Whatever their name is this week, eh?

I went to see them in 1977 or so, when I was just married, had a baby on the way, and thought I might be going crazy.

I didn't want money, I wanted them to tell me I wasn't going coo-coo. Their answer was to poke and prod for an hour or so, then send me checks every month. Now officially coo-coo, but no fool, I cashed the checks and bought beer with the nefarious proceeds. Worked out pretty good, Mixer and I for a long time drank for nothing for a couple days every month...

Finally, maybe ten years later, they sent me an OFFICIAL letter saying that if I didn't substantiate the fact that, ten years earlier, I thought I was going crazy, they would stop sending me checks.

I didn't have any idea how to substantiate that, so I wrote back and said, "I THOUGHT I WAS GOING CRAZY !!! I NEVER WANTED YOUR EFFING CHECKS IN THE FIRST PLACE!!! I WANTED YOU TO TELL ME I WASN'T GOING HOOPIE !! STICK THE CHECKS, BUCKO !!!" And Bucko, apparently, stopped with the checks.

So now, thirty years after first seeing "THE VA," I am still sure (and my wife and others are still sure) that I am still about to go crazy. But it looks now as though if I do actually reach and go over the edge, I will do it in an entertaining, rather than destructive, manner. In other words, it'll be fun to watch. Plus I'm probably going on my own dime; the bastids at "THE VA" haven't sent a check in twenty years now. I sorta miss 'em. It's hell buying your own beer.

On the other hand... I figger they prolly need it more than I do. After all, they got a whole new crop comin' in from Afghanistan, any day now...

Bob