As most regular followers of this blog know, I was in the boring ol’ Marine Corps before I decided to join the ELITE RANKS of full-time bloggers. And today, November 10th, marks the 236th birthday of my beloved Corps, the world’s ONLY elite fighting force to be founded in a bar (Tun Tavern, Philadelphia).

I went to Officer Candidates School in the summer of 1999, and when I returned to campus for my senior year — faster and stronger and more confident than I’d ever been — everyone jokingly asked me what it was like to fight the lava monster (“It’s not half as scary as the sergeant instructors, ha ha ha”). Marine Corps ads have always been striking and memorable in their badassery, but my favorite was always the one on the chess board set to Orff’s “Carmina Burana” (below). I saw that as a kid and I was like, “WHOA.” The rousing music, the bass in the announcer’s voice, the war on a giant chess board in a lightning storm — I didn’t even know what the Marines did, but I knew they meant business.

That business, of course, is kicking in the teeth of America’s enemies for the last 236 years. I’ve never been prouder than when I earned the right to wear the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. Semper Fi and happy birthday, Marines.

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I went to the Yankees game yesterday. After the familiar sounds of victory — Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” followed by Sinatra’s “New York, New York” — my girlfriend and I walked against the crowds surging toward the subway, across Jerome Avenue to a stately hillside building that was once Woodycrest Children’s Home, the building where her mother was raised. As we snapped a few photos, an elderly gentleman approached us and asked what our connection to Woodycrest was. He too was a product of the group home, and Jenny provided him with the names of her relatives that had grown up there. Had he known her mother, Isabel Martinez? No. Her aunt, Alyce Martinez? No. Her uncle, Joe Mojer? The old man’s eyes lit up. Yes, he had played basketball with Joe. Joe was quick on the court and well-liked off of it. I felt the warmth of the old man’s memory, his connection to this old building that was once something else.

I learned of Osama Bin Laden’s death last night the same way I learn of all deaths: via Twitter. I turned on the TV, gleaned what information was available, and felt — for the first time since I became a writer — a complete and profound loss of words. Twitter and Facebook were exploding, but I closed them without typing a letter. I felt that I should be doing something to make the moment memorable: popping champagne, hugging loved ones, kissing strangers — but it was 11 o’clock on a Sunday night. My roommate was asleep. The only company I had was my dog.

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Hey folks, as you may have heard from some flag-waving American, it’s Veterans Day. Being a veteran, I don’t work on this particular holiday, except for collateral duties like the KSK mailbag and this Uproxx feature about eight badass veterans you need to learn about.

Later on, Danger Guerrero will be around to provide you with some midday TV goodness and this evening’s listings. Until then, snap a sharp salute and have a somber day of quiet reflection about the sacrifices our servicemen and women make to keep us safe in our little pop culture bubbles. Or you can just kill time stalking your ex on Facebook. That sounds productive.

The Biggest Loser (NBC) — Tonight the final eleven contestants go to Camp Pendleton, the Marine base between Los Angeles and San Diego. Because the Marine Corps taught me useful pejoratives for obese people like “disgusting fatbody,” “food blister,” and “a Hefty garbage bag filled with soup,” I want to tune in tonight just to see Marines denigrate fatties. Alas, it will never live up to Full Metal Jacket, so I’ve included a clip below. (p.s. The USMC’s 235th birthday is a week from tomorrow, in case you want to tell any Marines you may know happy birthday.)

Sons of Anarchy (FX) — Last week, they added Irish music to the opening credits. F*cking awesome. “The dead know only one thing: it is better to be alive.”

Running Russell Simmons (Oxygen) — Simmons needs a crew of six hot women to help run his empire every day. I’m sure he would never think about having any kind of inappropriate relationship with any of them. “Ya know, half of these gook whores are serving officers in the Viet Cong.”

Millionaire Matchmaker (Bravo) — “If I’m gonna get my balls blown off for a word, my word is “poontang.”

Dancing with the Stars (ABC) — Only six celebrities are left, and somehow Bristol Palin is one of them. “After we rotate back to the world, we’re gonna miss not having anyone around that’s worth shooting.”

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Surviving the Cut (Discovery) — Despite James Lee’s demand that “All programs promoting War and the technology behind those must cease,” this episode about the training for Reconnaissance Marines is still a go. Although they were the heroes of “Generation Kill,” Recon Marines don’t get the badass cred they deserve because the Marine Corps won’t turn over operational control of their Recon Battalions to the US’s Special Operations Command. Perhaps this episode can help change that; reader Lauren wrote in with this to say about tonight’s episode: “My uncle was a cameraman for the first seasons of ‘Deadliest Catch’ and ‘Everest’ on Discovery, but he told me that tonight’s episode of ‘Surviving the Cut’ includes, in his words, ‘some of the craziest stuff I’ve ever shot… period.’” Nice.

CMA Music Festival: Country Music’s Night to Rock (ABC) — Tim McGraw hosts this who’s-who of popular country music stars and Darius Rucker.

MasterChef (Fox) — I’m sorry, every time I see the name of this show I want it to be “Master Chief.” Any HALO players or naval personnel with me on this one?

Top Chef (Bravo) — The challenge is space-themed and features Buzz Aldrin. Anthony Bourdain serves as a guest judge, demands that space food should take him “higher,” wink wink, as he taps his nose.

Confessions: Animal Hoarding (Animal Planet) — TV Guide: “A young couple’s 80 cats causes concern for their families.” Oh yeah, eighty’s where you draw the line. Fifty, sixty cats — totally normal. But eighty’s too many.