I’m not the type to talk and talk without backing it up. I’m a man of action. So it should be no surprise that when asked to go into battle for our great country, I strapped on and ran in.

It was at my nephew’s birthday party when war was declared. We were all pushed into a briefing room and… well, briefed. A sixteen-year-old girl with an awkward stance and a pepperoni face showed us quickly how our guns worked. Then they fitted us with our packs, and that was it. I knew the military was low on recruits, but five minutes of training? I was scared that we’d all be unprepared and die terrible but honorable deaths.

The battlefield was dark and full of crevices and corners for enemies to hide. It was clear right away that we were of course battling the Reds, which is to be expected seeing how warmongering the commies are. But also in the mix, the Irish. Surprised? Me, too. Who would have thought the Irish would be involved in world affairs?

I crouched down and crept along, looking for snipers the whole time. My phaser was at the ready. Military technology was definitely better than I imagined. I thought I’d be working with some rusty machine gun, not a laser gun with an LCD screen. The screen displayed my ammo and other such vital info. I shot some unsuspecting Irish soldiers (distinguished by the green lights on their uniforms) and a voice on the P.A. announced that we had moved into the lead. Can you believe the advances we’ve had? An announcer in the middle of battle, reading off who is winning? Incredible!

And to be putting America in the lead was such a proud moment for me. America always wins.

But overconfidence is probably what led me to let my guard down. That’s the only explanation for why I wouldn’t see the enemy sneak around the corner. When I saw hose flashing communist-red lights, it was too late. I tried to spin around and run, but I smacked my head on a wall. I collapsed, sliding down the wall, my phaser slipping out of my hands and dangling between my legs. A knot formed on my forehead and my enemy hovered over me with their gun under my nose. But Lord help us, the soldier was a child! A six-year-old Russki smiled at me like a mad dog. What have we become as a species when we are sending our children out to fight and kill? I hope that we never get to that point in America. I hope we never sink that low.

Not having many options, I begged for my life. Yes, my dear readers, you bet you I did. I clasped my hands together and tried to appeal to the kid’s sense of mercy. There were, I admit, a few tears coming down. The child seemed confused by this.

That’s when I used his hesitation against him and shot him in the chest. This is war, people. There are no rules.

But you know war isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Battles only go for about twenty minutes. Then you get to rest and grab something to eat. And you know what? Army food isn’t bad at all. I expected mush, mash, and Oliver Twist type stuff. But we had deep-dish pizza, root beer, and Twizzlers.

I was willing to fight for my country when I thought it’d be horrible and a series of sacrifices. But to be honest, I found war to be fun. You get to run around, which is great cardio. You get the thrill of winning, teamwork, high-fives, and in between battles, you can go play skee-ball with your unit. This is what people protest? This is what all those folk singers write about in their songs? Are you kidding me?

The truth is, war is a great time.