Confessions of a Trump Administration Reject

I just finished my application to work in the Trump Administration.

Possibly I shouldn’t be depressed in the belief I’ve been rejected. Maybe President-Elect Trump is just waiting for the last minute to announce my selection. I’m sure he doesn’t want to give the New York Times or The Washington Post a reason to complain.
My beloved Marine Corps has been poisoned since the 2008 election. Obviously, this needs to be corrected now, not later.
In a perfect world I would be the eyes and ears of the Secretary of the Navy of what’s happening in the trenches. Oba-Generals giving PowerPoint presentations are a waste of time.
I’ll work for minimum wage and per diem. If that’s what it takes to clean-up the Department of the Navy (specifically the Marine Corps) of the toxicity of the last eight years, count me as on-board. I don’t want a DC office. Hell, I don’t even want to live in DC. Just point me in the direction of any given Marine command with marching orders to find out if they really are the snarling killers America depends upon, or have mutated into hot-house orchids that are in dire need of a swift kick in the ass.
If you want to send me to Parris Island, I’ll go to Parris Island. Want to send me to a fire base in Afghanistan, I’ll go to a fire base in Afghanistan.
As soon as our Corps of Marines has been cleansed of the where’s-my-trophy and huggy-touchy sentimentality foisted upon them by President Sensitive, I’ll happily tender my resignation and go back to being funemployed, daring any malcontent of a weed to sully my occasionally┬ápristine lawn.
Tactical description: Master Sergeant, USMC, One Each, Combat, Expendable.
I also have a Liberal Studies (history and sociology) degree from Regents College of Albany, NY. Some tell me that’s important, but I fail to see how.
I didn’t even have to take a physical. Seriously, how hard could it be?

There… that’s my resume. So when do I start?