Du Gamla, Du Fria

This morning I spoke with Major Vie at the Salvation Army in re the Swedish Meatball I am purchasing from them. I'm talking to her and wondering: what's up with the military titles attached to Salvation Army personnel? They all seem so peaceful when they're sorting the donated sweaters and working the cash register. What unspeakable martial impulse lies beneath the placid exterior? None, I guess. It turns out that the Salvation Army is a fighting force, but they're in a spiritual struggle -"constantly at war with evil," as their web site puts it.

What's all this about? Why am I suddenly rubbing elbows with all these battle-hardened spiritual warriors? Yesterday, gasp, I plucked the glorious flower of Swedish manufacturing, metaphorically speaking, from the Salvation Army parking lot. Praise Jesus. Yeah, it's old. Sure, the once-smooth Corinthinian leather has more wrinkles than an AARP convention. Shoo, she's still a bitchin' set of wheels. Just needs a little TLC, plus a new battery, a fix on the right windshield wiper, and possibly a whole lot more. Fred, oh superlative mechanic at Accurate Automotive, tell me I did not fuck up and buy two tons of Swedish manure!