Woodstock memories

I'm on vacation this week and will be busy with my paperwork project and Mrs. G's honey do list so I may not be posting as much as usual. To pick up the slack some of my "friends" have offered to fill the void.

We start with this from

The Mean Old Man


TO HELL WITH WOODSTOCK!!!

I’m sick and tired of being reminded all week of the Woodstock Rock Festival by the Commie media!!! I remember that damned subversive brainwashing rally and I have been trying to forget it for forty years.

Back in ’69 my two twirpy kids came over to me while I was tilling the vegetable garden and asked me for “bread” so that they could go to some rock festival in New York. I proceeded to hand each of them a can of paint and a brush to spice up the ol’ tool shed. I can still hear their whiney voices complaining that I didn’t understand them or understand the state of the world with its wars and hungry children, and on and on. “All you losers want to do is get high on drugs!” I told them. My goofball son Clay (the one that I really had hope for until all of this hippie BS) told me that it wasn’t about doing drugs, but “becoming one with the stars”. I then told him that I could give him that experience for free without his using my hard earned money to buy pot; so I smacked his forehead with my pruning shears. Now, I ain’t ever had that done to me myself, but from the look on the dimwit’s face, he reached his goal of seeing stars!!!

All those hippies had it too easy and they didn’t know a thing about what a real gathering of thousands was about and how fun it could be. In my day we had what I guess you could call a “festival” too. I remember one muggy summer day, me and my buddies joined a few hundred thousand others of our own age for some decent, down home all American fun. We didn’t have to go to Woodstock for it, either; we went to a quaint little place called Omaha Beach!!! We didn’t have drugs to kill our pain, or enough water to heal our parched throats, Hell; we didn’t even have a porta san man!!! But what we did have was guns, sabers, and grenades, combined with the joy of seeing Krauts getting the blocks knocked off!!! Now, that’s what I call an occasion for remembrance; but don’t tell the media. We had the 65th Anniversary of D-Day and it barely got a ripple in the press, but Woodstock---everywhere.

Getting back to my stupid sons, well one of them, anyway; my son Harlan took off to Woodstock with his friend Slim and Slim’s older brother Mitch. They took off the night before the festival and when my wife Thelma Jean found out about it the next day she was fit to be tied. She dragged me out of bed and ordered me to go to Woodstock to get Harlan back; fearing he would become part of a commune. Now, I ain’t no wuss, but when Thelma Jean gives an order, especially when she’s holding her champion pie roller in her hand, I listen. So, I went down the Legion at 9 a.m. where I found my old buddies Gummo and Creep playing pool and sipping on a few cold ones. When I told them what had happened they began razzing me about having a tinkerbell for a son. Of course, that stopped once I went out to the truck and came back in with my trusty Remington 12 gauge. I told them that they were coming to Woodstock with me to rescue my boy from the hands of those long haired commie weirdos.

So, we got in the trusty Dodge and headed straight to Commieville. I can still remember the thousands of Bolshevik cars parked on the highway---not the side of the highway, mind you, but the highway itself. A State Trooper told me that there were so many people arriving that they had to shut the whole thing down. So, me, Gummo and Creep proceeded for what seemed like miles and miles to where the mass of the crowd was; all the while having to deal with these subversive longhairs. Of course, no respectable WWII vet walks for a long stretch without his trusty beer and we three were no exception. We had a cooler filled with Ballentine and Stegmaier. As we finished our first half mile we decided to take a short break and pop open a few cans. All of a sudden like cockroaches after sugar, these wacked out bearded, screwball hooligans wearing the subversive Peace symbol approached us. "Hey man, so cool to see the older generation digging our way." The one freak yelled out. "Peace and love, peace and love, peace and love, oh by the way, can you spare a few beers?" That was all we needed to hear. I distracted the slime ball while Creep took a can of Steg and shook it violently; he then handed it to me and I gave it to the hippy. Of course, when he popped the can his entire face, beard and all, was awash with Booze. "Hope you enjoyed it! Long live the Infantry!!!" Creep, Gummo and me shouted together.

Of course, we had many more fun encounters with the wackos of the Age of Aquarius; but I have to go and clean out the pens. I'll also let you know if we ever did find that loser son of mine.
To be Continued.