Archive for the ‘Guest Story’ Category

So I am currently deployed to Iraq and so far this deployment has been nothing but one big “what not to do” campaign from the top down. There are probably a million things I could add to the list at this point but I have one story in particular that stood out.

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Every year I try to do at least one April Fool’s Day joke on at least someone. Some years I may do 2-3 jokes. Whether I’ve contracted the clap from the Bearded Lady at the traveling circus to pregnancy scares, to cutting off appendages with a power saw, miter saw, snapping turtle, sharp edge of a toilet seat, to wrecking cars, bikes, or Barbi power wheels, I always catch someone unawares, and enjoy a laugh or two at how I got them!

This past April first did not start out very good for me at all. When I tried to do the whole “you’re gonna be a grandma again!” thing on my mom it backfired. I figured that since I’m only engaged and not married and that since a big chunk of my pay is going to my ex-wife for my other two kids that my mom wouldn’t be to thrilled with me  being a dad at this time. Turns out that she was ecstatic. Now my joke was just plain mean. Not what I had in mind.

So I figured I’d try and save the day from being a total waste by coming up with something big, something that would involve multiple people and really come out of left field. I decided to go after the proprietor of my favorite watering hole.
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So, while I was out of town for the weekend, my fiance decides to go on a little shopping spree. Going out of town sucks! She does go to Victoria Secret. Going out of town rocks! She buys new $20 sweatpants at Victoria Secret. Going out of town sucks!! The sweat pants are blue. She buys a white skirt (important later).

I come home, we go out to dinner. She goes to the ladies room. She comes out with a blue hand. She doesn’t know why. Later at dinner she decides to show me her new tan, by lifting up the leg of her sweatpants. Her leg is blue. I laugh… She laughs… I say “check please”. She looks confused.

Get her home. Tell her to put on new white skirt. She continues to look confused. (She is a long haired blond). Tell her to call me Papa Smurf. She laughs, and does so! It is on! Half-way done, novelty wearing off. Blue butt is cool in theory. Brilliance hits. Tell her to call me Gargamel. All the way done.

Am I sick?

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While I have to apologize for my overlong absence in posting, I also have to say that my absence is due to a disconcernment towards an attempt at publishing my short stories. Most publishers want more military and less frat-ire, while others want more frat-ire and less military. Why can’t I do both at once? Here’s more of a small mix of both.

A few months ago I had the privilege of attending my little cousin’s wedding. My little cousin had just made it back from the 56th Stryker Brigade’s first combat deployment since being designated the Army’s newest Stryker Brigade. The affair was also a privilege because I had missed 5 family weddings since my nearest relative got married due to deployments. I look at family as an ever growing reflection of myself. Where I came from, who I am, and who I may or may not become.

The wedding was classy, my cousin, who is a good guy and a stout soldier, definitely went above himself in finding his partner, a lovely lass named Alexis. Their nuptials and subsequent reception were an excellent affair.

The after party was where this story truly unfolds. It is all about my cousin Jimmy (not the groom). Now, let me fill you in on my cousin Jimmy. His own father testifies that if there is such thing as reincarnation that he wants to come back as Jimmy. I say this not as a hero worship to Jimmy. No, on the other hand Jimmy’s story is kind of a sad one.

Jimmy is a good looking guy, and a sweet guy. NO ONE dislikes Jimmy. My whore ex-wife actually came on to Jimmy during more than one of the 5 family weddings that I was overseas for. Jimmy lives in his Dad’s half-mil $ house in mid-Virginia with a few of his buddies, due to his parents having to move away for business a few years ago, and not wanting to sell or get rid of their house. Jimmy manages a local Papa John’s and goes to college for engineering. When he is not doing those things he is out on his parents’ ski-boat on their private lake.

Now for a a good looking, semi-independent, intellectual guy you would think that my cousin Jimmy would be rolling in the Pu-nahn-nea. Unfortunately, or maybe God’s way of cosmic justice, Jimmy was not blessed with the gift of game.  He is one of the shyest guys I know. He is so shy that I have actually witnessed good looking women blow him off when he had nothing to say to their flirtations but “right”. I guess somewhere along the line that someone told him that simply agreeing with women would help him score chicks. Oh wait, that was me who told him that, but never-the-less that was the only lesson in game that he had ever learned and it was not enough.

At the age of 25 my cousin Jimmy had experienced maybe two “hook-ups” in his life. This is where this story finds him. My fiance, my younger brother, Tim, Jimmy, and I were invited to an after-party at my younger cousin Kayla’s house. Now Kayla’s parents were the ones who allowed me to throw wild teenage parties at their house when I was a youngster. Oh, the stories I could tell about this place could fill one of those Penthouse novels that you find tucked away between the Anime and Tucker Max books at your local Boarders Books.

Now my “day” was over 16 years ago, and my cousin Jimmy was only 9 back then, and Kayla was only 2, but not much had changed. If anything things had grown, since there was a stable of 20 beautiful young whores women ranging from 17-23. Jimmy stood there with a big goofy smile on his face, but wouldn’t talk to any. Tim went on to the first fat one he could find, figuring he could only go up from there, and at worst he’d still get laid. (My brother does have some game, praise the Lord). Jimmy says to me, “Ronnie, you told me stories about your younger days, but I never dreamed that they were like this.” Not having a lot of time to cram much game, and not needing much. I told him to pick out two or three that he liked, and to go into a spare bedroom and get naked.

If you have never seen a certain hit TV show there is a playbook play called “The Naked Guy”. It is guaranteed to work two out of three times. My fiance and I have both found this to be true over the years. For those of you in a relationship, try it. When you and the sig other are having an argument while away form each other, if you get home first, get naked. When sig other gets there they will 2/3 times laugh, have great hate sex and forget the original fight. For those of you who are single, after a date that goes … who the hell cares how it goes, and you can tell that any future relationship won’t last very long, or you don’t want it to, find an excuse to go into their place or have them come into your place, beg off to the bathroom, or to go grab that bistro’s phone number, or that massage therapists business card, and come out naked. Chances are they will laugh, say “what the hell”, and go for it, or they will leave, and you will have an awkward conversation with your friend who hooked you up in the first place, totally worth it for a 2/3 chance.

So he heads off to the room, I call over one of the girls on his list, she has braces, so cute. I tell her that the tall good looking guy who came in with me is a famous porn star, and that he has picked out her, and (points out the other two girls he chose) to do a practice run with him for a high budget soft-core film. I tell her that he is in the other room naked and that she should grab her friends (as long as they are 18+) and go in. She does, they do.

They come out 20 minutes later. I ask him how it went. He freaks out on me, hyperventilating: “You said pick out two or three! I figured you’d send in one of them, not all three!! I’m not you!!! I can’t handle that kind of pressure!!!! THATS THREE CHICKS AT THE SAME TIME!!!!! I just talked to them in my boxer shorts. They are now my friends on facebook. I think I’ll try talking to them tonight.”

I smacked him right in the face and went home to bed. He didn’t score with any of the chicks that night. I don’t even think he’s still friends with them on facebook. If one has a two out of three chance to score and I send you 3 chicks that is a 100% chance of scoring. I can’t paint a better picture of fucking up a wet dream, can I?

On a happier note my brother Tim, did trade up two sizes smaller by the end of the night.

I still love my cousin Jimmy, but I agree with his dad. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as him, only with game.

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On Sunday, 06 November 2005, at 0814L, BU2 William C. Waldron, of the Naval Air Base Brunswick Police Force, alleged that I sped through the stop sign posted at Jay Beasley Circle and Pegasus Ave, and issued me a ticket.

At first BU2 Waldron accused me of rolling past a stop sign. When I calmly stated that this wasn’t so he stated that I was being argumentative, and whined “I’m just doing my job.” He collected my license, registration, proof of insurance, and base pass. Then he returned to his patrol SUV where he escalated his charge from “rolled past a stop sign” to “sped past a stop sign”. I wonder if he reasoned that this would show me not to argue with the police? I simply noted every statement he made.

I refused to sign his ticket.

What pasty, weak little BU2 Waldron didn’t know is that when I allegedly sped past the stop sign I was still in view of the security camera at work that monitors and record access into and out of our compound. I thus had video evidence that he was telling lies. (more…)

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Hey There Skippy’s Crew;
I am submitting this post because my writing has been well received here in the past, because some of the Skippyites are devoutly interested or involved in these sorts of shenanigans, but mostly because the creature described in the story, once skinned, looked remarkably, nightmare inducingly, similar to Skippys recent Hugs-n-Penetration artwork. Pictures of the beast are on my FB page (Raymond Kemp) which is open and doesn’t require a friend request to examine.

Introductions complete, the main feature follows:

NO SHIT- THERE I WAS

I debated long and hard over taking this shot. I really did. At least, in the relative sense that while free diving alone forty feet deep in a kelp forest, a long hard debate is allocated about half a second. In that time, while already ascending through the canopy, what passed through my mind was, approximately; What the Hell is that thing? Is it good to eat? Can it hurt me? Is it big enough to be worth shooting? Is it legal to shoot? I’ve had good and bad experiences trying to eat searays before, do I really want to go through the hassle? Can that fucking thing hurt me?

Well, there is only one way to answer questions such as those, so Blam! I shot it in the head. Good shot, too. Only, unlike most of the fish I shoot, this one fought back. Effectively.

This cat didn’t have a stinger. Unbeknownst to me, until after such knowledge would have caused me to swim rapidly in any other direction, it had spines. Rows of them. Vicious, hooked, needle sharp outgrowths of its spine sprouting from all around its tail and back. And mere skin or scales would be entirely insufficient for this beast. No. This thing being a Ray (specifically, a Thornyback Ray (Platyrhinoidis triseriata), I now know), it, like sharks, doesn’t have scales. It has denticles. Denticles are, literally, tiny little teeth that sharks and rays line their skin with. They’re shaped just like the teeth sharks line their mouths with, and just as sharp. This makes shark and ray skin smooth as velvet in one direction, and rougher than sandpaper in the other, which is why ray skin has been the premier grip for swords all through the ages. It’s a rare, sought after material called “shagreen”. (more…)

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So, as I’m sure you may have figured out, my wife has recently given birth, via cesarean, to multiple children. But before I get into the sleepless nights, the endless cycles of feed/burp/sleep/poop, and all the other wonders of being a parent of newborns, I thought I’d like to catch you up on the recent pregnancy.

It was not an easy one, for my wife at least. Since finding out she was pregnant with multiples she has had to quit her job, quit school and spend 22 hours a day laying in bed. The other 2 hours were bathroom breaks and showers. If this wasn’t bad enough, she only spent about a week at home doing this before the hospital moved her to a room so they could bet better observations. Now normally this would be a time of stress and worry for both parents, and for her it was. For me it was a time of sports and beer, two things which I have to curtail when the wife is home. Six weeks of watching what I wanted to, when I wanted to. Granted I spent a good portion of my time with her at the hospital, but at home I was able to enjoy those rare treats that only come once in a blue moon. However I did come up with a list of things that you really don’t want to do, or to cover up before the wife comes home.

Things to do, or not to do, while the wife is away:

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I have a younger brother in the 82nd Airborne, and when he came home for Christmas he shared with us a humorous tale that I thought you might enjoy or even put on the site.

My brother is a Rigger, in charge of packing chutes and rigging things for drops, for the 82nd Airborne. Recently he and his unit were sent on a short term mission to Afghanistan, doing a resupply drop for an isolated group. They dropped a few pallets of food and weapons along with two MRAPs but that is really secondary to the story. The planes stopped at Bagram to refuel and take on a few soldiers headed home so he had a few hours free in country. My brother and another soldier from his unit got permission and took off to a nearby hillside for chow and photos. As they sat eating their rations, the other soldier turned to my brother and pointed to an area down slope about twenty yards from them where little puffs of sand kept popping up. My brother looked to the horizon and saw three figures silhouetted on another hill and accompanying muzzle flashes. They took cover and called it in. The conversation with their CO went something along these lines (I’m repeating his words but he may have paraphrased, I don’t know). (more…)

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Hi Skippy,

Still loving your site. :-)

Adventures in babysitting brought on a childhood memory you might enjoy.
(And feel free to post on your blog, if you like.)

(Well maybe I will – Skippy)

I grew up in a fairly typical family: Mom, Dad, kid from previous dad (me), two permanent foster kids, two kids from that marriage. Mixed marriage, too. (Not all that accepted at the time.) We lived on a small island in the Caribbean. When my parents went out, they left us with the maid.

This maid was wonderful. But she had one failing: she couldn’t really cope with us. We were used to running free in the huge garden, and the area around our house which was semi-urban. I swear we grew up half wild.

So, she used to lock us in our room. We didn’t mind much as it was a large room and all our toys were there. But most importantly, there was a hole in the wall where the aircon unit used to be before it broke down and went for “repairs”. (Dad-speak for: we’ll never see it again. He insists on waiting for used parts. On an island. Where everything is imported. By boat, at the time.)

So we’d just climb out and play in the (even huger) backyard where the goat and the chickens were.

One of those times we got it into our heads that 40c was kinda warm-ish, and we wanted a pool.

So, we climbed back inside, put everything on high shelves. Put towels under the door and ran the garden hose inside.

1) We got a respectable pool, deep enough to actually swim in.
2) Actually, there wasn’t that much leakage.
3) Until my father, uttering the now famous words “there’s some water on the floor” opened the door.
4) We had to mop it all up ourselves, and of course we felt this was very unfair.
5) I swear I heard my father laughing his ass off when he phoned his dad.

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Hello, Kat again. Thought I should share this…

You all may remember a little while ago, in my second ER Admitting List, I made a few nasty comments about overweight people. If that offended you, you want to stop reading now. If you understood that I was not generalizing and was only referring to a minority of people who would be rude no matter how fat they were, then please continue.

The following story is entirely true, unembellished and (I think) hilarious. So awhile ago a man presented in our emergency room having some chest wall pain after he took a fall. Not unheard of. This man weighed over 600 pounds, so he fell pretty hard. We first knew we were going to have a problem when he became indignant because we had to strap two beds together for him.

Then we didn’t have a big enough gown.

Then the tech had a hard time with the EKG and the nurse had a hard time with the IV. He was ranting about everything. (more…)

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