We're All POGs: Laughing Through The Bullshit

Back in 2010, when Dysfunctional Veterans started slinging memes and middle fingers, the term "POG" became the go-to jab from keyboard warriors on forums, Reddit, and every salty vet who thinks they’re Rambo reincarnated. For the unwashed masses, POG means "Person Other Than Grunt," a supposed diss aimed at anyone not humping a rifle in the suck. It’s meant to make you feel like your service was just a glorified desk job. Spoiler alert: it’s about as insulting as a wet fart in a sandstorm.

Let’s break it down. Bo was a cook, slinging slop to keep grunts from eating their boots. Oink was an aerospace ground equipment mechanic, keeping Air Force jets and gear humming, while Bender wrenched Army Humvees back to life, both dodging mortars like it was just another Tuesday (except Oink’s came from a five-star hotel). JJ was a journalist, typing tales of war from a rusty ship. SGT WarDawg and DV6 were infantry, kicking doors and taking names. Nevermore was MP, keeping the chaos from turning into a full-on shitshow. Google wrestled paperwork so the brass didn’t lose their minds. Chris worked coms, piecing together the puzzle to keep missions on track. Tyler of INERT Mugs was a Marine Explosive Ordnance Disposal, defusing bombs while the rest of us prayed he didn’t sneeze. And don’t sleep on Dennis Vee from Laugh It Off who was a 75th Ranger Regiment and Special Forces, probably eating glass for breakfast. We’re all from different branches but served the same country, carried the same flag, and signed the same contract. Call us POGs? Fine. But try winning a war without food, wheels, jets, security, coms, bomb disposal, or a single form filed right. Good fucking luck.

So why are we even dignifying this POG nonsense? Because it’s comedy gold. Some vets clutch their DD-214s like a security blanket, screaming, “You ain’t seen combat, you ain’t shit!” Meanwhile, they’re the ones who spent their enlistment in an air-conditioned cube stateside, sipping coffee and whining about Wi-Fi. The veteran community is a twisted beast. One half’s ready to drive cross-country to pull a brother or sister out of a ditch, no questions asked. “You good? Need cash? A beer? I’m there.” The other half? They’ll shit on your soul for daring to help vets better than they ever could. And trust us, most of these loudmouths didn’t do half of what they claim. They’re just mad you’re out here making a difference while they’re busy jerking off their egos.

Here’s the kicker: we don’t give a rat’s ass about the haters. Dysfunctional Veterans, and every other vet grinding to get our brothers and sisters the benefits, support, and respect they were promised, keep pushing because fuck the noise. You signed that contract, you dragged your ass through basic, you worked 18-hour days missing your kid’s first steps, your mom’s funeral, or a shot at some cushy civilian gig. Combat or no combat, blown up or bored to death, you served. You don’t need to be some “blood makes the grass grow” jarhead who beat it in a Port-A-Potty to prove you’re legit. You raised your hand, you did your time, you earned your stripes, even if they’re on a cook’s apron or a clerk’s stapler.

Yeah, we bust balls. It’s how we show love. Vets will roast each other harder than a drill sergeant on day one, and it’s beautiful, a bond forged in sweat, bad coffee, and shared misery. But to the bitter pricks who spend their days tearing down those actually helping vets? You’re not just hypocrites; you’re the reason some of us drink. You say you want better for veterans, but when someone’s out there fighting for it, you’d rather piss on their work than lift a finger. Sad.

So here’s the deal: POG, grunt, whatever, you’re a vet. You served your country while most civilians bitched about their 9-to-5. You missed birthdays, funerals, and chances at millions just to wear the uniform. And when the government says, “Yeah, we promised you benefits, but you’re not fucked up enough to qualify,” we’re the ones screaming, “Bullshit!” Keep roasting, keep laughing, keep helping your brothers and sisters. Because in the end, we’re all POGs: Proud, Ornery, and Goddamn Glorious. Let’s keep fighting for each other, and tell the haters to choke on their own salt.