ONE THING THAT BOTHERED ME: that black kid getting away. As much as it provokes reverential pleasure each time I behold the orderliness by which ewe ess guv is capable of processing its own sons for slaughter, when one escapes who by all accounts is in need of snuffing out--like that spastic, conscientious brother from South Berkeley--my heart of cooled magma droops. No hundreds of thousands of exceptional specimens, offered up on the draft altar to the gnashing jaws of war, can lift it in its igneous heaviness . . . all because of the infinitesimal exceptionalness of one who got away.
He might have gone the way of the geese at winter's end; gone off to gookville, like a good ram, for his feedbag of shrapnel; or even turned political (ewe!) and burned his ticket--purchasing with his fifteen seconds of street theater an express transfer to Port Penitentiary, where draft-dodge martyrs embark on a relaxing, three-year tour. Whatever route he might have taken, he would have been out of the way! As it turns out, in spite of my considerable connections in the upper echelons of random drawings and luckless lotteries, his number didn't come up.
pssst. . .sign the guestbook!