My dad liked to tell me and my brother
About his time in the Army
As he cut our hair skinhead short in the chair
In front of the frosty window
With the great view of Motherfucking, Alberta.
Unlike today, the Free World was taking it easy
On the Muslim Suicide Loons in those days
So all he killed was time in his uniformed years.
"Canada was a killing machine
Back then Beer," my dad told us
As he scraped our skulls with his dull hand clippers.
"There were wars every fucking place
Until Canada became a Killing Machine.
Mussolini, Hitler and all the rest of the
Commie motherfuckers dug their own graves
And jumped straight in when they heard the
Thunder of Manitoba coming their way."
I might have joined the Army too
Except for the skinhead haircuts
And all the French fuckers shouting orders.
"All the Army wants to hear out of you is
Oui, Oui, Oui. That was no place for me.
It is just a matter of time before they
Let cunts join the army Beer.
Fat stinking French cunts.
What the fuck kind of Army is that?"
3 comments:
Fine stuff, this, Beer.
Kind of funny in this era of fashionable skins, sported by small boys in awe of WWF theatrics; my own son won't let anyone else cut his hair but me. He lives in fear of any clipper guard below an '8' or '6'.
When he was six his hair was as long as a girl's and I left it until he decided for himself that he wanted it trimmed.
I am glad that both he and my stepson have appeared to have grown out of their wanting to sign up for the army phase.
This coincided with their realization that many young men were returning in bits from Iraq and Afghanistan. Or zipped up inside body bags.
These days they are merely content to blow the fuck out of everything on an X-Box 360. At least you get the opportunity to replay the mission should it all go tits up. At least you can pause the moment on demand and slink off to empty a tall glass of lemonade. Or take a piss without constantly looking over one shoulder.
Of course. I would not want to take part in a middle eastern conflict myself. The uniforms look swell; it is just the soundtrack I can't abide.
Army culture is not nearly as pervasive in Canada as it is in Britain or its overfed ex-colony to the south of my icehole. Once you get away from base towns you rarely see any sign of the uniform. And when you do it is usually an APC broken down at the side of the highway. So when my dad left the army, but not its culture behind, when he figured out they were screwing him, my brother and I were the only children to see the "0" razor every couple of weeks. There were not too many other homes with a picture of the Queen hanging above the fireplace either. When questioned about the Queen's prominent place in our home by guests (no one in the family would dare) my dad would say something like, "Would you like it better if some fucking raghead were hanging there? Because without the Queen and everything she stands for we would all be roasting new born white babies over an open fire like they do in Moscow during their frequent food shortages. God Save the Fucking Queen is what I say."
A decade or so back, just before my grandad finally bit the - smoking related - bullet, I went so far as to give myself a #1. The shortest I've ever dared go. He thought it mildly hilarious; like something out of the old Stalinist Soviet brigade he'd fled in the first place, only to be deposited in Arnhem after a brief stint here in Scotland.
"Of course, those bastards had head lice," he took glee in telling me, being inordinately proud of his (then) Erroll Flynn type do. In later years he frequently blamed his cruelly advancing male pattern baldness on his being forced to wear a helmet.
Given that he'd been taught by jesuits, I always thought it quite ridiculous that he became something of a royalist after hooking up with my old gran.
Well. No doubt he'd have found a thing or two in common with your dad. So long as the whisky was strictly rationed.
Oh, "the filth and the fury"...
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