Apparently, the United States Marine Corps wants me.

    I really don’t know why this is, given that I am an overweight, unathletic wimp whose only skill is shrieking very loudly when being approached by armed scary foreign people. But someone, probably my mortal enemy Bernie from high school, seems to have called them up and told them that I was an Unstoppable Force of Sheer Rambo-Style Vigilantism, because they’ve been calling me and writing to me since the beginning of the summer.

    It was funny at first. My parents and I would laugh, because we know that the prospect of me joining the USMC is about as funny as, say, someone dropping an anvil on Kathie Lee Gifford (who, on a totally unrelated note, isn’t wearing a bra anymore, and that’s just gross!).

    But then this Marines guy, we’ll call him Sergeant Carter, started calling on a weekly basis. I never got to talk to him, because I worked nights at the PRS Emporium of Insurance Fun, but it was always a little disconcerting to come home and see US MARINE CORPS on your caller ID.

    And not more than a week ago I got not one but two letters from them, telling me I may be qualified to join the Platoon Leaders Class (PLC) program, and that they had a band, if I were interested in joining. As if being a slow and lumbering bookworm wasn’t enough to make the other cadets want to go Full Metal Jacket on me, they wanted me to be a trombone toting slow and lumbering bookworm.

    So, clearly, I have no intention of willingly joining any of the armed forces, at least, not until they institute an all-inclusive Sit On Your Butt, Watch TV and Do Nothing Force. But I am conscious of my duty as a civic minded American, and if it’s that important to them to have me there, and they come to my house and drag me out, I’ll go. And I can just see myself at boot camp:

    Sergeant Carter: Hey, Maggot!

    Me: (Unable to speak, as I am concentrating all my energy on not messing myself.)

    Sergeant: You have been summoned here because Special Agent Bernie has told us that you are an unstoppable force of death. Is this true?

    Me: No.

    Sergeant: And you would be willing to stop at nothing, including wriggling through a pit lined with hydrochloric acid-dipped barbed wire, holding a live mouse in your mouth, for fifteen miles, just to bring the general his chicken sandwich, if necessary?

    Me: Uh… no.

    Sergeant: And you would have no qualms with selling your body on the streets of Saigon for hits of cheap cocaine if it was in the US’ best interests?

    Me: Maybe.

    Sergeant: What weapons are you skilled with, maggot?

    Me: I have a Mr. T. Punching Puppet, sir.

    Sergeant: Excuse me?

    Me: It’s a puppet. And it looks like Mr. T. And… it punches people. You know.

    Sergeant: DROP AND GIVE ME 200!

    And at this point, given the fact that, last time I submitted myself to the Presidential Fitness Test in the eighth grade, I was capable of doing 20 pushups before collapsing, I assume that I would die, and Sergeant Carter would have me stuffed and mounted in the mess hall as a message to all the other maggots who dared to suggest that the Mr. T. Punching Puppet could be considered a weapon.

    So, if the USMC wants me, I’ll go wherever they need me. However, I think I would be a much stronger asset to our country right here stateside. After all, someone needs to educate the masses on the dangers of the Mr. T. Punching Puppet.