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NORTHCOM Commander: Dear Diary, what did I just get myself into?

NORTHCOM Commander: Dear Diary, what did I just get myself into?

For f*cks sake, where am I? Who even are these people?

“Look at this guy. Gen. Stephen N. Whiting. Is he the commander of Space Force or Space Command? I don’t even know if he lives on base; I’ve never seen him around housing. Maybe he lives on the moon?”

COLORADO SPRINGS, Colo. – Dear Diary: What the hell? I get in here on oh-five February from CENTCOM and ever since it’s just on continual, “What. The. Fuck?”

I got seventeen members of Congress swarming my troops on the Southwest Border right now, but my Commander's Advisory Group says it’s an election year and get used to it. Huh? I’m a four-star, bro, I get used to what I need to get used to. And why do I have two thousand plus Title 10 troops on the border like we’re at war with Mexico again? I didn’t sign up for that. It's like Glen told me, DoD is the 911 for the rest of the Federal government. Which means the country is going down the tube faster than I went downhill on my back the first time I skied Breck. 

Diary, I can't say publicly that the rest of the government totally sucks donkey balls in taking care of citizens, but I can say it to you.

Donkey. Mother. Freaking. Balls.

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And then, someone in my headquarters complained that the air conditioning is broken in their office. I’m like, it’s Colorado Springs in March, bro, you want AC, really? What are you, the Human Torch? So they filed a grievance and now some Assistant Secretary is walking around the halls with a thermometer. Probably stole it from HHS. 

Hey, does anyone in D.C. care about Russian bombers in the ADIZ? I know Interior doesn’t care. Interior! The people whose mission is most likely to be wrecked in a nuclear war! They were here the other day talking about native grasses. They want me to fly a reconnaissance aircraft over one of the Dakotas—I forget which one—and map them. I'm glad we have defibrillators on every floor. I'm gonna need one someday.

And Cheyenne Mountain, Diary. I want to stop at the zoo and pet a llama when I go up there, but I can’t because of “VIP protection” or whatever. But who protects the precious llamas except a fence, huh? What's that, J8? DoD didn't fund the fence? What's that Interior liaison officer, you’ll protect them? I fucking doubt it. Interior protects Interior's jobs, bub, not llamas or the public. So now llamas at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo are another of my homeland defense problems when the balloon goes up. OK, got it.

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