Payday loans
RedShirts 2 Ad Banner for Kickstarter

Archive for the ‘Speed’ Category

Random Thoughts

Thursday, January 8th, 2009

1. The video of Zarqawi trying to fire the jammed SAW:  Pull, Look, Push.  Dumbass.
2.  Women’s Beach Volleyball: Drool…
3. I’m not apathetic, I just don’t care.
4. Democracy may not flow from the barrel of a gun, but al-Qada ain’t interested in Democracy anyway.
5. If Iraq was about the oil, why are the tankers taking it all to China?
6. If the USA truly was as repressive as the ACLU, Code Pink and CAIR all claim, why are those idiots still alive?
7. After a few beers feminists are easier on the eyes and as easy as any other lonely woman. Turn out the light.
8. Sure, most nymphos have a weight problem, but it’s not like you’re going to marry ’em.

Better than Being a Dumb Ass

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008

As a PFC fresh out of AIT I had a long and easy summer.  In July 1979 I arrived at Ft. Hood, herbal Texas about the time that my unit, asthma the 142nd Signal BN of the 2nd Armored Division went off to train at the National Training Center (NTC).  As part of the rear detachment I would do very little work in the morning and have the afternoon off.  I had a lot of three and four day weekends too.

I had fallen into some bad habits, anesthetist one of which was speaking my mind without actually engaging the brain cells.  The three sergeants that I dealt with on a daily basis the entire summer must have thought that it was okay as no one ever corrected me.  They were all Vietnam vets and would laugh when my mouth would engage without the guidance of my brain cells.

In September this came to a screeching halt when my unit returned back to Hood.

During one of these episodes my section sergeant called me a smart ass.  My mouth engaged of its own volition and said, “That’s better than being a dumb ass.”

I quickly tap danced around and explained to my sergeant that what I really meant was that it could be much worse if I was a dumb ass rather than a smart ass.  He didn’t buy it for even a second.

I did KP every time we went to the field until I PCSed to Turkey 18 months later.  We went to the field every month for at least ten days plus those three months in Germany for the Reforger/Autumn Forge war game.  The Germany trip works out to at least 45 days washing metal trays, pots and pans for our entire battalion, plus a maintenance battalion.

On the good side, I can wash dishes quickly and correctly even today.  My mouth still runs off of its own volition from time to time, but now I just get a counseling statement suitable for framing.  One day I’m gonna put them all in a notebook.


Monday, November 3rd, 2008

This is one of those stories that no one actually believes could have happened, health but it did.

I was stationed at Diogenes Station in Turkey for 17 months, canada ed spanning from February 1981 until July 1982, at which point I went to Ft. Dix, NJ to ETS.  I worked in the TCC, the Tele-Communication Center, or comm center for short.

When I arrived we used state of the art 1950 equipment for putting messages on paper tape which would then run through a reader and became some sort of code that could be transmitted via microwave equipment that had been installed in 1947.  No lie.

In a few months time we had state of the art 1981 computer equipment to send and receive message traffic.  It’s very primitive compared to what we all have today, but was very futuristic at that time.

I served under two different Sergeant First Classes, Vietnam era vets, that were incredible studs.  When they wore their ribbons, they had the ones that you literally had to kill for.

When they went back to the states we got white-boy Fat Albert.  He had made rank quickly in Vietnam too, but was frustrated because he hadn’t gotten promoted in about ten years and would be leaving the army at the end of his Turkish tour if he didn’t make rank.  He knew nothing of our computer equipment and refused to learn.  Did I mention that he was fat?  He wouldn’t pass today’s “tape-test” even if they could find a tape big enough to go around him.

He took a personal dislike to me and told me so.  He ended his “initial counseling session” with me by saying, “You came into this army an E-1 and I’m going to send you home an E-1.”

I was a brand new E-5, a Buck Sergeant, and had been working in a Staff Sergeant’s slot for about a year at that time, beginning when I was a Specialist.  I was always put on the night shift, which corresponded with the day shift in the USA, which meant we were always very busy with a high volume of message traffic coming in and going out.  From the time that Fat Albert took over I always got stuck with less than half the people I needed to run this shift, but we always got the work done and ended up being the envy of the day shift.  I had some really good guys working with me.  I also pissed off Fat Albert, because he truly wanted to write counseling statements on me in preparation for filing some sort of charges against me and taking my rank.

Just about every day Fat Albert would post his “Order of the Day” on the door between his office and our work area.  We would have to read them and then initial that we had done so.  Failure to do so would get you written up, except for that short, fat female Specialist with short hair that he had a crush on.

One day, after reading his stupid order, the usual rant about us needing to run the vacuum or empty the garbage like we always did, I read his signature block and realized that it was just about perfect if you added M-O-U-S-E.

My team was coming on and getting briefed by the other team, everyone was hustling and bustling around.  Fat Albert was waddling out to go drink his supper at the Sports Bar.

I walked over to a computer and typed out “M-O-U-S-E,” printed off a single copy and did not save anything to disk or tape.  I cut out the word, shredded the paper with the cut out hole in it and clear taped the M-O-U-S-E underneath Fat Albert’s signature block.  I wiped the tape with my sleeve just in case he had the MPs try to lift a print.  No one noticed a thing.

I then volunteered to burn the classified trash, which included the shredded paper I had just added.  Yep, I was paranoid, but I also knew he was out to get me.

The next day was my day off.  I was down at our private beach on the Black Sea when I was approached by a Specialist from the day shift.  She was off too, but had had to go into the comm center for some reason.  She said to me, “Don’t say anything because I don’t want to lie if I get questioned, but I know that you did it.”

I acted surprised but it didn’t fool her.  She told me that Fat Albert had turned purple and stood there screaming incoherently, barely able to shout out my name and the occasional f-bomb.  We laughed about his reaction and “wondered” how anyone could have done what they did. Can you purchase Cialis and save money, here https://www.fortissurgicalhospital.com/cialis-20-mg/ the best offers for generic Cialis 20 mg, 10 mg, 5 mg.

For the next few months, until I ETS’d, I was a local celebrity among my peers.

Oh yeah, I was a Buck Sergeant when I ETS’d and I was given an Army Commendation Medal by the unit commander.  Go figure.

SFC Cole

The Fart Sack

Tuesday, October 21st, 2008

My national guard unit, 139th ROC, North Carolina NG, was sent to Slavonski Brod, Croatia to staff the Task Force Pershing HQ for SFOR in Bosnia.  We were a glorified truck stop for the units moving between Germany and Bosnia.

As an E-5 – Buck Sergeant for the civilians – I ended up being the ranking enlisted man in the Intel section.  One of my guys was Aaron.  Aaron never stopped whining.  “It’s too hot,” “It’s too cold,” “It always rains.”  Waah, waah, waah.  And he worked in an office that heat and AC, plus, being the Intel section for a brigade we had a TV in our room with cable so that we could “monitor the news.”  Cough, cough, ESPN, cough, cough.

I was counseled by my captain for calling Aaron “my bitch” and “Jennifer” because he whined like he had PMS all of the time.  I also couldn’t mention PMS in any context.

I worked a night shift.  I slept during the day – duh.  My cot was near the entrance of our GP medium tent – about the size of the hospital tent in MASH.  We were able to spread out since only six of us slept in it, and since the tent was draped over a wooden frame, we had a door to keep out the weather.

My cot was by the door.  The door had a spring on it so that it would stay shut, but this meant that it would slam shut when opened.  One day Aaron woke me up with his slamming and banging as he switched out his sleeping bag for a freshly cleaned one.  A few minutes later, after he had gone back to work, the door began slamming and banging at a furious rate.

I sat up ready to tear some ass, only to see a line of Specialists and Sergeants formed up and taking turns sitting on Aaron’s fart sack.  Each guy would sit down and then rip a nasty, wet sounding fart, courtesy of nutritious Army chow, then make room for the next guy.

Before I could say, “What the hell?”  One of my specialists, as he was sitting down said, “We do this every time he turns in his fart sack.”  To emphasize his statement, he reached into his butt crack and pulled out some butt fuzz, which he stuffed deep down into the fart sack.

I then got an earful of how Aaron had become a dick after he made Sergeant.  I commiserated with the guys, because it was all true.  I then went back to sleep, but first I took my turn in line.

A few days later as Aaron was hitting the sack and I was getting ready to go to work, Aaron said, “I don’t get it, I just turned in my old sleeping bag and this one already smells like ass.”

I bet it did.  About 20 asses.