Soccer Player Killed in Iraq Receives Two Shits

n a brief ceremony Saturday, American soccer player Nathan Horne, killed in action during March in Iraq, was posthumously decorated with the Two Shits medal by a ranking Pentagon officer, Gen. Wilbur Finletter.

The Pentagon had received some criticism from soccer fans in light of recent accolades given former NFL player Pat Tillman, also killed in action, and celebrated as a god among men and all around nifty human being for giving up football to fight in a war otherwise disapproved by the public at large. Critics charged the U.S. military and national media with anti-soccer bias for its worship of Tillman while Horne went unrecognized for his valiant service and awesome death.

Horne's father, Reggie, summed up the position: "Nathan left a potentially-lucrative, at least it would have been overseas, career in soccer to serve his country. The fact he was killed in action should mean something, at least since he was a well-known athlete and not just one of the other faceless war dead."

A starting kicker or something for the Dallas Burn, which is apparently a real national league soccer team, Horne met his death when his convoy was attacked outside Baghdad March 26. Witnesses believe Horne tried to save the lives of his fellow soldiers, jumping into the air and attempting to deflect an incoming RPG with his head. Horne and the other soldiers received some posthumous awards, but Horne's father says none of them count since they weren't covered by the media and no one was invited to the ceremony.

Gen. Finletter tried to amend the error with a small ceremony in a mostly empty high school gym in Horne's hometown of Avacado, Texas. A medal known as the Two Shits, and reserved for those killed in action who appear much more important upon reflection, was reportedly not made up just for the ceremony. Finletter gave the award to Horne's widow, Iris, and two minutes of silence (one for each Shit) followed, except for the sound of freshmen playing dodge ball on the other side of the gym.

"If it didn't seem like we cared when you died, sorry and all," said Finletter, clearing his throat with a slight cough. "Let our presence here today, as well as the frumpy little medal we handed out, signify that we really do give two shits. Amen."

The reexamination of Horne's death hit everyone hard. A former assistant coach for the Burn, Kyle Hooper, was distraught upon remembering the news.

"I always knew Nathan was a pretty good guy, fun to get shit-faced with," said Hooper, "but I didn't think he was a hero until recently. When all this stuff happened with Pat Tillman, I realized hey, Nathan didn't have to go over there and defend our freedom. Or defend the Iraqi's freedom, or whatever. I know freedom was involved. He could have stayed here. Hell, he was getting axed from the Burn next season anyway, but it doesn't mean he couldn't have stayed here. He didn't have to go to Iraq, like all those guys who are in the army now. He could have went on living for plenty more years and not gotten himself killed in an unjust war. But that's the kind of guy he was—never really considering his decisions."

Donations in Horne's memory, in lieu of flowers, are requested to be sent directly to his widow and family, who will otherwise have no way to support themselves. For those who would like to do more to honor his memory, the family requests you attend a little rally with a store-bought sign exclaiming how much you support the troops.

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Please.

Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I've heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that's clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? My elegantly formal CC? Or even one of my famous "Hands Off!" post-it notes? I think not. So let's put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

No, of course I don't know whose crack rock it might be. Did you ask the children? All of them? You really called Montpellier at reform school? I have to admit I'm impressed by your thoroughness, my dear. What did he have to say? Lonely? Wants to come home? Hit another student with a cue ball? Really? Now that's showing some initiative. I may have misjudged the lad. Was he playing pool or billiards? Snooker? Even better! Remind me to send him a snuff box for Father's Day. I know he's not a father, Deidrebane, but anyone can enjoy a fine mahogany snuff box. Don't be so closed-minded.

Did I see the maid rifling through the couch like she'd just lost several thousands of dollars worth of illegal narcotics? My dear, name me a day when that hasn't happened! You know how Consequa is, with her rifling. That's why we chose her from among the finalists, don't you remember? Consequa was rifling like a pro long after the others had succumbed to fatigue and delirium. It's her calling card, like Carson with that golf stroke. You know, Rich Carson, when he had that stroke on the course? He milked that for years, dear, always japing like he'd burst a blood vessel in his brain whenever the moment called for levity. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Died of a stroke? Really? I bet it was hilarious.

Yes, I suppose it could have been the butler's crack rock, now that you bring up the possibility. He's always creeping around in the shadows, answering the door at all hours of the night. Never trusted that behavior. What was his name again? Lee Butler? That's convenient. Can't believe I couldn't remember that name, how long have we had him? Is that in decades? My word. Remind me to send him a snuff box for Arbor Day.

You know, dear, it could have very well been the dog's. We don't know where he goes at night. Why are you looking at me like that? I wouldn't even know where to find a five-pound rock of pure crack cocaine. Not at this hour, anyway. Let's get back to the dog thing. Have you noticed that guilty look on his face lately? And the other day he was obviously jonesing, twitching on the floor like an electrocuted sea bass. What? I don't believe for a second that all dogs do that while they're sleeping, where did you read that? Dog dreams? Have you been watching that Oprah program again?

Sincerely, Deidrebane, sometimes I wonder about you.

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The anniversary of the September 11 attacks was Thursday. I see no better time to tell you, the reader, the necessity of talking to your kids about the catastrophe and what it all means to them.

First thing is first. Some younger children, the stupid ones especially, may think with all the news coverage that the September 11 events are happening now. Assure them that they have missed it, that it has already happened. If possible, try to make them think it was a lot cooler than it actually was. Tell them everyone was there and there was weed and free beer. This will ease the pain of thinking we all went through hell.

It is important the children know the truth about what happened to the United States on that day. But then again, what is truth, really? Make sure they know the U.S. was doing its part to make the world a better place for everyone when out of nowhere, without provocation, the devil's lackeys swooped down and destroyed several expensive buildings—and more than that, they destroyed our spirit. And though all those directly involved were instantly killed in the collisions, we will not rest until we find those indirectly responsible.

To kids, terrorism seems like a big, unstoppable thing that is faceless and too complicated to kill. Make sure they know that's not the case. Show them pictures of terrorists, like Osama bin Laden, and tell them who they are. Then make fun of the stupid way terrorists dress and those things they wear on their head.

The total number of casualties from the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks, as well as the Pennsylvania crash that claimed Flight 93, are continually being re-figured. An accurate count is impossible. Just guesstimate when you tell your kids how many died. A number between 2,000 and 30 million is usually considered pretty close.

It's important that kids know the government is doing everything to keep them safe. When kids ask how we're stopping terrorism, show them the little color chart on the bottom of the Fox News screen with the different color. The yellow means we're close to safe. Show them the elevated security at airports, and how pulling black or brown people out of line to be frisked means everybody else is terrorism-free. If you can manage it, tell them how our invading Iraq helps stop terrorism. And then send a letter to the president—I'm sure he'll appreciate it.

Your kids may ask questions like, "How could God let something like this happen?" Kids ask quite a few dumb questions. How you deal with that is your business, I'm not foolhardy enough to lecture you on religion. But if you need any help, tell them that God allows people to do what they will with free will, and that it's our job to make peace with each other. I don't buy it either, so if they think it's crap, tell them God is lazy. Sometimes things like that make children cry, and if you don't think children crying is funny, then try this old time-tested favorite: God lets people die because he really likes those people and wants them with him in Heaven. Thus if your children are still alive, God doesn't like them. Now that ought to be pretty funny.

If your children still don't understand, then there may be something wrong with them. It's easy enough to figure out—something extremely terrible happened in 2001. So terrible, in fact, the media can dig into the graves and feast on the juicy, succulent fear and grief once every year now, when the news is particularly dull. Mmmm… suffering!

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