Note to a Generic Pentagon General

A Cause of Delayed-Nausea Syndrome

PG

I have just read in Army Times that, to my delight, the Army is making soldiers wear the prettiest red high-heels in the pursuit of gender-equality. Yes. They look like little girls playing with Mommy’s shoes. It has something to do with understanding the psychological problems of women, a matter of importance in combat. It necessarily was done with the approval of the Army’s generals in the Pentagon, particularly Chief of Staff Odierno, since they are in charge of the whole Army shebang. I write them in astonished admiration, thusly:

Dear General,

I see that on your watch the Army is turning into a transvestite marching corps in high heels, a Ziegfeld cross-gendered or bisected gay-bath sexual zoo vacuuming up every sort of erotic loony, not to mention becoming a home for unwed mothers and prostitution rings. I commend you. I have always wanted to be defended by a freak show.

I do not question your qualifications for command. You doubtless have a firm handshake, a steely gaze, an imposing presence, and a perfect grasp of PowerPoint. But a general who is so afraid of feminists that he forces his troops to play dress-up, well, I mean, what if there is a real war?

I applaud your forthrightness in bringing the doughboys out of the closet in those cute red heels. They are so precious! (By the way, have you considered foot-binding?) As a former Marine in Vietnamese days, I have always suspected the Army of being cross-dressers. How candid of you to confirm my suspicions.

True, traditionalists, and warriors, and cranky old Marines will say that you are just another sorry two-bit, peace-time, careerist politician of a pseudo-soldier who doesn’t have the balls to stand up to feminists and protect the service from becoming a display ad for Victoria’s Secret. I am shocked. How could they think such a thing?

Yes, General, yes. I understand. Putting GIs in those darling heels is supposed to provide some kind of uplift (though I believe brassieres are better for that). But I know perfectly well, and you may suspect—check with your dominatrix—that feminists get a hoot out of watching those macho men (ugh!) tottering around before the whole world in heels, like teen-age girls preparing for their first prom. “Heeeeeeeeeeeee-ha-ha.” Likely every diesel-dyke in a Women’s Studies department is rolling on the floor. Tippy-toe. Tippy-tippy-toe. “Hey, Sheila, look what we made them do!”

What I figure, General, is you ought to set an example for the troops by wearing panties and a bra (if you don’t already wear panties: I give you credit for miltary foresight.) A good officer–we had some–doesn’t order his men to do anything he himself wouldn’t do. Walk a Mile in Her Skivvies, General. (Actually, when I was a hard-charging young Gyrene, we spent a lot of time trying to get into women’s skivvies. Now it’s going to be mandatory?)

But you can do more for equity. There should be clear expression of the Army’s commitment to transvest–justice, I meant to say. I can imagine a whole new gendered approach to insignia of rank: Artificial hooters, in easily-washed silicone and real flesh tone. Enlisted men would get small ones. Officers would have big mommas. You, being an exalted military figure, would have three. The Commander-in-Chief could wear an udder.

Now, General, I speak only for myself as a Marine who carried a rifle in Viet Nam, but others may agree with me. (A “rifle” is one of those awful long thingies (no, not those long thingies) that make boomy noises and stinky smoke and put stains on your cocktail dress that just ruin it.) Outside of Da Nang we used to lie behind sandbags at night with mortars coming in (a “mortar” is one of those gun thingies with a tube—no, a different kind of tube, General—that shoots–never mind) hoping a hit wouldn’t spray a buddy’s guts around. To a man we were thinking, why couldn’t we have a leader like a Pentagon general to give us cute little heels instead of these uncomfy old boots?

But let us get back to serious military questions. The effect on our enemies of the boob-insignia will be profound. The Afghan resistance fighters will be stunned, just stunned, to see American soldiers in high-heels and varying numbers of breasts. As the Mujahedeen gape, paralyzed with amazement, our soldiers will be able to approach them and give them therapy on the value of non-violence and rape culture. Each mujahid would be encouraged to express his feelings and find the roots of his anger. They could all be given a breast to take home and fondle.

I can see by your feminization of the ranks that you are socially progressive. Good. I imagine that you are against the culture of violence that prevails in the military. But what can you expect in a society that has so many gun thingies, and glorifies them? We need to de-emphasize war, and substitute caring activities involving cooperation. You could lead from the front by taking part in social activities, perhaps being pivot man in a circle jerk. On YouTube (No, not that….)

I hear that also on your watch the Army has taken measures to make the service more LBTG-friendly, as well as more inclusive and welcoming to single mommies. I think you should go further. For example, the Army could use armored nail-salons to keep the troops looking great and feeling good about themselves, and those funny old tanks need changing tables inside the turret-thingy. And big guns look tho phallic. They must make women anxious. The only thing they are good for is drying lingerie. The guns, I mean, not the women.

Now, mean old military historians who say that in a real war soldiers die because of posturing peace-time political pogues (I was in an alliteration company)—what do they know? A few thousand lives are a small price to pay for gender-equity. Besides, those who do the fighting are not the girly-boys, the boy-girls, the katoys, the to-be-decideds, the climbing vines with their cucumbers chopped, or the single mommies who have to look after some random guy’s kid. These, the core of the Army, will not be troubled. As you have shown, we must stay with core values.

Don’t pay attention to those macho infantry men (ugh!) who say that women should try walking in men’s shoes—unloading a six-by of 81mm mortar rounds under fire, or changing a truck tire in sand in Indian territory with night coming on. Everyone knows that trucks unload themselves by pushing some kind of button or something, and anyway we have drones.

Them’s my thoughts, General. And I suspect that every guy who ever served in a combat zone shares my overwhelming respect and admiration for you. If anyone criticizes you and you feel all upset and flustered, take your Midol, breathe deeply and it will get all better soon.

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