Veteran's day

Tuesday was Veteran’s Day. Or as it used to be called: Armistice Day. When the first of our republican idiot presidents signed the Uniform Holiday act in 1968, he moved four holidays to Mondays: Washington’s birthday, Memorial day, Veteran’s day, and Columbus day. Washington’s birthday has become President’s day; I won’t address the stupidity of celebrating Christopher Columbus (although I am surprised it hasn’t become Explorer’s day); Memorial day has stuck. But veterans throughout the land were unwilling to give up their date. Everyone remembered – soldiers, children of soldiers, people who cared about the country’s wars – that the armistice ending The Great War (World War I, before World War II appeared on the scene) was signed on November 11, and celebrating it on a random Monday (for some odd reason I can’t explain the first one after the UHA was celebrated in October) violated the symbolic sensibilities of the nation. Hooray for the veterans who insisted on the symbolic meaning of 11/11. They knew that their treaty, signed at 11 AM on the eleventh day of the eleventh month had meaning beyond ending this particular war. By the eleventh hour we must end all war. If we don’t we are surely consigned to the abyss of mutual suicide that any war eventually becomes.