I never expected to be asking myself "is nothing sacred" so often. That's because my naivete persists, which I suppose is itself something sacred.

I've been retired from active duty military service for 13 years. I've lived overseas for much of that time, but still found my way to a dozen or so American sporting events.

When I'm in a stadium or arena and the national anthem is played, I stand up straight, my heels go together, and my right hand finds its way over my heart. The slack comes out of every muscle. I don't twitch. I don't respond to itches, beads of sweat, buzzing phones, or any damn thing else. I do nothing but pay my respect by stillness and silence until the echo of the last note dissipates.

And if there is a baseball cap on my head, I take the fucking thing off.

Because that's decorum. That's manners. That, to me, is part of being American. We show respect. Never more so than when we're recognizing the sacrifices made so we can enjoy the circus in relative tranquility.

No individual, mortal or otherwise, possesses the requisite moral authority to unilaterally redefine our traditions, our culture, our agreements about what is correct. Not Donald Trump. Not his kiss-ass chorus. Not even sweet baby Jesus.

When do we stop burning down everything that ever mattered? If Donald Trump starts donning an American flag as a cape, or a sash, or a(n extra) diaper, will anyone around him quielty say "Sir, that's not right" ... or better yet, "Sir, you look like a braying jackass and you should not do that."

Seems we know the answer. And it means we've put someone in charge whose individual fragility is more important than our collective dignity. Which makes us the most idiotic collection of complacent and ungrateful shitbags to inhabit the timeline since this noticeably wobbly experiment kicked off.

When I see some idiotic jackass at a baseball game playing grabass during the national anthem, wearing their desperately ironic hat while they compare cat memes with their doltish friends in the sole moment of calm solemnity asked of them in an otherwise puerile and comparatively carefree life, I make it a point to express my disapproval.

Usually with nothing more than unwelcome eyeball daggers. That's usually enough to stir the body language of regretful contrition in those who are well-meaning imbeciles, which used to be most people. I content myself that next time, they'll remember the piercing glare they got from that pissy-looking, pug-faced, middle-aged curmudgeon last time. And they'll behave themselves. And with repetition, they might find the intended meaning in that stillness. If not, behaving is enough.

But it's clearly too much to ask of some people to behave. Not just at a baseball game, but at a ceremony where dignity and affirmation, mainly in service to a family that has lost a son or daughter, is the entire god damned point.

Since I don't have access to Mr. Trump to give him the nasty glare he has richly earned by wearing a stupid fucking baseball hat during the (otherwise) dignified transfer of the sacred remains of humans who gave their lives as a direct result of his dumbass decisions, this is the best I can come up with. To express my disquiet in writing, as many others are today doing.

And I spare no grace for the spineless weasel standing one meter to the President's left, himself a veteran, who knows better. But we can assume said nothing. Not before or after.

If anyone reading this has the misbegotten impulse to come at me with accusations of pearl clutching or to make some half-assed jab about how some other guy did something stupid at some other time in history, you can shop your laziness and apathy elsewhere. Go buy yourself a pack of bubble gum and come back here so I can show you how to chew it. You should feel shame for having such impulses, and my guess is you do. Because it's primarily damaged and self-hating losers who are so capable of pretending to care about important things when all they really ever wanted was someone powerful who validates their creeping sickness.

But I reserve special enmity for those who bitched incessantly about an umbrella being held by a soldier for Barack Obama, or overdosed on tranquilizers when Obama (gasp) appeared in public wearing a tan suit. Then lost the power of speech when Donald Trump mocked John McCain's service and pissed on his grave before he was even in it.

And now sit like pathetic and passive tits while a man we elected to represent and reflect our greatness ... uses this moment to show off his gaudiness. His shamelessness. His lack of the basic capacity to think. Or even remotely imagine the feelings of the families involved.

And of course, his inability to tolerate advice, which would save him from embarrassing himself and us constantly. Except it wouldn't, because even if he had advice, he would ignore it. Which is why he surrounded himself with nihilistic psychotic desperados this time around ... to save himself the anguish of even hearing disagreement.

This flea-bitten fiasco arrives in the form of the ugliest fucking hat ever made. An obscenity. A cranially mounted modern art masterpiece. A gilded turd retailing at $55, almost certainly made in China, which instantly cuts the decorum level of any event in half simply by existing.

And cuts the other half when worn by someone who can't permit anyone, even a fallen war hero, to get more attention.

If we needed further proof there is nothing this "greatness movement" won't enshittify, we now have it.

Saddening. Maddening. Unreal.

But no longer unbelievable. Or even unexpected. The only surprise is that he didn't jump between the cameras and the coffins. Then again, it's a young war. We will, unfortunately, bear witness to many more of these ceremonies.