Fanboy

This Brit TV guy was talking to Trump about his military service – or lack thereof – in Vietnam and ol' Don gave the dude his best thinking face and reached back and gave him a high hard one.

“I was never a fan of that war, generally,” he came up with, which certainly settles any questions about draft-dodging, even though he had four student deferments and a kingpin one for bone spurs from a doctor-tenant of his slumlord father, Fred. 

Then, for good measure, Don noted for the record that Vietnam is “far away” and that nobody had ever heard of it – except maybe all those kids who got killed there – and that he would have been “honored” to serve in a more fan-friendly war like WWII.

Cool beans, Don. If you weren't a fan of that little far away unheard-of war, there is certainly no reason you should have even considered going over there. I think there is even a sentence in the Uniform Code of Military Justice that says: “Potential military service is necessarily limited to only those who are 'fans' of a particular conflict.”

And as far as not being a Vietnam fan, “generally,” I guess that means as far as particulars, he might have even had some fan inclinations. But those damn bone spurs kept us from ever finding out.

Personally, I think Trump would have made a hell of a soldier. He has shown the discipline, rigorous thinking, tactical prowess, and undeniable physical courage that doubtless would have had him vying with Ike to run D-Day if we had been fortunate enough to have had him in that little dustup.

Let me give you a personal example of the kind of military genius Trump would have been, if he had only been given a fan's choice. When I was in Korea, the war was over, but once in a while the North Koreans would send over what we called “ridge-runners,” ambush teams that would strafe a Yankee jeep with automatic weapons and then haul ass back over the 38^thparallel.

We were pretty close to the DMZ, so it could get edgy at times. Add to that the fact that we had a battle group commander who would occasionally get drunk and set off various alerts just to see everybody go nuts.

One payday Saturday night, everybody was either in the village or pretty drunk on post. I was in one of the line companies playing cards when all of a sudden the biggest alarm there was went off. With casually military racist precision, the Chinese had been dubbed “Joe Chink.”

This was the “Joe Chink Is Coming!” alert and everybody made for their battle stations. Mine was the personnel section where I worked. When I got there this little weasily sergeant who ran personnel was getting all the pay records ready to be shipped to safety at Pusan. Joe Chink or not, this dude wanted to get paid. 

“Sarge,” this PFC said, “we ain't got any vehicle to put this shit in!”

“You go out on that there road, son,” Sergeant Weasel said. “And stop the first thing that comes by and commandeer it.”

“What if they won't give it up, Sarge?”

“Then shoot the motherfuckers and take it!”

That is a command decision that Cadet Bone Spurs would have made in a heartbeat. He's a big fan of getting paid, you know.