Golf is Life!

They don't kill you because you're a Nazi. They call you a Nazi so they can kill you.

You know, if all those old hippie Democrat white women had not aborted all their babies, they could be spending their Saturdays enjoying their grandchildren instead of protesting imaginary kingdoms.

James Monroe stood on a frozen battlefield with blood pooling beneath his coat, a musket ball lodged in his chest, and refused to fall. He was 18 years old. The country he was bleeding for didn't even have a name yet. It was December 26, 1776 — the Battle of Trenton — and Monroe had dropped out of college to cross the icy Delaware River with Washington's army. They were freezing, starving, outnumbered, fighting a war most of the world expected them to lose. When the shooting started, Monroe led a charge straight into enemy fire. That's when the bullet found him. It tore through his shoulder and severed an artery. Blood poured out in rhythmic spurts. Without immediate help, he had minutes to live. A doctor named John Riker shoved his bare thumb into the wound and clamped the artery shut with his own hand while bullets whizzed past them both. Monroe survived. The scar stayed with him forever. Decades later, when he stood in fine clothes as America's fifth president, that wound was still there — hidden beneath silk and ceremony, a reminder of what the country had cost. But history barely remembers James Monroe. He never had Jefferson's brilliance or Washington's presence. He wasn't a philosopher. He wasn't a legend. He was something quieter: a survivor. The last president who had actually bled in the Revolution. A man who carried a bullet wound through the birth of a nation and never asked for applause. His life was a string of contradictions that mirrored the country he helped build. He was a soldier who despised war. A diplomat who walked through burning cities and still believed in peace. A man who fought for liberty while owning slaves. He spoke of freedom as sacred while struggling to reconcile what that meant in a nation still learning what freedom was. When Monroe became president in 1817, America was fractured. The War of 1812 had just ended. The British had burned Washington to ashes. The economy was in ruins. States were bickering. The fragile union felt like it might collapse at any moment. Monroe didn't give grand speeches. He didn't write revolutionary manifestos. Instead, he did something no sitting president had ever done: he left Washington and went to meet the country in person. For months, he traveled by carriage and horseback across thousands of miles — from New England factories to Southern plantations, from frontier towns to coastal cities. Farmers left their fields. Factory workers lined the roads. Veterans of the Revolution, now gray and bent, came just to shake the hand of the man who had bled beside them at Trenton. Newspapers called it "The Era of Good Feelings." But that phrase was too clean for the truth. This wasn't an era of easy unity. It was an era of holding the country together through sheer presence — of showing up when falling apart would have been easier. Monroe's greatest legacy came in 1823, when he issued what would become known as the Monroe Doctrine. Europe was still meddling in the Americas, treating newly independent nations like colonies waiting to be reclaimed. Spain wanted its territories back. Russia was expanding down the Pacific coast. The old empires hadn't learned their lesson. Monroe had seen enough war to know where this led. His message was simple and firm: "No more empires here. The Americas are closed to European colonization." It wasn't arrogance. It was exhaustion. It was a line drawn by a man who had already stood bleeding on a battlefield for freedom once and had no intention of watching it happen again. But behind the steady president was a man crumbling under contradictions he could never resolve. He fought for independence but profited from slavery. He championed liberty while human beings worked his land in chains. He spoke of national honor while drowning in personal debt. The wound from Trenton never killed him, but the weight of trying to live up to impossible ideals nearly did. After leaving office in 1825, Monroe's financial troubles caught up with him. He was so broke he had to sell his beloved Virginia estate and move in with his daughter in New York. The man who had helped birth a nation spent his final years in someone else's home, asking Congress to reimburse him for decades of unpaid diplomatic expenses. On July 4, 1831 — exactly five years after Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died on the same day — James Monroe died too. Three Founding Fathers, three July Fourths. The country they built was 55 years old, already forgetting the men who had bled to create it. Monroe left no grand monuments. No stirring speeches that echo through history. No philosophical treatises studied in classrooms. But maybe that was never the point. Monroe wasn't a man of words. He was a man of endurance. The kind who took a bullet to the chest at 18 and kept standing. The kind who toured a broken country not with promises, but with presence. The kind who drew a line against empires not with threats, but with quiet certainty. He once said, "National honor is the national property of the highest value." Maybe that's what he left behind — not fame, not glory, but the memory of what it looks like to bleed for something you believe in and keep standing long after the applause fades. Because somewhere inside that boy collapsing on a frozen battlefield in 1776, already bleeding out for a country that didn't exist yet, he believed. He believed that nation would survive. He believed it would learn to live. And he was willing to carry the wound of that belief all the way to his grave.

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Just put my wife on a plane at sky harbor. 3 min through security. Ice helping out. TSA running smooth and now thanks to POTUS Trump they are getting paid. Fuck all democrats. I absolutely hate you! Thank you DJT!