America, You Sexy Bitch by Michael Black Meghan McCain Page A

kind of good time you would imagine having in northern Arizona at an old school town with a row of bars.

    I’m dancing, playing pool, gossiping with Holly about my dating life and how things are going with Jimmy since they moved to Texas, ordering more shots, laughing, dancing, repeat. We all sort of mingle in and out of various bars, and somewhere towards the end of the night everyone reassembles at one of the last bars on the strip. Michael and I start talking about the military and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Something tells me that drinking and talking politics do not mix, but people in America do have these discussions while not sober.
    I don’t know exactly how the conversation starts, but pretty quickly I am furious at Michael. He doesn’t agree with either of the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan, even though pretty much his only exposure to anything military was when he dressed up as a Ninja Turtle and toured the country as a teenager. I, on the other hand, well, if you paid any attention to my father’s career at all you would know the whole bit: my great-grandfather and grandfather were both admirals in the navy; my great-grandfather played a major role in the ending of World War II, and subsequently died of a heart attack a week after the war ended while standing drinking a glass of whiskey. My father was tortured for five and a half years in a filthy Vietnam prison. Both my brothers joined the military as teenagers. I love the military and support the men and women who fight so courageously for our country so I can be here at home and write a book with an alternative comedian who is making my blood boil with his “give peace a chance” hippie attitude.
    Obviously, everyone knows that there was false information given to the American public to sell us on the war in Iraq. I’m sorry; it makes no difference at this point. We were there and we needed to fight the good fight. I am not going to go into the extremely specific and intense details of the wars or war strategy or why I think General Petraeus is a genius. I generally react badly to anyone criticizing the military or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan when they have absolutely no exposure to any men and women who have served, and when most likely the only exposure they have had to any of this is listening to people like Keith Olbermann.

    As I try to listen to Michael’s argument, I feel like he really doesn’t get it, like maybe he’s just another delusional, elitist, liberal—and possibly a jerk. At some point I stop his stream of pacifist rhetoric and say, “Listen Michael, freedom doesn’t come free.”
    He laughs.
    Now, if you have known me for fifteen minutes, you would know these words are dear to me, as they are to most people who have a deep love for the military. I know this is a slogan, much like “These colors don’t run” and “Live free or die,” but I never say it lightly, and never to evoke laughter. Those mantras really do mean something to me.
    When Jimmy was deployed the first time, I stood with tears streaming down my face thinking that he was fighting for my freedom and this was a sacrifice: freedom doesn’t come free . I understand that it is a simplistic way to describe something that is much larger and deeply rooted in extreme patriotism, but I don’t see how anyone could be blind to the truth behind the sentiment. I’m shocked by Michael’s disdain for the blood that has been spilt for this country, regardless of the shoddy intelligence that got us over there. At the time that the intelligence was put forward, it wasn’t a matter of questioning it and risking it being right. God forbid someone like Michael take a moment to contemplate the outcome of that path. It’s far easier to point a finger and say, “You were wrong to do that,” than to say, “What if we hadn’t done it, and we were wrong?”
    I look at Michael’s smirking face and cross my arms. “Why did I agree to do this?” I sort of half yell in