I didn’t join ROTC to serve your casual homophobia. I joined ROTC to serve my country and because I saw the United States Propaganda Film, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. But recently, it seems that instead of being treated with the respect I’m warranted as someone who is a pretend soldier, I’m being treated as a stereotype. A core part of ROTC is our weekly volleyball games. If any of you “liberal” “losers” actually read the constitution of this great country, you would know that it is the LAW to play ROTC Volleyball in short short shorts.
But somehow, the “students”at the Claremont Colleges have refused to ever read a book, and have been spreading rumors that our volleyball games are some sort of sissy gay boy activity instead of a real and important tradition that has existed in this country for generations.
You think I want my great big saggy balls to droop out of one leg of these two-inch inseams? You think I wanna slap my teammates’ asses and accidentally stick a finger in, twist it around a bit, massage their p-spot? HELL NO. But that’s the sort of stuff that happens when you care about your nation. That’s what happens when you’re willing to stand up tall and arch your back for your country.
I’ll be the first to admit. Right now, the ROTC (which many actually think should be the seventh branch of our U.S. military [HOORAH]) is struggling with a bit of an optics problem. Some people just don’t like the innocent practical jokes we play, going so far as to label them “war crimes.” The whole “holes out, poles out” approach to our volleyball games has only been making us look worse as of late. But when you sign up for the ROTC, they tell you three things. The first: never go on Pitzer’s campus without a standard-issue rifle and a med kit. The second: tradition is tradition. The third: don’t ask, don’t tell. They didn’t really explain that one to me and it’s probably not that important honestly. But anyway, tradition is tradition.
At the end of the day, when we’re done with our weekly volleyball game, and when we’re doing keg stands, and when the foamy beer is getting into every crack and crevice, when Mike offers to clean it up, and when we’re kissing and holding hands under the stars, and when that beer gets me so plastered that I forget my own name, I know that the real Americans are thanking me. Someday, somewhere, the American people will remember those volleyball games.