DEAR PRESIDENT TRUMP — Humbly I throw my hat (the one with the moose antlers, human eyeballs, spikes and barbed wire?) into the ring.
I understand you’ve brought back the Department of War. I ask to be anointed as your next cabinet pick, to work with Pete Hegseth, Secretary of Defense. If we need a Secretary of Surrender & Groveling, we can call Bernie Sanders. BTW. Have you noticed, sir, that “Secretary of War” abbreviates to “SOW” like the female farm piggie? If I may politely suggest, instead of calling me your, “SOW,” my personal pronoun is:
JOHN BOSTON: SCOURGE OF GOSH
I wouldn’t tempt The Almighty Himself, especially in the midst of battle, taking His name in vain. So. If you wouldn’t mind, please use, “Scourge of Gosh” as my title. It’s still, “SOG,” but it’s better than “SOW.” I also like, “John Boston: Scourge of the Lone Prairie.”
Question, sir. Changing “Defense” to “War?” Isn’t that going to cost us a trillion-six in letterhead alone? Couldn’t we have everyone, from private to chief of staff, just take a Sharpie marking pen and scribble the change in manually until it’s time to order new business cards or purchase orders?
I know. I know. But one Army Sharpie costs $12,018.
Speaking of moolah, how about more war funding for horses and new uniforms — something more barbarianesque to put the fear of the holy moly into our pagan enemies? I have a list. Bear, tiger, leopard or appropriately fierce endangered species fur capes. Horned helmets. Well. Not for those on submarine duty. You don’t want to trip over your own clumsy feet at 40,000 leagues under the sea and plunge a hole the size of a wine bottle in a nuclear submersible. As Secretary of War, I’d like to bring back the battleax. Not the overweight scolding Palmdale trailer park fisher wife in the curlers and fuzzy bedroom slippers, rather, the Viking noggin-splitter although who wouldn’t retreat in panic after encountering a sea of shrill, fault-finding house-fraus on the first wave of attack?
Think of the positive PR YouTube videos of our cavalry, waving sabers and galloping in after the smoke clears from a bunker-busting bomb to pillage and capture slaves to the beautiful music of the widows’ lamentations.
Looting. There you go. Talk about bringing back a time-honored military tradition! Think of the boon to our American economy, capturing thousands of POWs and forcing them to work back here at home? An Egg McMuffin would end up costing a dime. Like it’s supposed to.
I know my own housekeeper is getting a little long in the tooth. She’s 28. From Cuba. Slowing down. Also? I sense sometimes, Mrs. Castro has a little attitude. Last week, she missed an entire bookshelf while dusting. The way things are escalating in the Russia/Ukraine thing, I’ll bet I could bring home, as a spoil of war, a fetching 19-year-old Russian tennis star to clean the pool for spare change and fight the dog for table scraps.
We’ll need to change the military’s vernacular. We’ll stop calling a “battalion” a “battalion” and refer to it as a, “horde” or, perhaps, a “goshless horde.” We’ll eliminate the rank of sergeant, replacing it with, “Mantooth, Soul Eater From Perdition.” Much more terrifying.
Not to take a pot shot at your current Secretary of Defense, “Pistol” Pete Hegseth, but we have a woosie problem in America’s officer corps. The monocles. The chest medals for basket weaving. The thigh-high riding boot and crops. Going the opposite direction of the Obama/Biden years, we should mandate that all above the rank of second lieutenant have dueling scars. Above the eyebrow. Not on the butt. Sends the wrong message.
Like the Obama/Biden edicts, it could be an elective surgery. But, instead of T.F.M.G.R. (Taxpayer Funded Major Glandular Relocation), you just snip off half an eyebrow.
Mr. President. We also need a Dog of War.
No. Lhasa. Apsos. Period.
This is not meant to rouse the sensitive Left, but, as a deterrent, we should construct a towering Mountain of Human Skulls somewhere. Like in our 51st state, Alberta. Think of the tourist dollars. Heck. I’d hop in the Jeep and drive up there to F.C. (Formerly Canada) just to get the refrigerator magnet.
As Secretary of War, I’d reintroduce looting. It’d save us billions in military overtime. (You ARE paying our soldiers overtime currently — aren’t you, Mr. President?)
Let’s say tomorrow, we’re forced, for humanitarian reasons, to conquer, oh, say — Monaco — after they’ve allegedly spewed discouraging words about how Taylor Swift’s songs all sound annoyingly nasal. We’d invade. Our brave soldiers, instead of getting checks on the 1st and 15th, get to confiscate a casino chandelier, vacationing Swedish stewardesses (two per corporal) or Bugatti. America’s free market would open more Bugatti dealerships, just to handle the oil changes.
Good for the economy. Good for morale.
Can I wear a cape? No disrespect. When I visit you at the White House, I’ll wear my regular War Department uniform with the moose/detached eyeball helmet or a sensible Ross Dress for Less business suit, being careful not to tuck the coat into the pants and not like that Ukrainian stand-up comic/president who shows up in a tank top, skimpy Eurotrash Speedos and flip flops.
Oh. Know what else? No more barracks. We go Old School. Our warriors go back to sleeping in Dark Ages Mongolian animal pelt teepees with smaller tents for the naughty ladies, happily plying their trade for a now-useless Monaco casino chip.
I know I’ll have to prove myself. But, if I do well? Would you consider promoting me some day to a position with a little more responsibility? Like — Intergalactic — War Lord …?
Oh. One last favor, Mr. President? I strongly suggest we appoint one of the dearest souls to ever walk the blessed soil of America as our PAFGC — Permanent Armed Forces General Chaplain. That would be, of course, the young man with that great smile and kind heart for all, Charlie Kirk. Of all his stellar qualities, Charlie always managed to remind us what a great country this is and that no matter how great the disaster, the trials, the tragedies — we can still laugh, be grateful and good-naturedly kid one another. Plus, he’s currently in a great, centrally located position, to pass along our prayers and send down answers, suggestions and inspiration.
As always, thanks for listening, Mr. President. I remain …
John Boston, with more than 100 writing awards, is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch, coming this fall on johnboston-books.com.
