They Said It Better Than I Ever Could...


These words that I write, they keep me from total insanity. -Charles Bukowski

Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived, or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed? -Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

Jul 8, 2009

Of Human Bondo...

So I cut my finger.

How did I cut my finger?

Well let me tell you. Like a dumb ass I needed to fix the arm of my fold away lawn chair thing. I needed to punch a hole in the arm so that I could use some 550 cord to tie the arm of this chair to the leg. So I decided that it would be a good idea to use my extremely sharp, OEF approved, fold away knife to punch these holes into the arm.

I grabbed said arm with my free hand and started to jam this ridiculously sharp knife through it. Slowly my knife began to cut through this chair. I reached a point where the knife seemed to come to a screeching halt. Well folks, this will never do. And being a bit of a moron I figured that I wouldn’t try anything different. I would just push harder. So that is exactly what I did.

Incredibly, under the force of my hand the knife slipped through the arm of this chair like it was butter. On the other side of this arm was my free hand and my index finger. As the knife sailed through the arm of the chair it slid right into the meat of my finger. Digging down all the way to the fucking bone. And that was just the smooth, sharp part of the knife.

Then we got on to the serrated edge of the knife. But that is a whole other level of suck that I will not bother sharing with all of you. Mostly because it hurts to even think about.

The funny part of this came when I went to the aid station to get this ridiculous cut tended to.

So I get over to the aid station. First the physician’s assistant takes a look at this cut. He says that it doesn’t need stitches but it could take a few stitches if the medic’s wanted to practice. Well, I am not going to be the pin cushion for an inexperienced medic, so I say, “Hell no!” and he says that we could just hit me with some dermabond. Or some such shit.

Now what is dermabond? It is basically super glue for humans. Or bondo, if you please. You know that stuff you fill in dents in your car with. Except its for people. So they proceeded to glue my finger back together. Which I thought was absolutely fucking fabulous.

Moving on, we finally got back outside the wire today. Thank merciful God. I was beginning to understand what it meant to be a fobbit. And I sure as shit didn’t like it.

We went out to start this new mission we’ve got of assessing these district centers to get them ready for this upcoming election. Well, all I can really say about this is...holy shit!

We were sitting in a meeting with the chief of police when he said something that sums up the entire situation better than any amount of my bull shit could ever do.

“They give me a tremendous amount of responsibility, but no resources.”

Well, if that ain’t hitting the nail right on the head I don’t know what is.

Weapons that don’t work. Radios that are non-existent. Vehicles that are broken down. I mean this place is the police station for our district and they don’t even have lights.

I mean for fucks sake, we gave them twenty bucks to go out and buy a few pots and pans and glasses so that they could eat!

But at least we got outside the wire. Which is good.

Then we got back.

And then the rockets came.

Which, as per usual, was funny.

So we hear the first one come in. Nobody wants to move. I mean we have movies to watch. Fucking Taliban, do we really have to do this now?

Then the alarm went off. Universal notification, that I don’t give a shit what you’re doing its time to get your ass in the bunker. Ugh, I hate my life!

So we get in the bunker. But not all the way in. The majority of us got all the way in, but a few of us, mostly smokers, milled around just outside the entrance to the bunker. All you could really see was a group of about 7 cigarette cherries intermittently glowing and fading as we all sucked down our coffin nails.

BOOM!

Then we heard the sound of rocks and shrapnel hitting and rolling down the roof of our building. Well, that was just a bit too close for comfort. So we went from calmly smoking our cigarettes to manically pushing and shoving to get inside the bunker.

“Oh baby, that was close. Get in, get in, get in, GET THE FUCK IN!!!”

Okay, now we’re in. Oh shit, now this really sucks. Why does it suck? Well we just jammed 30 people into a bunker built for 20. Nut to butt, asshole to elbow...I don’t know anymore playful metaphors for “really fucking close to the next guy.” But whatever.

So we all started talking. We were talking about what we would do about these mortar and rocket attacks if we were the big boss in charge of all this shit.

Most everyone said something half way intelligent, needless to say there were a few Darwin award winners who said something stupid, but what I came up with would be fun.

I think that if I was in charge I would put up signs. All around the wall. Big, humongous neon signs. I wouldn’t have them lit all the time. Just have them flipped on when the bombs hit.

NICE SHOT!
HOLY SHIT, THAT WAS CLOSE!
HEY, THAT ONE RATTLED MY BALLS!
AWW, COME ON YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT!
HEY ASSHOLE, I’M TRYING TO WATCH BJ AND THE BEAR!
DON’T YOU GUYS HAVE A GOAT TO FUCK OR SOMETHING?

You know, shit like that. Every time one of these rockets or mortars hit, another one of these signs would light up. I know that its kind of twisted, but you can’t tell me that it wouldn’t be fun.

We keep talking about this. I keep telling everyone. The IED’s aren’t going to give me PTSD. All they are is big boom and then that’s usually it. I can deal with that. Besides, you can look for them, you can drive bomb proof trucks like the ones we’ve got, you can drive off the road. All of these things are an active way to deal with IED’s. What I’m saying is, you can do something about them.

Then there are the bullets. Bullets don’t necessarily bother me that much either. I wear armor over all my major organs. I even get a nice little kevlar nut protector. I mean as far as major organs are concerned that is about the majorest. (Is that even a word?, apparently Mac Pages doesn’t think so.) But that notwithstanding, when someone shoots at me, I can shoot back. Fairly simple concept. You try to kill me, and I am going to try to kill you back. And I’ll bet that I have a bigger gun with more bullets. Once again, what I’m saying is that I can do something about being shot at.

But these fucking rockets and mortars. These things are going to make me psycho. I hate them with a passion normally reserved for people who believe in UFO’s and make quote marks in the air with their fingers.

You’ll be sitting there, watching a movie, playing cards, eating, working out, taking a shit, rubbing one out, whatever it might be. And all of a sudden, without warning...BOOM. Then the alarms come (I can’t believe this, another one just hit). Okay, now I’m back. Then you have to get into the bunker and sit there and wait. Sometimes a few more hit. Sometimes there’s just one or two. Sometimes they wait until you come back out of the bunkers and lob a few more at you just to keep you on your toes. Some are close, some are far, all of them in some deep dark place, scare the shit out of you.

And its gotta be some deep, dark place because most of us are pretty much immune to the outward manifestations of this experience anymore. I know for a fact that you have to get within about 50-75 meters of me with one of these damn things just to even have a chance of making me jump. Even then its not a guarantee.

I just hate these things so much. I hate them because you can’t fight them. You just have to hope that this next one isn’t the one that has your name on it. Then again rockets are a pain in the ass, because not only is the one that has your name on it going to get you, but random ones addressed to “occupant” or “to whom it may concern” will get your ass too. Not fun.

Anyway, probably should’ve kept all of that to myself. Don’t worry Mom, its not all that bad. You know what a drama queen I can be.

I’m done.

Later,

I love you Mom...

7 comments:

  1. The sign about the goat fucking had me chuckling for half an hour. I must be tired because it is some funny shit. As for fixing the chair, why not just put a round through it? Cleaner and safer on the fingers. Just scream out, “Chair Repair” before you shoot so no one will be surprised. Also, as for the rockets and RPG’s just get you a Kevlar Umbrella.

    ReplyDelete
  2. love the idea about the signs!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Good to know they have those "nice little kevlar nut protector"! Almost looked up this word, "majorest".
    I do manicures for a living and I always use nail glue to close paper cuts on my clients; the stuff works great. Mudpuppy, keep it all safe! Don't fix anymore chairs!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Happy belated Birthday Dan. The sign idea was really funny. Stay as safe as you can. Oh, and keep writing when you get back to the land of Budweiser.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Stupid question time: Where are the mortars coming from? Is it possible to spot where they are shooting from and call it in? Please forgive me but, I was wondering. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Hey, I thought you gave up that gay thing when you went and got a pedicure. Now you're a drama queen! OMG!

    I got this on my google alerts and it has a Specialist Sharon receiving his CAB. Is this your unit and it that you?

    Go to this site: http://www.mattoonfirstchristian.org/Graphics/DHD%20VOL%205.pdf

    Pops

    ReplyDelete
  7. I went to the site ABNPOPPA mentioned and I have a question. What is the difference between the CIB and the CAB? What requirements?

    ReplyDelete