  Many had never left their home states, much less America, before becoming soldiers.  Some of them would never leave Europe after the war and are still there today, their bodies still buried in military cemeteries dotted around France; cemeteries for men who died in WWII that have since been completely forgotten by the collective memories of the average Baby Boomer, Generation X, Millennial, and Generation Z Americans: the last four major generations of America.  These American men were soldiers of the 2nd Battalion, 274th Infantry Regiment, 70th Infantry Division “Trailblazers.”  They had been in combat for less than a week when they faced the Waffen SS, and many of them lived to tell the tale.  They had only received standard combat loads of ammunition for their rifles, machine guns, and pistols a few weeks prior.  They were arguably the most combat inexperienced US Army infantry battalion in Europe that week, and they were certainly some of the most inexperienced men the Waffen SS soldiers of Nord would ever fight.  They were the freshest troops to face these Waffen SS soldiers since their years of constant combat that took place primarily in a land near the North Pole.  In spite of that, the Americans performed their duties without fail here and now in a remote mountain pass in France.


A cold wind blows across flames and smoke that rise from the remains of the Hotel Wenk, in the heart of the village of Wingen-sur-Moder, France.

Panicked civilians with infants and the elderly in their arms move swiftly toward evacuation points set up by the US Army Military Police unit attached to the operation.  Mothers and grandmothers carry with them clothes and blankets, and bottles of wine that will calm their nerves once they settle into large, open topped American 2.5 ton trucks that will rush them along slippery mountain roads to safety.

The civilians rush past the bodies of strangers lying all over their village.  Dead and dying young men, all of the same race, but all of whom spoke two different languages from two different cultures separated by an ocean, lay all over the town while wearing two completely different uniforms.  Their brothers in arms cannot stop to recover their remains at the moment.  A column of M4 Sherman tanks carefully maneuvers around dead young men wearing American and German uniforms.

The civilians move swiftly passed soldiers still conducting house to house clearing operations.  The American soldiers are using equipment and tactics to perform offensive urban warfare that would bewilder and downright terrify even the most experienced Special Forces soldiers in the Global War on Terror.

Two American soldiers pick up a handmade ladder made by the residents of the village as their actions are captured on film.  Their tired buddies look on while still trying to pull some semblance of tactical security as everyone stands in the confines of a slippery, cold, cramped alleyway choked by building rubble.  The men use the ladder to batter against a large wooden door to a house potentially occupied by German forces.  Behind them, two US Army Signal Corps combat cameramen capture the moment on both an A roll and a B roll of film for posterity.

The house door was designed and built with Medieval era carpentry standards to withstand generations of bad mountain weather and intruders.  The men have no breaching tools modern day soldiers and police officers are blessed with using, and arguably abuse and take for granted.  They have no night vision devices to aide them in their movement through the darkness of unlit Medieval buildings that had been shelled with artillery strikes that were called in without the benefit of Global Positioning Satellites.  They have no non-lethal explosives; any grenade thrown into an uncleared home could spell the death of innocents and enemies alike: men, women, children, elderly, puppies, and kittens.

The sector has to be taken.  The job has to be done.

As the civilians make their way under armed American escort to the large trucks that will carry them to a displaced civilian collection point, gunfire is still heard everywhere.  Wood smoke curls under the nose of every man, woman, and child.  The smell of gunpowder chokes every soul.  Snow drifts around the corpses of soldiers from each side of the battle.  Newer, fresher corpses of young men thrust into a war of complete and utter fratricide still sizzle and burn from explosions that took their lives.  Steam rises from the dying and the recently dead.  Every man still alive in this human slaughterhouse can see his own disgusting, military ration-fed breath in front of his face.

Gefallen Soldat des 6 SS Gebirgsdivision Nord in Wingen sur Moder Frankreich Januar 1945
(US National Archives)

The hopes and dreams of a French town have been gradually ground into a fine powder, soaked in European and American blood beneath fresh snow, in a region filled with weeks of constant combat separated into parts by days of quietness.


Heavy machine guns rattle in pounding succession from M4 Sherman tanks. Fifty caliber tracer bullets race across the valley, over a frozen stream, and into the trees of a mountainside nearby.  The sound rocks the entire village, echoing off any surface that is still intact after the constant shelling over the past several days.  The survivors of the Waffen SS forces have retreated to fight on another day (and they would fight on with honor for several more months until finally surrendering after being completely surrounded).

Hundreds of starving American prisoners swarm the liberated town square after rushing out of the basements of several buildings to include the basement of the Christian church.  For several days they were held captive with limited food and water.  The captors did not torture them, but many of their cold weather items, weapons, and foodstuffs were taken by a desperate enemy.

The day is coming to an end.  It’s getting colder.

It was a village like many others in France near the German border in World War Two, and it had been finally liberated of Axis control.

But who were the young American men who were behind this liberation?


The platoon stops for a moment in front of a combat cameraman.  The cameraman squeezes the trigger of his movie camera for one single, solitary, minuscule second as the men pose with a German National Socialist flag in their possession.  Decades later, a viewer of the film would have missed the moment had they blinked, rubbed their eyes, or looked away from watching the film footage.  For one brief second, one can see the moment from January 1945 flash onto their viewing screen.  It shows young American men who are somber but smiling, as they stand together in a crowd that shows the reduced numbers of a unit that sustained casualties.

Again, who were these soldiers?

Who were the young American men who, after days without any sleep and little to no food, rescued hundreds of American prisoners, and evacuated French civilians, all while battling some of Adolf Hitler’s toughest modern day knights who still walked the face of the earth? Who were these men of a battalion that earned the Presidential Unit Citation within its first week of combat in the Second World War?

Aftermath Wingen sur Moder Liberation Screenshot NARA Footage(US National Archives)

With tears wanting to flood my eyes, I desperately ask the world: who were they?


The Warrior Conclusion

What is The Warrior Conclusion?

“It is not a matter of agenda.  It is a matter of complacency.” -notes to myself, 2015

“If you are not prepared for war, you have already committed suicide, and you will go extinct.” -notes to myself, 2018

The Warrior Conclusion:
The Warrior Conclusion
(The Warrior Conclusion, copyright 2015 E. Julius Hauser)

The Warrior Conclusion was something I scribbled onto a piece of paper in April 2015. The idea rattled around in my head seven months after I left the US Army.  I envisioned a simplified, poetic set of statements that timelessly trace a man’s life from birth to death, from childhood to elderhood.

This idea came about after experiencing the hell of war as a soldier.  It came about after experiencing the human complacency found in an oxymoron called “civil society.”  I became discouraged when I witnessed this complacency.  The frustration was unbearable by the end of my first six months as an adult in a place called the American “civilian sector.”  I recognized and fully understood that there is a lack of connectivity between these two demonstrably similar realms of human existence: timeless war, and this so-called civil society.

The fact remains that no matter where we are on the planet, we are on the battlefield.  It is the truth, whether or not an individual chooses to occupy that space as a warrior in that timeless and eternal struggle.

Thus, The Warrior Conclusion was born.

Without knowledge, humanity is ignorant.  Knowledge without application is pointless.  The unwillingness to apply the lessons learned from war, in an ultimately struggling world, is downright human suicide.

If you are not prepared for war, you will become just like the bearded Afghan police officers, and just like the children and adults who I photographed in Farah Province, Afghanistan in 2011.

You will become adults and children alike, rich and poor alike, all fighting over a limited supply of educational materials.  The materials will be written in your own language that you can no longer read or write.  The materials will be produced and published by strangers who aren’t actually from your village or your tribe.  You will desperately fight over this limited supply of education, all while those same strangers observe you fighting each other, like the cannibalistic animals you have become.

You will be a rootless people in your own homeland.  You will kill someone in your own tribe, over pieces of paper with words and numbers that you cannot even read or comprehend.  You will kill them using the tools some stranger handed you.  By doing so, you will perpetuate an instability the stranger will then use for their own gain in some other far away place.

Recognize the literate stranger from a different part of the world, but first recognize the illiterate stranger you have become in your own village.

Warrior Conclusion B
(Photo credit: copyright E. Julius Hauser, Farah Province, Afghanistan, while conducting Village Stability Operations as a Special Operations Forces (SOF) soldier in Special Operations Task Force – West, Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan, OEF XVII, winter 2011.)

If you are not prepared for war, you have already committed suicide, and you will go extinct. -EJH

The US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) Is Currently A Swamp of Human Inadmissibility, & It’s Running Our Veterans into Oblivion!

“Schreite mit stolzer Geringschätzung durch den Pfuhl menschlicher Unzulässigkeit.”
-SS-Standartenführer Joachim Peiper

“Proceed with proud disdain through the swamp of human inadmissibility.”
-Waffen SS Colonel Joachim Peiper

(Let’s keep this one a work of fiction for the Hell of it in order to protect the innocent, and to allow us to work on making this experience a fiction instead of a reality.  Shall we?!

“Sure, Eric… this one is a work of fiction too, I guess.”


In a world full of gangsters wearing darkly colored suits, and gangbangers wearing pants that hang off their asses, beware of the man in feldgrau, and beware of the man in seersucker.

One of my drug dealers made a telephone call to the house yesterday.  They wanted to know where I was. I didn’t make it to the drug deal.

The truth is that I was too busy writing.  Writing is a therapeutic outlet that several of my previous drug dealers didn’t support, and an outlet that the current drug dealer turned into the punchline of their own joke.  Thus, I missed the drug deal yesterday with my Canadian-born drug dealer.

It was one of many drug deals I have missed over the last four years.  I have missed these drug deals in the past for various reasons to include memory loss, physical pain, and the inability to leave the house.  In the past, most of the other drug dealers were hardly persistent at wanting to know if I was still willing to work toward buying the drugs; or at the very least, to see if I was still alive in order to make me that offer.

However, this drug dealer is noticeably more persistent when trying to get me into their drug trap.  I believe a big reason for this is that the last 7 or 8 drug dealers didn’t actually have the ability to personally sell me the drugs.  All of the other drug dealers that I have dealt with have either directly or indirectly passed on this drug deal to the latest drug dealer.

To wit, I have seen over the last 2 years and more, about 8 other drug dealers in total regarding this particular drug deal.

The newest drug dealer brings this number to 9 if memory serves me correctly, with the majority of those drug deals taking place in the last 2 years on a consistent basis.  The particular importance of this newest drug dealer, that sets them apart from the others, is that this one has the ability to personally sell me drugs.

My drug dealer is my VA psychiatrist, and along with my polytrauma doctor, both of these women want me to take pharmaceutical drugs.

They, the VA psychiatrists and VA psychologists, have all been trying to push drugs onto me that I haven’t agreed to take yet, so they are still sniffing me out, trying to get my attention over the air waves, over the telephone, in the mail, and face to face.  They are trying to see if they can get me to buy their drugs with American Taxpayer money, get me hooked on those drugs, and place myself into a position where my mind is subdued of the awareness of physical and psychological pains that are very real, and very immobilizing.

They want me to be oblivious.  They want to lead me into oblivion.

Even my polytrauma and Traumatic Brain Injury doctor, perhaps the 10th drug dealer, is part of this problem.  She is a woman who quit the VA to move out of the country, and pursue something better because she “didn’t have enough control over decision-making” while working at the VA.  Instead of her finding a timely diagnosis of something that has clear evidence from my military career, over the span of multiple years and multiple military experiences, she took the easy way out of my situation.  Her last decision, before abandoning me for her rootless international medical career, was to also get me to take drugs in two different ways.  One way was orally with pharmaceutical pain killers, and the other was by having a laboratory soup including steroids injected directly into my neck near my brain stem.

In addition to that, this expatriating doctor also shuffled the onus of her responsibility for my yet to be determined, full diagnosis onto her nurse.  She told me that her nurse, another US military veteran if memory serves me correctly, would be able to help me modify my paperwork to state the right things, in the right order, to a different department of the VA that handles disability compensation.  In doing so, her name would not have to stand out anywhere, but I would have a slightly better chance to get a proper diagnosis and disability rating.

This is something that I have been patiently awaiting.  It’s something that I have been waiting for patiently, regardless of what that woman thinks as my doctor.  I have been waiting for an amount of time that I presently do not wish to share, because it’s just that disgusting.  I will give a hint: it is an amount of time equal to the average first term, active duty, military service enlistment contract for the US Army.  It is this amount of time because the experiences occurred starting in Basic Training.  It’s that amount of time, plus four years of civilian life.

In the midst of this controversy, I had still been going to physical therapy for that which has yet to be diagnosed.  All of this chaos, for the record, is an all expenses paid personal Hell I experience that gets paid for by the American Taxpayers, and I am not the only veteran experiencing it.  Far from it.

So after four years of fighting this war of civilian life, a war that I get to suffer alone in my own mind and body, a war that I have to suffer alone because it’s at a government hospital that the average citizen never visits, I have reached a pinnacle of the worst kind.

The pinnacle and culmination of my efforts in my own personal, lonely war have reached a plateau that includes, in the main, two overly licensed, overly trained, overly paid, legally sanctioned, and legally protected drug dealers trying to peddle drugs on me.  Drugs that are peddled at the expense of the US Taxpayer.

One drug dealer isn’t originally from this country, and she happens to hale from a country that is known for its cross-border drug dealing into America.  It is drug dealing that falls legally within the parameters of the globalist, pharmaceutical drug industry agenda.

The other drug dealer happens to be someone who did not agree with the parameters of the VA when handling a veteran’s disability proceedings, and if memory serves me correctly, she happens to be expatriating from the United States of America at the time of this article’s publishing.

If my stupid, time consuming, taxpayer money-wasting college education that I didn’t finish taught me anything, it’s that I should have a thesis statement for every other stupid aspect of my life.  That thesis statement is this:

“Two women, two ex-patriots, are trying to deal drugs to an American patriot, instead of doing the right thing by helping him get paid what he is owed, and by helping him explore treatment options that don’t change his brain chemistry in ways that might be permanent.”

It’s quite the anecdotal experience, wouldn’t you say?

Some will absolutely call me paranoid and delusional after reading this article, and I believe that someone who thinks this would think so because of two key reasons:

One reason is that our society is now so very accustomed to the Communistic approach of spending other people’s money, after it has been extracted from them by the barrel of a gun (taxes).

The second reason is that our society is now so very accustomed to mindlessly accepting the fact that every other person we see in our daily activities may or may not be “high” or “low” on some foreign substance that flows through their bloodstreams, and into their brains, making them behave in ways that are not naturally occurring following their birth.

By doing it this way, the easier way for the US federal government, but the humanly disgusting way for the sake of the veterans and the citizens who still care about them in America, the VA doesn’t have to pay any additional money to the veterans.  They can even start downgrading disability ratings since the drugs make the veteran “better,” and they won’t necessarily have to treat a veteran for mental and physical ailments or pain that the veteran’s brain is no longer registering as a real problem.  If the pain is temporarily gone, the oblivious veteran will go away sheepishly until their drug supply runs out.

However, because the drug dealing is still “something” the VA is doing while it interacts with a veteran, the VA can continue to justify its existence with as little amount of effort required.  It can continue hiring more drug pushers and drug dealers as well, perpetuating the motion of this global pharmaceutical agenda.

If that agenda can keep me away from the taxpayer money that I could have been using to stop this chaos, and instead it refills my drug supply once in a while with drugs it purchased at inflated market value, using a different pool of taxpayer money; if it can do those things, the government and the lobbyists behind this scheme can perpetuate the chaos within the system by keeping the steady supply of drugs and taxes flowing.

The VA carries out this act of psychological and political warfare on behalf of the agenda controlling it, by generating the psychiatry, psychology, and pharmacy paperwork stating I am “better,” so long as I keep getting fed these drugs.  These are drugs that are sometimes tested on veterans before going to the civilian market, just to add insult to injury.  If you don’t believe the latter, ask a Desert Storm era military veteran to tell you about the mystery substances they had injected into their bodies, that aren’t listed correctly on their permanent medical records.

This paper trail will then become the vehicle that compels the continued expenditure of US Taxpayer dollars.

Ultimately, the US Taxpayers’ war chests suffer, and the VA continues to grow as it constantly evolves into something new with each and every voter cycle.  I don’t just mean citizens voting either.  I mean government voting cycles, which happen all the time, almost daily.  Behind all of that, the agenda controlling this chaos, and the individuals controlling that agenda, all profit from it, even at the international level.

I have a lot more I want to type, but like I said, this article is a work of fiction, remember?

It’s all just a bunch of funny, entertaining make-believe that isn’t discussing the ruination of the real lives of our real warriors, who suffer through what is tantamount to real crimes against humanity, and real crimes against the peace.

(At this time, the Laughter and Applause signs light up before the live studio audience.  You laugh uncontrollably without thinking, and you clap your hands.  You clap harder, competing with your neighbors sitting around you to see who can clap the loudest.  It’s all just a big, stupid, fictional variety show, and I happen to be the current act.)

After over two years of dealing with this specific, so-called drug dealer problem, and after pondering suicide when I start thinking too deeply about it, I am simply going to leave all of you with the following statements that speak beyond myself as an individual.  I also leave you with a call to act properly and accordingly, based upon those statements.  These statements speak for the general audience of America, for its veteran population as a whole, and for all NATO veterans who have also suffered tremendously under the Article 5 and Non Article 5 missions in the current Global War on Terrorism.

I am leaving you with these statements and call to action now, so that I do not decide in the future to start walking down yet another dark path of suicide and violence.  Please let me leave it at this, please let my freedom of speech sound off loud and true without fear of reprisal or censorship, and please let me go back to doing something more productive.

  • The statements:

The organization known as the United States Department of Veterans Affairs, or VA for short, is not designed to positively end the suffering of military veterans in a timely manner, in its current state of existence.

The VA is not designed to financially compensate disabled military veterans for bearing that burden of suffering in a proper and timely manner, in its current state of existence.

This truth is by design, and this truth is currently being mastered and commandeered by an openly leftist, rootless, political, Communistic agenda that ensures it will continue to be this way.

If you don’t believe me, read the patient code of conduct found at any VA hospital.  The second a veteran patient shows even a remote sign of emotion or outburst that may be a direct result of our ailments, we are to be arrested, held against our will, sometimes escorted off the premises, and in some cases revoked of our rights as patients and Americans at that facility.  Not only does this hurt the veterans crying out in pain, but it also hurts the uniformed police who have to carry out these reprisals because a vast number of VA Police are also veterans.

The President, Governors, Congress, Senators, and the House of Representatives are all complicit in all of this, and have been complicit long before the current Commander-in-Chief was elected into office.  So don’t start with me with the Trump and Hillary debate,  don’t start with me with the DeSantis and Gillum debate, and do not try to lead me off topic with whatever is going on in current events being covered by the mainstream news media.  I will not be swayed from speaking on behalf of those who are most important in our country’s survival: our veterans, and their families who love them.

I have yet to hear about any of those politicians I just mentioned having ever visited the Congressman CW “Bill” Young Medical Center at Bay Pines, FL in the last three years.  Since I have been interacting with the facility, and in the four years since I have become an adult civilian, I haven’t heard anything about it, and I’ve been asking plenty of the right people.  I pray that I am misinformed.

Those politicians are part of this agenda, regardless of the letter next to their name that denotes their political affiliation.  I am telling this truth to all of you, whether or not any of you is willing to accept that truth.

If America’s political situation started and ended each day with the welfare of our warriors, things would make a lot more sense in America.  I can absolutely guarantee that.  It would positively affect every single aspect of regular American life beyond any specific charity group or other special interest group.

  • The call to act:

Before you read what I am about to tell you, I ask that you stand up if you are sitting, or to remain standing if you are already standing.


You, the American people, and the elected leaders I just mentioned, may now make two choices.  There are ONLY TWO, the decisions are IRREVERSIBLE, and I cannot guarantee the future of this country if you make the wrong decision:

Decision A) You accept the truth I am conveying to you all, and you act upon that truth in a just, honorable, and most importantly in a loving manner.  Fight within your own limitations with honor against the war that is being waged within the mind and in the streets.  It is radical revolutionary war that is sowing the seeds of a civil war, and it is a war that is corrupting the minds and bodies of our most precious people: our veterans.
By choosing this option to fight, America succeeds in positively affecting the lives of the warriors who guaranteed this country’s existence.  As of the date of this article’s publishing, those warriors have continuously done this without fail, ever since those warriors fired the first shots in defense of America to the tune of 243 years, 6 months, and 8 days ago.

Decision B) You do not accept the truth I am conveying to you all, nor do you act upon that truth in a just, honorable, and loving manner.  You continue to behave poorly at the expense of our veterans and their families, and at the expense of the ever dwindling purchasing power of the money that is taxed from you every pay period, during every commercial sale, each and every day.
By choosing this option to not fight, America’s veterans continue to suffer, and continue to kill themselves at a rate of 20 to 30 or more suicides on average per day.  A platoon of men and women will continue taking their own lives each day, an action more effective than what any uniformed enemy, or partisan terrorist enemy has ever done on the battlefield, in the history of the United States of America.  In addition, our economy will continue to be robbed blind, with a blindness so terrible that government employees will not understand the full weight of this action until it is too late.  They too are just “following orders.”  Our economy will collapse much like 1929 America, or the Weimar Republic in Germany following World War One.  The mind altering drugs, however, the hard stuff, will most certainly continue to flow “legitimately” in pill form from Canada, and “illegitimately” in powder and leaf form from Mexico.  The drugs will flow freely in order to keep all of you docile, unstable, and wracked with criminal records that will delegitimize your voices in the public eye, and to continue the justification of a growing tyranny.

You now must choose.  Right now.  Stop moving your mouse wheels.  Stop masturbating your smart devices with your thumbs and fingers.  Make a decision.


In a world full of gangsters wearing darkly colored suits, and gangbangers wearing pants that hang off their asses, beware of the man in feldgrau, and beware of the man in seersucker.

ACU for OEF XIX 2012
(The author in summer 2012, photographed before the second of his 3 deployments to war.)

image1 - Copy
(The author in fall 2018, photographed during the annual Florida Gold Star Families Day of Remembrance, an event that takes place every year across the nation during Gold Star Families Remembrance Week.)

Airborne.  Win the mind, win the day.  Last Three Feet.

Remarks complete.