Go Army?

I just got off the phone with an army recruiter.  He called and asked for me by name, and when I told him I was, in fact, me, he identified himself as a recruiter for the army.  I responded with a small laugh and by telling him that I’d just turned 39 and didn’t have much to offer the military.  He replied that I wasn’t too old and then asked if I’d ever considered joining the military and serving my country.  I told him I was in fact too old and then gave him the short list of Things That Are Wrong With Me and thanked him for his call.

A year ago, I got the same call from a naval recruiter and when I told him my age, he said, “Oh, okay,” and ended the call.  So, ignoring the most likely scenario that I was just talking to yet another dirtbag salesman, either the navy has standards and the army doesn’t, or something has changed in the last year and this country is in serious fucking trouble.  Both are disturbing.

Update:  Last weekend, I told this story to one of my nephews, who happens to be serving in the Army, and he said, “Yeah, they’ve upped the age limit to 42.”  So, yeah, expect Icy Hot and Ensure to be standard issue equipment sometime in the next few years.  Jesus.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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