Dependence Day 2012

Last night we met my wife’s daughter and her friends on Collins Avenue, for a not so good dinner. The company was delightful; but the food was expensive and mediocre. Sounds like our government. Afterward we left Miami Beach, slightly tired, totally sober and dreading the fifty-five minute drive home.

Three and a half hours later we arrived. Now I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but this extended trip had nothing to do with my inability to find my way home or any kind of time warp thingy. As we arrived on MacArthur Causeway, we were not attacked by zombies, but found ourselves trapped in, bumper to bumper traffic. It only moved at about five miles an hour when it bothered to move at all.

For over two hours, we sat in this traffic and we moved only three miles. I saw two wrecks, and at least thirty cars abandoned on the side of the road. They had probably overheated or simply run out of gas. Ellie Mae, my old car, was running on fumes, and I had an overwhelming desire to take care of that bodily function I should have taken care of before leaving the restaurant. Sorry, I had to do number one.

My wife and I enjoy our time together and spent it looking at cars and talking about what kind we might buy her. There were scattered road construction signs alongside the way, giving the impression this was actually road construction or perhaps a horrific wreck.

At the end, we found a small army of police officers who were converging three lanes down to one, then performing a sobriety check. How many people were late for work, dinners and other engagements? What would have happened if someone had gone into labor or had a heart attack? What if an eyeball eating zombie had decided to go on another rampage?

I know drunk driving is a problem, and I know it needs to be dealt with. Is this the way to do it? Must the freedom of the many, be so trampled, by the lack of responsibility of the few? Is this protect and serve or another example of fund raising in America?

I remember when there actually needed to be probable cause for your car or home to be searched. Now probable cause is more specifically described as prejudice and left up to the discretion of the officer on the scene. Common courtesy is also a thing of the past, as now anyone with a gun or some other form of civil authority can speak to you in any way they choose. Last night was a prime example of guilty until proven innocent.

I’ve been accused recently of complaining, isn’t that what all columnist do? It’s the only way we can shock the masses from their slumbering ignorance. Just because, your rights aren’t being trampled, at the moment, doesn’t mean you’re not next. I was told it serves no purpose to complain if you cannot offer solutions. If I or anyone else knew the answers, there would be no problems. Still, I’ll give it a go.

How about we start a second government, to ride shotgun over the current one? Someone needs to rein them in. Good lord that was a joke and not a particularly pleasant one. How about we destroy all the houses and build enough prisons to house everyone. If they only allow us to get out for work each day in a kind of work release program, just think of how much money could be saved. This would put an end to all our self righteous ideas about the freedom and rights we were born with. It would make things much easier for those redefining the constitution. I dare say we would become fabulous, fast friends with Russia, China, Cuba and those to the far left or right.

We have put man on the moon, how about a car that cannot be driven by a drunk person? We already have those annoying alarms.

“Please step away from the vehicle.” I hate those things. How about an alarm for those who don’t care about their own safety or the safety of others?

“Please step your ignorant, drunk rear end away from the vehicle.”

We have certainly lost so much of our personal freedom and any belief that we can make the simplest decisions on our own, that we won’t mind a car deciding if we are sober or smart enough to drive. You didn’t know I was going to add that smart enough thing in there. This part will keep the ignorant from driving and will bring DC to a standstill. This would be not far removed, from where it has been most of my life.

I’ll always remember where I was on July 4, 2012, I was on MacArthur Causeway celebrating dependence day.  

Americanism

As I start this, I know I’ll be accused of supporting one party, in fact, there is only one party. I’ll be called a communist, which I most certainly am not, by people who think exercising free speech, is communism. I’ll get several letters, chock full of political bull, explaining exactly why I’m wrong.

It’s what we do. It’s why the Germans used the Jewish to control and cremate their own people. The oppressors control the oppressed and have throughout history. The government continues to single out and figure out, those who refuse to stop struggling. Why, to impose new, regulations designed to strangle the truth out of those who dare believe in, or support the constitution.  During George Junior’s tenure as President, fifty thousand new regulations were added. It takes thousands of people and tax dollars to wade through the stockyard like, smell of it all. The idea seems to be to regulate every breath we take, every move we make. Then they can allow the chosen, to break those regulations while reserving the right to prosecute the rest of us, if we dare to.

Three of my favorite quotes.

“You see, you and I, we believe in life, but you want to fight for it, to kill for it. Even to die… for life. I only want to live it.” Any Rand

"The citizen who thinks he sees that the commonwealth's political clothes are worn out, and yet holds his peace and does not agitate for a new suit, is disloyal, he is a traitor.” Mark Twain

        “First they came for the communists, and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for
me and there was no one left to speak out for me.” Pastor Martin Niemöller

Two things inspired this column. The Miami Heat won the national championship. On Monday, there was a parade in their honor. Traffic was stopped for thirty square miles around the arena. The arena is located at the intersection of several interstates and turnpikes; everything was at a standstill. Any bridge with a view of the arena was covered with stopped cars, bringing the entire city of 5.5 million people to its knees. The people stopped on the bridges of the interstate, prove in some ways, that we are stupid enough to need all the regulations being passed. I’m not condemning what happened, the Heat deserved the parade.

On Tuesday President Obama appeared in Miami Beach at the Fillmore before a crowd of 2300 people. There was no traffic jam, and, in fact, I was a block away and would never have known anything of any consequence was going on, if I hadn’t been paying attention that is. There were more secret service agents and dogs than attendees. As long as the government continues to create endless, useless and mindless laws and regulations, they will continue to be afforded less regard and respect.

The second reason is two e-mails I received from seemingly intelligent and informed friends and family. The first is dozens of, before and after Obama statements. Don’t you read this stuff before you send it? Over half were wrong and I’ll only use the most idiotic one, to make my point. Before Obama, gas $1.61, after Obama, gas $4.85. Am I the only one who remembers $5.00 a gallon gas during the Bush administration?

The other is a cartoon called, Make Mine Freedom, produced in 1948. It features a tall, thin dark person who is trying to shove some form of ism, down the American public’s throats. People are claiming it’s someone’s prediction or warning about Obama. It was written by some highly educated idiot 13 years before Obama was born, give me a break.

There are hundreds of ism’s, some good, some bad and some worse. I’m tired of hearing that the welfare and health care systems belong to one party and equates to socialism. The welfare state was designed by and is a direct expression of, America’s Christian values. We are our brother’s keeper. You cannot continue to preach from one side of your mouth while complaining about programs that help the poor, from the other. You believe, or you don’t, it’s as simple as that.

I, myself believe in Americanism’s like freedom of speech. I will exercise this freedom as long as I am allowed to do so. When someone tries to shove a line of bull poopie down my throat, I will recognize the taste and spit it out. In 1957, in the book, Atlas Shrugged, Any Rand predicted our destination and we have arrived at the exact destination she predicted. Don’t act shocked at what you see, we dreamed and created it. 

 

Plundering in Paris Florida

Plundering in Paris Florida

There seems to be some confusion about Miami Beach, I’m here to clear it up. Miami Beach is a city and an island, off the coast of Florida. South Beach or Sobe is Miami Beach’s beach, AAARRRRGGGG. I’m lost and I’m sitting in Lummus Park with Sobe on one side and Ocean Drive on the other, while writing this. Ocean Drive is the year round Mardi gras which runs for fifteen blocks along Sobe. As if this isn’t enough, the area is known as, the Paris of America. I understand why, it’s similar, but the women wear less clothing and shave their legs and arm pits.

I have been here a short time, but am constantly asked for directions. I’ve had people ask me directions to South Beach while standing on Ocean Drive.

“Walk a hundred yards and you’ll fall into the Atlantic, when you get out, you’ll have magically arrived on South Beach.”

 I’ve had people ask me where Miami Beach is, while standing on South Beach in the city of Miami Beach.

“Sorry man you got off the plane at the wrong stop, Miami Beach is in St. Augustine.”

Look it’s easy really, just fly into Miami, get into a cab, mumble Ocean Drive, the cab driver is going to ask, AARRGG, what’s in your wallet, and he’s gonna expect a large portion of whatever is. Go into Wet Willie’s and order a drink they call, call-a-cab and you’ll forget to remember where you are, at all. You’ll have a great vacation, but will have a terrible time explaining exactly where you went. That last thing is going to happen if you drink or not, might as well have fun.

“I woke up with receipts in my wallet from bars on South beach, Miami Beach and Ocean Drive; I guess I went to all three places. I had a great time, I think.”

If it can been seen, it can be seen on Ocean Drive. Here you will find some of the most beautiful and not so beautiful people in the world. Like dancing bikini guy, just imagine Newt Gingrich belly dancing on the sidewalk in a bikini and you pretty much have the sick, twisted picture. He’s a fixture and has been dancing on Ocean Drive for years. Dust puffs from his thong as he undulates, but people throw him money, and he makes more than most of us, ever will.

On Ocean Drive you can sit in a five star restaurant, have steak and lobster, drink a drink named lobotomy and watch the beach and beach volley ball, all at the same time. Remember those one piece bathing suits of the twenties that caused such a scandal? Yeah, then the bikini was invented, life is good. Then came the thong, bar napkins actually contain more cloth. They cost so much, that here, you must buy a bikini in sections, fifty bucks for each piece. Back in the day, girls or guys wearing thongs would have been burned as witches. While nude sun bathing is illegal, the cops figuratively not literally look the other way, it’s pretty common.

If you’re lucky, while having a lobotomy or calling a cab, the stars, moons, and planets will align, and you’ll get to see all three, at one time. Don’t try to imagine topless beach volley ball, no good can come from it. Ocean Drive is much like visiting the Zoo, there are amazing, exotic, wild animals of every shape, size, color and gender. You don’t walk along and wonder at the caged animals, but get to become one of them, if you dare. I imagine that’s what happened to dancin bikini guy, he probably came here from Minnesota, bought a call-a-cab, a bikini and then forgot to remember, to go back to Deer Park Minnesota.

 It’s crazy to see entire families visiting South Beach. I’m sure there are things for the kiddies to do, not. The young girls are probably frightened and keep running into poles while holding their hands over their eyes. The young boy’s eyes are as big as saucers, but they too keep running into poles. Young minds can only take so much sensory impute. Both are probably terrified and scared for life, by the experience. However both will probably come back as soon as possible, without their parents for spring break, sometime in the future.

All my life I believed what Buffett said, but have found out he was wrong. There is plenty to plunder, the cannons still thunder and you can never arrive too late on Ocean Drive. Watch out what the kiddies might see, thar be pirate booty a plenty, by the sea for thee. My first mate and I love Florida, today’s column brought to you from Miami Beach, Sobe, Ocean drive and Paris, all at the same time. Life is soooooooooooo good.    

Polygamy is Having a Dream About Nightmares

I wish society would quite drawing those pesky lines in the sand, because I continue to, inadvertently cross them. Telling it like it is, is the quickest way to get divorced, arrested, shot, maimed or to doom a presidential campaign. People scream for the truth, demand it, but the truth is!!! “You can’t handle the truth.” Jack Nicholson

There comes a time in every red blooded American male’s life when he realizes that the little boy next to him in the sand box is, in fact, a girl. At that point toy cars, baseball card and frogs take a backseat. He knows little about them and wants to know more. I could talk about how much he wants to love and cherish them, how much he wants to buy them a BMW or a charming little house in the burbs, but this is about truth, remember. He’s thinking huuummm how do I get me one of those. He’s contemplating the secrets of life, like how to undo a bra clasp.

He’s heard they are different, and he wants to find out how and why, first hand. The only information he has so far, has been gathered from boys on the playground who know less than he does, older brothers, cousins and uncles. More than likely all of it is wrong. He looks at her and dreams of a world without clothing.  She looks at him and dreams of a world where boys wash their hands after wiping their noses.

Somewhere along here a boy first hears the word polygamy. Once he understands its meaning, well, first his eyebrows raise, he thinks huuuummmm again, boys are deep thinkers. He can’t sleep for a week, and he immediately shifts from trying to select one perfect specimen to imagining being allowed to select four. If the road to truth is too much, turn around now. He is not thinking about commitment or relationships, but has taken the world without clothing thing to a new level in his imagination. He now hates Eve for the apple and fig leaf.

Most boys grow out of this, some never do. After all, the Bible says it’s Ok, they point out. There are numerous arguments designed to convince women, it’s advantageous for them. Women will believe anything, Hugh Hefner, O.J. Simpson and that book about Mars and Venus prove it. I’ll say it if no one else will. Polygamy is a playground in the minds of adolescent males, Sheiks and Zealots.

Don’t kill the messenger; remember this bubbled up in the dubious mind of a male. Ladies feel free to comment from the female perspective as there are likely more reasons to, not marry more than one man than they are to, not marry more than one woman.

I love my wife with all my heart, but can’t imagine have three more of her. When you get over imagining a world without clothing and the possible benefits of such a world, reality sinks in. They do not make houses with enough bathrooms to accommodate four wives. They do not make bathroom counters or cabinets with enough space to allow the hairbrushes, such an arrangement would require, to live the kind of lifestyle they deserve.

Your house would need to contain four bedrooms, four bathrooms and at least seven closets and we must not forget, room for a comfortable couch. The reason such situations are generally reserved for Sheiks and the like, the average man, could never afford the toilet paper. There would be so many creams, lotions, paints, pastes and hair products the house would be classified as a bio hazard area. Dealing with one woman who has two hundred shoes, hairbrushes and personalities is hard enough, multiply that by four. Imagine menopause as all of them reach the age where they alternately burst into flames, their heads spin around backward, and they develop seven new personalities, all of which hate you.

I expect headaches are contagious. If you make one mad, do you think the others will be happy that you stayed out all night playing cards? You my friend are sleeping on the couch. You will eat breakfast with four sets of daggers, formally known as eyes, silently burning holes through you. The silent treatment will be deafening.

You might imagine not getting much sleep and all the exciting reasons for it. It might be true in the beginning, but eventually you’ll sleep with one eye open from fear. Sleeping in one house with four women, twelve kids, four bathrooms, PMS, PTA, twenty knives and a poor economy is the stuff of nightmares. Bet you didn’t consider that at twelve.

I love my wife, all twelve of her, and I can’t imagine having thirty-six more of them. That is the single most confusing sentence I’ve ever written and the most mind boggling idea I’ve ever had.  

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Freaky Feline Folks

Good, gracious granny, don’t get yer bloomers in a bunch until you read it all. Let me start by saying I like cats. That statement and the fact that no one knows where I live might save me. How about this statement? No cats, PETA members or Vegans, were hurt during the writing of this piece. I’m afraid that made it worse.  I know I’m treading in dangerous water, so it’s best to make my case and get it over with. I love cats and Vegetarians, they taste like chicken. The truth, I don’t like chicken.

There is a house on Star Island in Miami referred to as the Cat house. It is located two doors down from the 58 million dollar home of Doctor Phillip Frost and is worth about 22 million itself. I cannot for the life of me find out who the cat lady was or when exactly she died. I did, however, find a classified ad looking for people who love cats and who have impeccable references. The Crazy Cat Lady left her estate to her cats. Rumor is that 14 to 20 cats live in the lap of luxury at her estate and will continue to do so until they all die. Did this woman have kids? How do they feel about this?

Talk about going postal and having a valid reason to do so. Imagine waiting on cats day and night for minimum wage. Imagine watching your own children struggle with life, love and their education, while pampering a bunch of cats that have a better house, better food and possibly better heath care. The world is insane. I believe that someone must have dropped this Lady on her head as a child.

Alright now, let’s take a look at the stereotypical Crazy Cat Lady, sorry person. He or she must be near or above middle age and have very few friends. Their family must only talk to them out of an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. They must have given up totality on the idea of ever finding Mr. or Mrs. Left, much less right. They must be able to carry on a conversation with any unsuspecting person who might wander into their house. All the while, keeping a straight face as the innocent person turns green from the smell of cat urine and other things we can’t mention here. Traveling salesmen, members of religious originations, census worker, social workers and people who work for charities, all fall into this list of unfortunate souls and are always welcomed at the Crazy Cat Persons house.

If you sell brushes, knives or vacuum cleaners and the door is opened wide when you knock. You are at the Munster’s or Adam’s family’s door, or in the movie Wrong Turn, worse you might be entering the house of a Crazy Cat Person. Your eyes will water, your nose hairs are about to be melted, and your nostrils are going to be assaulted like never before.

Did you know that John Lennon once referred to himself as The Crazy Cat Lady in disguise? He loved cats, his first was named Elvis. He once owned ten at one time and had one named Jesus. His favorite cat Alice quite by accident jumped from the window of their high-rise apartment and used up all her lives at one time. She died on the same sidewalk he would later die on. His son Sean said that the day of Alice’s death, was the only time he ever witnessed his father cry.

Recently federal charges were filed against the museum dedicated to Ernest Hemingway on Key West. In 1935, he was given a six toed cat by a sea Captain friend. He loved his cats so much that when he died he made provisions for them in his will. They will be cared for until the last one dies. At present there are somewhere near sixty living in the museum.

The six and seven toed cats, known as Hemingway’s cat are not actually a breed, but are genetically deformed. The US Department of Agriculture has decided that the museum no longer represents one of our most beloved writers, but has become a cat exhibition. What do they want? To impose regulations and charge fees. What else?

A Vet visits each year to administer shots. They say it’s hard to get all of them, as once you pop one, he tells the rest and so on. By the time you get to the last ones, they’re nowhere to be found.

Don’t confuse cat hoarders with those above. Animal Hording is a mental illness which is bad for the animals and people involved. The above people simply love cats. When I look in the mirror, I see The Crazy Cat Lady hiding inside me. I love cats and have cried at a few cat funerals. I dare say I will again.

I can't imagine a better place to be a pirate in the world.

Key West?

That’s right Key West has always had this nasty little question mark hanging off the end of it. I know I’m from Georgia, and I might be a little backward, but I never understood the name. It was about time to find out.

I’ve had a wicked sense of directions all my life and am just smart enough to believe that Key West is South. Turns out I was right; it is the southernmost city in America. If you want to live any further south you must make the next island hope, a mere 90 miles to Cuba. This move requires a passport, a good grasp of the Spanish language and a dog eared copy of the Communist Manifesto. So with all this, shouldn’t it be called Key South?

See it’s a legitimate question. Even the thickest country boy needs basic navigational skills to bass fish on his local lake. Surely most of us realize that Key West is one of the most easterly cities in America. If you want to move any further East, you must simply make a little 60 mile hop, and you’ll be in Freeport, Bahamas. Of course, you would need to speak Bahaman and become an instant Bob Marley fan. Well one out of two ain’t bad, and besides given enough beer, I can say mon with the best of em. Pay attention there may be a test, next question. Why not Key East?

I have had a few rough nights in my life, followed by a few rough days called hangovers. I have spent them looking for the exact location of the car, motorcycle or boat I was driving before developing said hangover. I cannot imagine what kind of hangover would cause a person to name the most southeasterly city in America, Key West. There I did it, I exposed my vast wealth of ignorance to the general public once again.

It’s a well known fact that when Columbus discovered America or more aptly South America, he thought he had rediscovered China. He and the Crown of Spain were quite proud of discovering a nation containing thousands of people which had been discovered many centuries earlier. I mean honestly, the Spanish discovered half the known world of the time, named it some of the craziest stuff imaginable and then traded it like baseball cards, and lost most of it.

Turns out a Spaniard named Key West, who’s surprised? The original Spanish name is Keyo Weso which means Bone Island. It was a communal cemetery for the local Indians and was literally littered with bones. The island was the westernmost Key with fresh water, and so the Americanized translation of its name actually makes some sort of sick sense. There at least I answered one of those stupid questions we all have and want to answer before we die. I’m working on why next.

The trip to Key West started at six a.m.. Well that would be my time, it actually started about six forty five a.m. which would be Mary Carmen’s interpretation of six a.m.. The trip down is about 150 miles and requires crossing tons of islands and bridges. There are many, vast three foot wide beaches interspersed between the hundreds of Lego houses stacked neatly on top of each other. Okay that was extremely sarcastic, while some of it is highly overdeveloped; there are plenty of beautifully well preserved places to enjoy.

Every three foot beach we passed was packed, and cars lined the road for miles, all parked on, near or under a sigh which said, No Parking. There were hundreds of people on a beach that would only hold twenty and only hold five of them comfortably. The other hundreds had to stay in the water while twenty stayed on the sand. To get out someone had to get in.

Every time you came off of one of the very scenic bridges you were on another island. One of the most impressive things, every island had its own welcoming committee. They sat there with their pretty blue lights preached atop their cars, just waiting for their opportunity to properly welcome you to their island. The highway was strewn with their buddies eagerly welcoming as many as possible. I found and took pictures of a three foot Iguana who decided he’d had enough and chased me for a while until I quit. Don’t you hate lizards with attitude? By the time, we returned home, I had driven four hundred miles on about fifty miles worth of cigarettes.

Now for the truth. I loved the Keys, the food was excellent, the atmosphere was superb, and the people were extremely welcoming. I can’t imagine a better place to be a pirate, in the world. If I ever come up with 7.3 million bucks, I’m buying that 400 square foot bungalow just down the block from the house which belongs to Hemingway’s cats.

 

I'd Rather Be At The Table, Than On The Table

 “Sometimes you eat the bar and sometimes the bar eats you.” Daniel Boone You can’t blame this one on me, even Daniel spelled em like he seen em.

Armed with that little piece, of what can only be described as Redneck wisdom we decided to take a trip to the Everglades on Memorial Day.  Our intended destination was Cooperstown Airboat Tours. I could hardly believe it was only twelve miles from our home in Miami. There is something unsettling about a city of 5.5 million and a swamp with over a million alligators and over three hundred thousand Pythons, sharing the same zip code. Like me, you probably imagined that, that only happened in Africa, Asia or South America. We were wrong.

Mama Elena, my mother-in-law was to accompany us on the trip. In her late seventies, her only fear was the sunshine we’d encounter. As we pulled from our driveway, Mary Carmen started the song and dance, necessary to pry the information needed from the dreaded GPS.

She placed the address into it, it asked the following question.

Why?

She tried again, it asked.

Where?

On the third try, it asked.

Why would you want to?

Don’t you hate a GPS with an attitude, I do, and there are two things I’m not interested in when heading out into a swamp full of critters higher on the food chain than I am. I want a nice, polite GPS, and more importantly an extremely well behaved boat. I don’t want to be goin off into what amounts to, the largest side salad in the world with a boat that was born and raised up north.

We arrived without the help of the GPS, wait, let’s give this dude a southern name. We arrived without the help of, Gomer Pointing South, and soon piled onto a big fat airboat. For those of you who don’t know what an airboat is, it’s an airplane in drag as a boat. It skims rapidly across the water and is only a thin piece of metal which separates you from being who you are or being a T bone with a Ceasar salad.

I imagine it was invented by a country boy who found a crashed airplane while hunting in the swamp, because we know a country boy can make anything out of bailing wire and duct tape. Adding a mangles airplane to his repertoire is like adding gravy to potatoes. There would have been no one there to claim the plane as they would have already been on the wrong end of a candle light dinner. Crashing your plane and ending up as supper on the same day just don’t sound fun.

Once upon a time, a Japanese Redneck, with a hangover knocked over a Suzuki motorcycle on the assembly line. To cover his mistake, he added two extra tires and the Suzuki automobile was born. Same thing with the airboat, it’s simply astounding what a redneck can do, with a boat, a twisted up airplane and a few cases of beer. Bill Clinton was president. Need I say more?

Soon we sat in the boat and stared into the eerie eyes of a Gator. It appeared glad we had arrived. The salad was already prepared; all the gator needed was for one of us, to fall in. Mama wasn’t too concerned, after all she would only be a rib eye steak, Mary Carmen would only be prime rib, but me, I’m a whole rump roast, complete with potatoes and carrots. Everyone knew I was the preferred meal and were properly relieved or terrified by that information.

We did survive and made it back. We then sat down to lunch at the Cooperstown restaurant. What did we have? You guessed it, gator stew and frog legs. Okay I must admit it, if no one had told me, I’d have thought the frog legs were the legs of malnourished chickens. Contrary to popular belief the gator tasted nothing like chicken, but was more akin to redneck lobster.

Maybe I should start a restaurant chain named Gator Gumps, on the sign would be a gator with a piece of grass in its mouth, he’d be wearing a straw hat and overalls while drinking a beer. He’d be cooking on a grill made from a piano, a satellite dish and a 1976 Pinto.

I sat there eating gator stew and being quite pleased with my place at the table.  I couldn’t help but wonder if it had come down in the gators favor, would I have tasted like chicken? Sometimes you eat the gator, sometimes the gator eats you. Sometimes the boat’s a boat, sometimes it’s a plane and other times it’s both and dances to, It’s raining men, by The Weather Girls.

Thanks to all the Veterans out there, America would not be what it is without you.