Archive for August, 2008

So a few weeks ago me and my wife went out to Gen Con. I got to meet a bunch of people who worked in the table-top game industry, and I spent way too much money on new toys.  I even got a few leads on getting a publisher for that North Pole Zombie game I made.

All-in-all it was a pretty decent trip.

But during the trip there, things went horribly awry.

First we were late getting on the road.  No big deal in and of itself, stuff came up at work, and I stayed for a few extra hours to help out, because I like to be helpful. (Stop sniggering.)

So I was late in getting home, which meant I was late in getting on the road. Not a problem, as I was letting my wife drive. She likes to drive fast. Which is fortunate because we were taking I-90 through Chicago.

If you’ve never driven on I-90 around Chicago the most important thing to remember is that people there like to drive fast. If you try driving the speed limit, you will probably cause an accident. Plus old ladies will pass you and call you names.

So my wife is driving and we had just gotten through Chicago, pretty much keeping up with the traffic around us when we see blue and red lights in the rear view mirror. Great, we were being pulled over.

No big deal. I was thinking, it’ll just be a traffic ticket. In fact it would be my wife’s first traffic ticket so I was really not too worried. We’ll just mail the fine in once we get home.

Well it turns out that they have a funny law in Illinois. If you get pulled over for speeding they take your license.

I don’t mean that they cancel it. My wife can still legally drive. I mean that they take the driver’s license card with them once they leave. Once you pay the fine or go to court they give it back. And most of the time the police officer won’t take your license, so they’ll just have you sign for the ticket. But it is an option if they so choose.

Of course, if you don’t want to lose your license on the spot because, for instance, you are leaving the state and need to use it as ID, well they have a few solutions for that too. One is that you can get a bond card from your insurance company. Basically it’s like a mini-credit card, that you give over to the cop instead of your license. We had never heard of such a thing, so naturally we didn’t have one.

The other option was that we hand the police officer cash on the spot.

I learned that these were the options, because the police officer explained this to my wife and I. Repeatedly.

“I’m going to take your license as a bond, until you pay the fine or go to court.”
“But I need my license for ID.”
“Well then you need to pay the 95 dollar fine in full right now, cash only, exact change please.”
And then the officer gave us pretty much the same look that my ferrets give us when we’re eating ice cream.
The look that says, “Hey I want that. Gimmie. Plus I plan to poop in your shoe later.”

The officer, by repeating key parts of the previous conversation made it plain that we were either going to hand over a big wad of cash or my wife’s license.

So basically a cop from a small town outside of Chicago kept us on the side of the road, and shook us down. I had no idea that stuff like this was even legal in America any more. And it turns out that we didn’t have exact change, so we offered to pay 100 dollars, and let them keep the change. It turns out it’s not legal to overpay. I’m sure that this is someone’s idea of keeping the police honest. Which is laughable when they are allowed to demand cash on the spot. Since we couldn’t pay the exact way that they wanted, they took my wife’s license and sent us on our way.

And because we had to get back onto the highway from the shoulder we missed our exit, which was even more unfortunate that it sounds, because we did not notice it.

By the time we realized that that we must have missed our turn, we had wound up in what the movie Deliverance has taught me to be “Banjo Country”.

“Maybe we should pull over and ask if we missed our turn.” My wife suggested.

“Are you crazy? What if the guy we ask thinks I have a pretty mouth? I’ll get gang-raped to death, and you’ll be dragged off into the woods to be some hill-billy’s mistress. Let’s just keep driving until we run out of gas.”

Side note: this is also why I will never own a canoe.

Eventually we did find our way back to the highway we wanted. But we missed the next turn too.

And the next one.

And the next one as well.

So what should have been a three hour trip tops, turned into a six hour extravaganza.

Once we arrived in Indianapolis the fun didn’t stop however. You see we had a hotel room fairly far away from the convention. This way, we could get a nicer room, fairly cheap. It did mean that we would need to find parking closer to the site the next morning.

The next morning, we discovered something interesting about Indianapolis. They don’t seem to like the idea of people parking their cars. There were a few parking garages, but they were all full. After about 45 minutes of driving around downtown we tried the local sports stadium. I figured that had a great big empty parking lot, and would probably have some sort of paid parking available if there wasn’t a game going on. So I drove up found a spot and went into the gift shop/ticket to ask if I was allowed to stay there for the day.

The only employee present was a little dottering old man. Imagine if Joe Lieberman and Droopy Dog had an illegitimate child together. He appeared to be sorting through some paperwork, while waiting to see if he could collect the “Hellfish Bonanza”.

“Excuse me sir,” I began, “do you know if I am allowed to park in the lot out there?”
“What are you here for?”
“I’m here for the convention two blocks over.”

His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched. His jowls shook with tiny old-guy rage.

“NO! YOU CAN’T!”

“Alright, thanks anyways, do you know any places nearby where I could?”

“YOU CAN’T PARK HERE!”

“I got it. I’ll leave. But do you know-”

“I TOLD THEM THEY COULDN’T PARK HERE!”

“Right so I-”

“NO PARKING FOR THE CONVENTION!”

He then waggled his finger at me in an authoritative and dismissing way.

“Okay! I’m leaving. Calm down.”

He cocked his head, and gave me a puzzled look, as if he was working through a very difficult word problem.

After a few seconds of intense concentration, his eyes lit up, as if after a taxing mental journey he had arrived at the perfect solution to our problem.

“YOU CAN’T PARK HERE!”

And with that, we left.

We did eventually find a parking garage, quite a distance away, that had room for us. And only charged twelve dollars for all day parking.

And so we went to the convention, hung out, had fun, and later that night went back to the parking garage.

It was locked up.

There weren’t any signs listing hours or anything. No reasonable way to notify customers that there was a deadline to pick their car back up. But there was a giant metal gate keeping us out.

“No problem,” I thought, “We’ll just catch a cab back to our room, and then pick our car up tomorrow. We might have to pay extra or something, but this won’t be a big deal.”

And so we take a cab, and come back the next morning. It’s still locked up. And now we’re standing next to a parking garage with all of our stuff, and no way to get to our car. And I came to a realization. A parking garage that is closed on Saturday, is probably not going to be open on Sunday either. Which means that I will not be able to get my car back until Monday. Which is when I am supposed to be back at work.

Fortunately there was a number on the garage that we could call if we had an issue. Turns out that people who don’t open their parking garage on Saturday aren’t big on answering the phone either. But the helpful answering machine message did let me know that they would be back on Monday.

Eventually, I discovered that the smaller, human-scaled doors on the garage where still unlocked, even though the larger automotive scaled doors weren’t. So at the very least, I could head upstairs and put our baggage into the trunk, so that we didn’t have to carry it around all weekend.

While I was in there heading for my vehicle I ran into another driver.

“Is that your wife outside with a suitcase?” He asked.

I thought about how all things car-related had been going for me this weekend. And then I thought about my wife. Specifically, I thought about how good she is at keeping her temper when she has been under a lot of stress and frustration. I thought again about how things had been going this weekend.

“Maybe.” I answered, preparing to throw my backpack at him and run away.

“She said you were stuck in here. I have a pass card that will open the gate. I can meet you down there and let you out.”

Next year I’m going to fly.

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So there I was, in Iraq, getting ready to go on a mission. Now, before a unit moves out, they usually meet up about an hour early for briefings which cover the route of march, order of movement, recent operations in the area, evacuation and contact procedures, etc. But the briefings never get started on time, so usually we’re just there waiting around in the vehicles. Usually, this is the perfect time to go over your own gear and make sure your truck is definitely good to go.

This night was unusual because the route commander was especially late.

So, there we were, just sitting around with nothing to do.

It should also be understood by those non-military types that certain job specialties, and especially their holders, are considered… weird. PSYOP, if you haven’t guessed from Skippy’s stories, is one of those. Another one that comes to most people’s minds is EOD, Explosive Ordnance Disposal, my job. Basically, we VOLUNTEER to work with explosives. While we are trained for so much more, the Army uses us as a bomb squad.

We’re the guys that get angry, count to ten, calmly ask what kind of car you drive and if it’s parked outside, and then usually get whatever we want. Basically, people think (know?) we’re crazy. We’re the type of people that it’s bad to have bored…. Maybe Skippy could edit here to corroborate this idea. (And now a word from our sponsor?)

corroboration from skippy- You may have heard the phrase “Idle hands are the Devils tools”? Have you ever seen a trencher? It’s basically a bulldozer but instead of a plow, it has a giant chainsaw. If idle hands are the Devil’s tools, then idle EOD is the Devil’s trencher. Being piloted by ferret. On methamphetamines.

Anyways, there we were, inside our very large  JERRV truck, with nothing to do. It was chow time, and our staging area was right across from the mess hall, within full view of the line going in. Our Team Leader, a Staff Sergeant, or an E-6 for those of military but not Army savvy, was outside, his back against the truck and this is important, talking to a friend of his.

I look over at my co-Team Member, who was driving that night while I was in the back in the gunner’s seat. “Brandon,” I say “what would you give me to do an Irish jig on the roof of this truck?”

Yes, we use first names when “in the truck”, basically when no one of higher rank can hear to get mad; calling people by their rank and last name falls under customs and courtesy, and some people of higher rank get really bent up about that kind of thing.

Brandon then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dollar. “I found a dollar,” he said, holding it out.

“Done and done,” I say, snatching his dollar. I climbed out of the gunner hatch, and begin doing am Irish jig. I wasn’t very far into it, when I saw a shadowy figure separate from the chow line and make a bee line for us.

Now, for anyone that has never met one, Sergeants Major, or any military E-9 (as high as an enlisted man can get) have a certain kind walk when they are perturbed. Only THEY can do this, as I’ve never seen ANY impression come even close. Maybe they teach it in the Sergeant Major’s academy. Again, I might need corroboration from our military writers (another word from our fabulous sponsors!)

Corroboration from skippy- You know how in the Jaws movies, there’s the part where the cello music starts picking up and the shark is now moving directly towards the helpless and delicious marine biologist/nocturnal skinny-dipper/comedically chubby kid? You can see the fin, and it’s cutting through the water, as the monster opens it’s mouth to bite the victim in half. That’s how a ticked off senior NCO walks. Except with feet, instead of awesome John Williams music.

This particular shadow was doing just that walk, so I knew he was a Sergeant Major, and annoyed. What else to do? It was obvious that he was annoyed with ME, and hiding it would have only made it worse.

So, I REALLY got into my dance, adding twirls and little hops and everything. He storms up to my TL, who you may remember, had his back against the truck, and therefore to me.  He then does the whole Army point with all four fingers of one and says, “Sergeant, before I speak, put your cover  on and stand at parade rest! You,” here he turned to my TL’s friend and pointed at her. “Put your Gawt-Damn eye pro on!”

For the non-military readers “cover” is Army for “hat”.  “Eye pro” is Army for “Eye Protection”.  And “Parade Rest” is Army for “Brace yourself, here it comes!”

He turned back to the TL. “Now, tell me why in the f*** this soldier” he pointed up at me, now also at parade rest and rather fortunately with a cover and eye pro on, “is DANCING on top of this gawt-damn truck?!”

His voice was starting to crescendo. It had probably been a good while since he had issued a really GOOD ass-chewing. “Why does he not have three points of contact ?! Why….”

His voice trailed off as he noticed that both myself and the TL had very obvious EOD letters on our left arms, proclaiming to the world not to trust us with their daughters, but their lives were safe with us. It was like he had switched a button in his head that turned him from screaming maniac to Uncle Bob instantly.

“Shee-it, Son,” he put a hand on the TL’s shoulder. “You boys got that stressful job. You pick up that shee-it from the roadsides and take it apart, don’t’cha?  Shee-it, I know y’all are just blowin’ off some steam, just don’t let it go too far. Make sure he don’t fall.” then he turned and sauntered back to the chow line.

I was back inside the truck in record time. The TL took a minute to climb in. When he did, he just sighed. It took him a minute to speak. Finally, he said, “At least life is interesting.” And that’s the last I ever heard about the subject.

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Regular readers may recall that I occasionally write about game mechanics as applied to large online games. I’ve gone into economics a bit, some stuff on crafting systems, and I’ve even gone into some detail on settings.

Well one setting that I think would be a really great for an online game is the universe that the Stargate franchise is set in. It’s got all manner of alien planets, ancient technology, and one of the more popular scifi story lines currently on the market.

And it turns out that I am not alone in this opinion.

Furthermore, the nice folks at Cheyenne Mountain Entertainment seem to think that I have something on the ball when it comes to making games, and have offered me a nice job there to help them finish it.

So posts might get a little sporadic for the next several weeks, as I need to pack up my house, and  move half-way across the country.

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Blah blah it’s Monday, blah blah, new list, blah generic smart-assed comment.

(Submitted by Chooses to Remain Nameless)

The “PHARMACY LIST”

1) When making a service call, I may not refer to the Un-interruptible Power Source as the “Zed-PM.” It confuses the tech support staff.

2) I also can’t call it the “Power Battery.”

3) Even though we ARE haunted (I just can’t prove it), I am not authorized to contract with local psychics to exorcise our computer-haunting ghost(s)…

4) When there is talk of “trouble-shooting” some equipment, it does NOT involve 9mm, or any live ammo for that matter.

5) Talking to the computers will not make them go faster.

6) Beating on them only makes them go faster sometimes.

7) Even if you’re using something dull like a counting spatula, playing that “game” where you spread your hand and try to stab the table in between your fingers? It still hurts if you miss….

8) I may not play “frisbee” with the dozens of leftover birth control compacts from the Health Department’s stock (they usually give out a year’s supply at a time, and patients don’t want all 12 compacts)

9) If a printer is scheduled to be replaced, I may not take it home with me the night before and use it for target-practice.

10) I may not swear in Chinese (even made-up Chinese) when faced with a stressful situation.

11) Doing the Ric Flair strut and yelling “WOOOOO!” after fixing an insurance rejection may only be done sparingly!

12) “Tuning up the band” (See Shawn Michaels, the WWE Wrestler) BEFORE fixing an insurance rejection – ditto.

13) When someone says “I have a strange question”, the answer “That’s OK, I’m a strange PERSON!” is best reserved for people you know.

14) Even if I DO hear sirens in the distance, I may not rip open my shirt Superman-style and jump out the drive-thru window to save the day.

15) A bonfire out back is NOT an acceptable way to destroy old pharmacy records.

16) I may not use “dry ice” to chill my drinks, especially when I’m at Drop-Off waiting on a customer!

17) I may not play “lazer tag” with the telexon unit.

18) I MAY use the telexon to practice proper trigger-finger placement, but it annoys my coworkers when I do so while humming the James Bond theme.

19) I may not roll heavy boxes of labels from the storage area, downstairs to the stockroom, when the stairs have OTHER things on them.

20) …Even if I yell “PLINKO!” when I do it.

21) I may not follow the lead of Dr. Hawkeye Pierce and drink my beverage of choice from the graduated cylinders.

22) When mixing 2 ointments into a compound, I may NOT borrow my boss’ electric mixer he uses on his protein shakes.

23) I am NOT Doctor Cox…

24) I may not refer to the new hires as “newbie,” “Barbie,” or other nicknames.

25) New hires are not “fresh meat”.

26) “Abandon all hope ye who enter” is NOT an acceptable way to greet staff coming in for a new shift.

27) Neither is “run while you can!”.

28) Even though we REALLY want new flat-screen monitors, I may not gain access to the roof and “accidentally” drop all of the old monitors off of there….

29) Grunting “over there” and pointing in the general direction of a shelf with 200 different bottles on it is NOT a helpful enough answer when a new tech asks me where a medicine is located.

30) In the event of a catastrophic plumbing emergency like a large water pipe bursting, humming the “Mario Brothers” theme while trying to find a red or green cap should NOT be my first priority.

31) Carrying a samurai sword on your back and threatening to invoke Islamic law (IE, chop someone’s hands off) is not the most politically-correct way to deter shoplifting.

32) When a helium balloon gets loose and is stuck on the ceiling, there are better ways of dealing with it than trying to pop it by “shooting” the cap of an oral syringe at it.

33) Goose-stepping, doing the Nazi salute, and ranting in faux German is not an appropriate way to try to explain how “Loss Prevention” works, when newbies ask.

34) ESPECIALLY when LP due for a visit at any moment…

35) I may not answer the doctor’s line by pretending to chew a carrot and saying, “Ehhhh…what’s up, Doc?”

36) Or by breaking out into Bugs Bunny’s “What’s up Doc?” song.

37) I may not jury rig a cell phone jammer and deploy it in the store (ESPECIALLY at the drive-thru). Because SOMEONE’S gonna be the first person the FCC brings charges against for doing it…

38) Large chef’s hats are not in the dress code – even if I only wear it when I’m adding FlavoRx to a medicine.

39) I may not falsely claim Scottish ancestry in order to get away with wearing a kilt at work.

40) If handed a bill I suspect is counterfeit, I need to use the currency-checking pen on it. NOT pretend to examine it by going over it with my electronic Sonic Screwdriver toy.

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As anyone who has been through boot camp will tell you, we did a lot of stupid things daily that made no sense. One such practice was tucking our shirts into everything. If you’re wearing uniform pants, tuck your shirt in. If you’re wearing exercise (PT) shorts, tuck your shirt in. If you’re wearing a sweat suit, tuck your sweatshirt in. The point: We always had to have our damn shirts tucked in. The military also has written directives on how to do almost everything. One such directive is the “Marine Corps Grooming Standard” that dictates our hair cut, our weight, our glasses, and how we wear our clothes. There is a line that specifically states “The face will be clean-shaven, except that a mustache may be worn.” It’s that first part that got me in trouble. We didn’t learn verbatim the shaving part, but we did shave everyday so maybe they figured we’d keep up the practice or maybe I was just sick that day.

I have the curse of having a 5 O’clock shadow by noon, because of this, shaving everyday for me is not only a pain in the ass figuratively it’s a pain on my face literally. I countered this by not shaving all weekend or on days off so I could give myself a break. This was all well and good if I would have had my own place to live outside the gates, but when you live on base there are countless number of people who are waiting to not only point out your problem but also tell you about it loudly. It makes for some drama. One such incident occurred when I went shopping with the wife.

It was a typical Saturday morning, I was sitting on the sofa in my boxers, drinking coffee, watching TV, when the wife then says, “I want to go to the mall.” So I head to the mall without shaving. It didn’t cross my mind until who should come walking the other way but the Sergeant Major who is a career grunt, who is going through culture shock by serving in his first Intelligence Battalion in over 20 years. We didn’t get along. He worked harder and I worked smarter. The two worlds could not be further opposite. Upon seeing him I quickly did what any man would do in that situation, I hid in the nearest store in hopes that he wouldn’t see me or my “Elvis Beard” (I know Elvis never wore a beard, but to many a Sergeant Major he did and, he was also used to illustrate all contradictions to the grooming standard.) After he passed, I went back to my wife who was standing in the center of the mall with a very confused and annoyed look on her face. I thought I was safe, but come Monday it was apparent that I thought wrong.

As I passed his office I hear a bellow from his office summoning me. I tried the dumb approach and entered his office with a smile (Mistake 1) and said, “Good morning Sergeant Major! What can I do to you?” (Mistake 2). He told me that entrance was disrespectful and he’d address that shortly but first, “Didn’t they teach you in boot camp to shave every day? Didn’t your highly motivated, truly dedicated, Drill Instructors tell you that a Marine is to be clean shaven daily?”. To which my prep school smugness kicked in and I responded with a very dry, “Yes Sergeant Major my DI’s did have me shave everyday, but then again, they also had us tuck our t-shirts into our underwear so I just figured it was another cruel joke.”

As I watched his eyes bulge, his face turn red, and his teeth began to grind, I noticed the vein on his forehead begin to swell so I knew I was in for a real treat. He proceeded to verbally assault everything about me except my mother.

I expected this reaction, so the yelling didn’t really bother me. What I took away from the whole thing, however, was this:

The Sergeant Major was not a witty man. If he was he would have told me to pull my pants down to make sure my T-shirt was tucked into my underwear and then yelled at me for that too.

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My team at work is shipping out a milestone this week, so I haven’t had any serious time to write. I’ll make up for it next week, with a whole bunch of stuff, like my road trip from hell, along with some other stuff.

For the moment, enjoy some other person’s story, and check out this video which is my new favorite band.

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I just got home from work (11:30 PM), the garbage disposal has backed up, and I managed to get covered by the worlds biggest spiderweb.

So I have nothing to put up today, so take a look at these sites that Donny went and found for you. He’s kind of turning into some sort of Internet stuff bloodhound.

Bad Translation

Surprise Bear

Um….Bad Dog?

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After finally getting my trebuchet back I still hadn’t learned my lesson completely. I bought my own beer and soda intending to drink the soda, and launch the beer. I brought my supplies to the place where my trebuchet now permanently resides. I also brought along several friends to help me turn the trebuchet so it was instead pointed at a much larger, and unused, helicopter pad.

As my friends and I were loading up the twelve pack I had bought, someone pointed out that it was a waste of perfectly good beer.

After a quick discussion and an informal poll, the beer launch was vetoed. So we loaded the soda instead. All four 2 liter bottles. We didn’t bother with ties or anything because the sling would hold them together nicely until about half a second after release. We all popped a beer and toasted the trebuchet dubbing it “Soda-Slayer”.

And the I pulled the firing cord.

Did I mention the four plastic soda bottles? The two liter ones.

Well they make a sound similar to a twelve ounce can of beer slamming into the side of a building.

Especially when they slam into the side of the self-same building.

In all our re-aiming and adjustments, we forgot to readjust the launching platform. What resulted was something similar to a “hook” in golf. The bottles flew the correct direction for about one nanosecond then proceeded to veer off in a beautiful arc before slamming into the roof of the headquarters building and exploding. I was told it sounded something like a cannon going off on the roof. They shook the whole building. The only thing that saved us was when the base commander came storming over, we saluted, and handed him a beer with the promise to clean up the mess and re-roof the building.

After that day I was permanently banned from my trebuchet. It is still sitting there though. It is slightly rusted and the sling is rotted, but a little loving care and an new sling and it will be ready for more soda/beer slinging action.

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What would you do if you found twelve pieces of twelve foot long steel I-Beam sitting next to a metal recycle bin? Me, I’m interested in the late feudal eras of Northern Europe so I did the only thing I could think of. I built a trebuchet.

For those of you who do not know what a trebuchet is, it is a fourteen foot tall counter-levered catapult capable if flinging large object tremendous distances with great accuracy.

In other words, it’s fun!

So there I was, I-Beams and a plan. But how to do this? Well our local vehicle maintenance shop just happens to have not only a welding machine, but an acetylene torch as well. It took me two weeks of leave and a lot of secrecy, but what I emerged with was a twelve foot tall 16,400 pound steel and lead contraption that I was proud of. I even attached a tow hitch and wheels to make it transportable.

My first day back to work I towed it along. During my lunch break I wanted to test fire it, but had no ammunition to fire. Again providence provided and I found a fridge full of nearly expired beer. So I grabbed a six pack, unhitched and set up the trebuchet and had it loaded and ready when one of my co-workers returned from lunch.

He saw me with a rope in hand, a full unbroken six pack upon the launch platform and a huge grin on my face. Unfortunately he was just a hair slow in telling me not to pull the rope.

WHAM!!!!

The six-pack launched about two-hundred feet into the air and sailed completely over the parade grounds I was aiming at. About mid-flight the plastic rings gave out and I suddenly had a cluster shot instead of a single projectile. As it flew I realized my mistake as the beer also flew over the parking lot on the far side of the parade ground and began to pelt the side of the base headquarters. If you’ve never seen an entire six-pack explode in rapid succession I’d recommend using this particular method.

Just don’t hit the side of the headquarters building.

Especially right out side of the base commander’s window.

And doubly especially with the base commander’s own beer.

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After a brief hiatus we’ve got more military items again.

(Submitted by Andrew)

• I am not “God and King” over the base networks Electrocons and will not wage war on the Protocons
• The computers are not spying on the junior enlisted
• The computers are not spying on the senior enlisted
• The computers are not spying on the officers
• Computers of and in themselves are not capable of spying at all
• Will not use Photoshop to enlarge a SNCO’s head
• Will not email above picture to all lower enlisted on base with the subject “Real photo of <name omitted>’s Ego”
• Will not rename the SIPR as SIPpy so the officers will feel “More at home”
• Will not use official government computers, spare parts, tools and parking lots to build a battle robot
• *Will not use above battle robot to “enforce parking regulations” on other branches of the service
• *Will not attach a fully loaded M16A2 to above battle robot to “make it more imposing”
• Will not use forklifts to “re-park” unauthorized vehicles
• Will not use government assets to build a “beer trebuchet” even if it is really cool to fling a can of beer over 200 yards
• Will not feed the badgers left over meat from the barbeques
• Will not post fake warning signs on government devices
• Will not use above beer trebuchet to fling bottled sodas
• Will not play “CD Frisbee” between the 3rd floors of separate buildings
• Will not write my ex-wife’s name on weapons qualification targets
• Will not bring my own “M16A2” for weapons qualification
• Will not use government assets to build a “fully functioning scale model of a WWI gatling gun”
• Will not test the “armor capabilities” of occupied vehicles with scale model WWI gatling gun.
• Will not test the “armor capabilities” of unoccupied vehicles with scale model WWI gatling gun.
• Will not use the Howitzer as a drum, ever if it has “great acoustics”
• Will always check direction of fire from T-Shirt cannon to ensure it does not fire a baseball through the Base CO’s closed window.
• Will not smile and shakes everyone’s hand thanking them profusely for demoting me a rank after scale model of WWI gatling gun incident
• Will not tell the psyc evaluator “I’m loony as Canadian money”
• Will not build my own bunker with flood sand bags and declare all land in it as ceded from the union and shall now be called Blargistan
• Will not use Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes as my name on official forms

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