The Good Old Days at the Steel Mill

Back when I was a young buck, muscles rippling like the girders I forged, there was pride in a man’s work. Nowadays, those whippersnappers wouldn’t know grit if it bit their soft, pampered cheeks. Automation, globalization, all those buzzwords for what amounts to a betrayal. We built this country, sweat and blood, and now they spit on us.

Those were the days, eh? A hard day’s labor, a cold beer, and a good woman waiting at home. My Marge, God rest her soul, she’d have my dinner ready, a hot plate of meatloaf, and a smile that could light up the whole damn town. No fancy vegan crap, no gluten-free nonsense. Real food, for real men.

Now, I’m just an old fart, ranting to the wind, but I won’t forget. They might outsource our jobs, but they can’t take away our memories, or the strength of our convictions. If those snowflakes want to learn a lesson, come see me at the VFW, I’ll show 'em what it means to stand tall.