We need a newer and more mature Army ...

WE'LL FIGHT TO THE LAST 50-YEAR-OLD!

A couple of weeks ago I indicated that if I could, 
I'd enlist today and help my country track down 
those responsible for killing thousands of innocent people 
in New York City and Washington, D.C. 
But I'm 50 now and the Armed Forces says 
I'm too old to track down terrorists. 
You can't be older than 35 to join the Army.

They've got the whole thing backwards. 
Instead of sending 18-year-olds off to the fight, 
they ought to take us old guys. 
You shouldn't be able to join until you're at least 35-years-old. 

For starters:

Researchers say 18-year-olds think about sex every 10-seconds. Old guys think about sex every 15-seconds, 
leaving us more than 28,000 additional seconds per day 
to concentrate on the enemy. 
Young guys haven't lived long enough to be cranky and grumpy.

A cranky and grumpy soldier is a dangerous soldier. 
If we can't kill the enemy 
we'll complain them into submission or surrender. 
"My back hurts!" 
"I'm hungry!" 
"Where's the remote control?"

An 18-year-old hasn't had a legal bottle of beer yet, 
and you shouldn't go to war 
until you're at least old enough to legally drink beer. 
An average old guy, on the other hand, 
has probably consumed at least 126,000 gallons of beer
by the time he's 35, 
and a jaunt through the desert heat with a backpack on and 
an M-60 over your shoulder would do wonders for a beer belly.

An 18-year-old doesn't like to get up before 10 a.m. 
Old guys get up early just to show we can 
(and to steal the neighbors newspaper.) 
If old guys got captured we couldn't spill the beans 
because we'd probably forget where we put them. 
In fact, name, rank and serial number would be a real brain teaser.  If it wasn't for the age barrier, 
I'd pretty much be able to get into the Army without a hitch.  According to the Army Internet site, 
I'd need to pass an entrance exam 
(officially called an ASVAB), 
but the simple questions I saw weren't exactly headache material. 

For example:

A magnet will attract:

(a) water  (b)  a flower (c) a cloth rag (d) a nail 

I took a wild stab at it and guessed, "nail," 
knowing they'd probably stick me in some desk job 
with Army Intelligence after Boot Camp.

If 12 workers are needed to run 4 machines, 
how many workers are needed to run 20 machines?

(a) 16  (b) 18  (c) 3  (d) 60 
Well, let's see now ...
three workers per machine times 20 machines ...
err ... 60?

Finally, they wanted to know if I had command 
of the English language, 
just in case I had to describe an enemy camp from memory.

Now you know where the first questions come from for the 
"Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" game show. 
Boot Camp would actually be easier for old guys. 
We're used to getting screamed and yelled at, 
and we actually like soft food. 
We've also developed a deep appreciation for guns and rifles. 
We like them almost better than naps. 
The Army could lighten up on the obstacle course, however. 
I've been to the desert and didn't see 
a single 20-foot wall with a rope hanging over the side. 
I can hear the Drill Sergeant now. 
"Get down and give me ... er ... one!" 
And the running part seems to be a waste of good energy. 
I've never seen anyone outrun a bullet. 
I'm reminded of the story of the young bull and the old bull standing on a hill looking down at the cows. 
"Let's run down there and make love to one of those cows," 
says the young bull. 
"How about we WALK down there 
and make love to ALL those cows," 
replies the old bull.

Patience is something most 18-year-olds simply do not have. 
For good reason too. 
An 18-year-old has the whole world ahead of him. 
He's still learning to shave.

To actually carry on a conversation. 
To learn that a pierced tongue catches food particles.

And that a 200-watt speaker in the back seat
of a Honda Accord can rupture an eardrum. 
All great reasons to keep our sons at home to learn 
a little more about life before sending them 
off to a possible death.

Let us old guys track down those dirty, rotten, filthy, cowards 
who attacked our country on September 11th. 
The last thing they'd want to see right now 
would be a couple of million old guys with attitudes!

BUT, on the other hand ...

Take all American women who are +/-5 years of menopause. 
Train us for a few weeks, outfit us with automatic weapons, grenades, gas masks, Prozac, hormones, SPAM, etc.

Drop us (parachuted, preferably) across the landscape 
of Afghanistan and let us do what comes naturally. 
Think about it. 
Our anger quotient alone, 
even when doing standard stuff like grocery shopping
and paying bills, 
is formidable enough to make even men in turbans tremble.

We have had our children, 
we would gladly die/suffer to protect them and their future. 
We'd like to get away from our husbands, 
if they haven't left already. 
And for those of us who are single, 
the prospect of finding a good man with whom 
to share the remainder of our life 
is about as likely as being struck by lightning; 
therefore, we have nothing to lose. 
Let us go and fight!

The Taliban hates women. 
Imagine their terror as we crawl like ants 
(with hot-flashes) 
all through their forsaken terrain.

I'm going to write my Congresswoman 
for permission to implement this plan. 
You should, too.

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A MENOPAUSAL WOMAN!