POLTAVA OBLAST—Ronald Reagan once told me: "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to wage war, and a time to plan for the next war. Now is the time for war. A time to kill Russians."
The 1980s was bitchin' decade, folks. We killed a lot Russians, and we congratulated ourselves—in that order. The 1990s? Not so much. Sure, we beat the Soviet Union into the ground, but then America went flaccid. We elected that pervert Clinton twice and raised an entire generation of entitled pussies.
Case in point: The Washington Free Beacon celebrated its 10th anniversary on Thursday, just as Vladimir Putin's tanks were rolling into Ukraine. I was not invited to the party. Not that I would have gone. In fact, I am legally barred from setting foot in our nation's capitol. Ted Kennedy made sure of that after I rescued those strippers from his basement.
Make no mistake, I am as shocked as anyone that this lo-fi "war" blog has survived as long as it has. But now is not the time for self-glorification. Really? Have you no shame? I can only imagine the scene: A bunch of filthy journos in novelty bowties swilling lady cocktails, shoveling gourmet tacos into their face holes. The ghost of Nixon hovering, weeping.
We're better than this. At least we ought to be. As your humble ombudsman, my loins ache with disgrace. The outbreak of war is a time for silent celebration. The parties can wait until the job is done. These Russian aggressors aren't going to kill themselves. Now is the time for defenders of freedom to mount their steeds. Now is the time to stack bodies. We did it in Afghanistan in the 1980s, and we can do it again.
Our Sick Man of Scranton and his soiled bedpan certainly aren't up to the task.