I'm walkin' on sunshine ... if sunshine is made of shit

You know how sometimes you get a string of fairly good or even really good days, and you know that it can't last, because sooner or later the good days will peak and send you sliding back down into a sea of bad days?

If you haven't figured out how my day went after reading that, you may not really know how to read ...

Because if today was any shittier, it would have had to start in an incontinent geezer's Depends.
____________________________________

Husband e-mailed me an apology for being an ass-licking jizz-monkey, which was a plus.

But underneath his "apology," he attached my response to his angry retort to my (apparently unreasonable) request for him to leave his phone on and be available to me, and added his own little sarcastic remarks to my epistle o' explanation.

Like, in the part where I wrote "I didn't mean to sound bitchy," he wrote "Sure you didn't" in parentheses.

That's my lovin' man for ya!

I wonder what was going through his head ...

Maybe if I send her an insincere apology, I can also be a scum-guzzling dickhead in a roundabout way, and then she won't be mad about it! Yay, I'm so smart!

Yeah, that's probably about what it was.

So, after replying to his e-mail, I decided to try to give him a call on a government phone (illegally, of course ... luckily, my sergeants are very understanding in a dealing-with-scum-guzzling-dickhead-Husband situation).

I woke him up, because it was 3 a.m. there, and I managed to solicit no REAL apology, but did get to hear several times how he couldn't talk because he "had to wake up in two hours for work."

Okay fuckbrain, your wife's calling you from fucking Baghdad, which you might remember is a combat zone, and you DON'T HAVE TIME TO TALK?! Because you have to wake up in TWO HOURS?!?!

Give me a break.

So, I hung up with him and happily went on with my full day of work.

Or NOT.

I bawled my eyes out because I seem to have the most insensitive Husband in the world, and then I continued my workday in a sour mood and got bitched at by my boss for "not being able to handle myself well in a stressful situation."

Well, let's see how you deal with it when someone sticks their middle finger up your ass.

That's what I fucking thought.
__________________________________

Okay, now that I've started off on such a down note, maybe I can wrap it up with some good news of great tidings, accompanied by comfort and joy.

Tonight is Salsa Night!

No, not the sauce, the dance.

I'm going to learn how to Salsa!

Then maybe I can wiggle my curvaceous hips on out of here and back home to kick Husband's ass.

Time to add on some Cool Points

There is now officially a new item atop my list of The Most Frigging Awesome Things I've Ever Done.

I flew in a Black Hawk helicopter over Baghdad today.

Lemme tell ya, I think that's a little more Frigging Awesome than my previous Most Frigging Awesome Thing, which was something like drinking tequila till I thought all the ugly guys in the club were cute.

The reason I got to do it (fly in the Black Hawk, not drink the tequila) is because I was covering what I was told was History In The Making.

It was this ceremony in which my division took over the job of the division that's been here for the past year and is now going back to the States.

Kind of a glorified version of, "Hey man, wanna take over for me? I'm tired and I really want to go home." "Yeah, sure dude. Get some rest."

Only since it's the military, it's a big huge ceremony in which every VIP in the country is invited to listen to the guy leaving and the guy taking over say all kinds of great things about each other, and it takes about two hours because everything anybody says has to be repeated in Arabic so all the VIPs understand what the fuck is going on.

Ya got me?

But anyway, it was pretty cool. It was held in this area that used to be Saddam's parade grounds, and all I could think of was that we were standing in an area where, if we were standing there three years ago, we probably would have been immediately killed.

Speaking of raining on parades ...

Husband is in some trouble, dear friends.

I don't know why, but he hasn't been answering his phone lately, and that's a little annoying.

Mostly because it's harder than Ron Jeremy's dick to get to even MAKE a phone call around here, and then when I finally get to, the crazy mofo don't be answerin.

(Like my gangsta lingo there? I be workin' on it lately. Word!)

SO, I left him a message in which I was a teensy weensy bit bitchy and told him he better keep his phone on him all the time so when I call looking for some love I don't have to hang up unsatisfied.

A teensy weensy bit bitchy is apparently a request for an angry e-mail retort in Husband World, because that's what he sent me.

And I got it first thing in the morning, which made me sad and angry and grouchy to all my co-workers all day, which they didn't deserve because they're not the ones who DON'T ANSWER THEIR MOTHERFUCKING PHONES.

See, now you're having to brace yourselves against my wrath, and now I feel even worse, 'cause you're way cooler than Husband is right now.

But Husband is, in case you missed it, not very cool right now.

Oh! Oh! And Monday's our six-month anniversary.

Wheeee! (finger twirling in a slow, yet sarcastic circle)
___________________________________

By the way, I want to say a gracious "Thank you veddy much" to %%diary-awittykitty%%, %%diary-hissandtell%% and %%diary-jacqueline21%% for your heartwarming notes of congratulations on my FIRST PLACE FOR COMMENTARY win.

Thanks, guys! (tear)

You rule.

No, wait ... I rule.

But you kick some serious booty.

_____________________________

Now I must be riding off into the sunset; it's time to go clean Bungalow Bill (my M16), shower and wander into beddy-bye.

Peace outside, dawg.

Iiiiiii am the champioooon, my frie-eeeend (dum dum duuuum), etc.

Wanna know how much I rule?

Okay, I'll tell ya.

I won FIRST fucking PLACE for commentary in the annual Army journalism competition!

Granted, it's only for one section of Army journalists, but it's the biggest section, and now I have a chance to win first at the Department of the Army level.

'Kay, go ahead and tell me how much I rule ... I'll even give you time to elaborate.

Because I am so happy I could pee!

Oh, and the winning isn't even the best part.

The commentary I submitted was actually a methodical destruction of my ex-roommate's character, as she had finally gotten on my last nerve by throwing away my dirty dishes because she "was sick of seeing them in the sink."

This girl was quite possibly a worse roommate for me than Marilyn Manson would be for a devout Catholic.

So I took my revenge, in the only way a good journalist can.

I exposed the bitch for the lazy, selfish, sorry excuse for a human she is.

And now EVERYONE knows it ...

'Cause I won, motherfucker!

(My maniacal cackle rises in the air as I exit, stage left)

Ah, Baghdad ... home sweet fucking home

Well howwwwwdy ho!

I'm pleased to say that I am now safely in Baghdad, after a month of mind-numbing monotony in Kuwait at Camp Boring (names have been changed to protect the innocent).

I got to spend most of my day today in slumberland, since by the time I arrived here, I had been awake more than 24 hours ... and oh, what quality hours they were.

Shall I elaborate? Yes, I shall.

I had never previously traveled on a C-130 aircraft before, and never wish to again (even though it was better than having to drive 3 days to get here) because the plane reminded me of a sardine can ... except less comfortable, smellier and more crowded.

I got to spend the entire hour-and-a-half ride with some kind of first aid box jammed in the back of my head.

The helmet I was wearing was perfectly positioned to combine with the first aid box and cause maximum discomfort to the area between the base of my skull and the bottom of my neck, so it was almost as fun as having someone repeatedly scrape your skin with a rusty razor blade, as far as the annoyance level goes.

But then, I finally arrived at my new home (for the next year or so), and all previous pissed-off-ness vanished with the discovery of -- you guessed it -- fucking INDOOR PLUMBING, BABY!

I swear I wanted to just flush those toilets over and over and over, because I could hardly believe my good fortune.

So, now I have a roommate (in an actual ROOM, not a tent!), and access to some of the best food I've eaten since I've been in the Army.

Seriously , the dining facility here is magnifico; I had never seen such a spread as I witnessed at my evening meal.

And it's FREE!!!

Free, free, free, la la la la la, freeeeee! (insert your favorite tune here)

So, now my main concern is getting fat.

I can just see myself a year from now, waddling off the plane and crashing into Husband's arms, knocking him over like so many bowling pins.

"It's so good to see you, sweetie!" he'll say.

"When do we eat?" I'll respond, my mouth full of airplane peanuts.

It'll be GREAT.

____________________________

Shortly after skipping off to Sleepy Town today, I was awakened by someone pounding on my door, who continued pounding long after I had decided to pretend no one was there, and go back to sleep.

So I woke my sleepy ass up, stumbled to the door, and opened it yelling, "What?!"

The source of the pounding shrieked, because I was naked.

So after I clothed myself, my loud, sleep-disturbing friend revealed the reason for her visit.

"See that cloud of black smoke over there?" she asked, pointing.

I did indeed see the cloud, so I responded to that effect, in a "Yeah, so?" tone.

"Well, a mortar just landed there," she told me. "Didn't you hear it? It shook the whole fucking ground."

Well, shit, no I didn't hear it, or a whole lot more people would have witnessed my nudity as I fled my room, seeking better shelter than a flimsy-ass trailer.

Of course, I do sleep like a dead rock. Oftentimes, I wake up the morning after a natural disaster, wondering what the hell happened, and where did my walls go?

So, it's no surprise that I slept through a mortar round exploding less than a mile away from me.

Nobody was hurt, by the way.

But isn't this shaping up to be more fun than a barrel of drunk monkeys?

That's what I thought ...

Anybody for a quickie?

I've been blessed with the unbelievable access of Internet for one (really) final time before heading up to Baghdad -- tonight! yay! -- so I thought I might as well use it wisely, by taking these precious few moments to jot a little ol' journal entry down. _________________________________

I believe I mentioned before that Husband wrote me his first REAL letter of our entire relationship, and it thrilled me to the point of doing the Happy Mail Dance (lots of booty-wiggling and hopping around) when I finally received said letter.

That is, until I opened it, and after having read my darling's sweet words, began to wonder how he EVER got out of second-grade writing class.

Now, I love this man with all my heart and soul, but being a professional journalist, I have about the same reaction to a paragraph filled with misspelled words as an epileptic does to a panel of flashing lights.

It literally drives me insane, nearly to the point of seizures, when I see "their" and "there" used interchangeably, or "your" and "you're," etc.

If you could see how long it takes me to complete a diary entry after I finish proofreading, you'd wonder how I have time to update as often as I do.

(By the way, I know there is an "i" missing in a word in one of my previous entries. I keep forgetting to correct that, but trust me, it's gnawing at the back of my brain every moment of the day.)

Anyway, Husband assures me that he CAN spell correctly, he just chooses not to do so.

This is what my hell would be like ... a roomful of smart, talented individuals who CHOOSE to spell like brain-damaged chickens would spell if they had the opposable thumbs necessary to hold a pen.

It's a good thing love conquers all, eh?

______________________________

Speaking of letters, I got a card from my mommy dearest this evening.

Have I mentioned how much I LOVE mail?!

I sat down and read it (after the necessary Happy Mail Dance, of course) and enjoyed my reminders of home.

Then I noticed the stamp on the envelope -- a picture of a Purple Heart Medal.

Subliminal messages? Hmm, I wonder.

"Honey, I hope you're having a great time over there in a war-torn country, and oh, if you get injured, at least you have this great medal to look forward to!"

Wheeeeee. Thanks a whole fucking lot, mom. Love you, too.

Oh, what am I saying? I really do love my mom lots and lots.

'Cause she can spell.

_________________________________

Well, it's been wonderful spending time here in my favorite land of all, besides America, but I must be going now.

Got a shitload of waiting around to do before my flight, can't miss out on that!

Love and kisses ... mwah!

Here I go, into the wild desert yonder

This is officially the last time I may get to update before I head up to Eye-rack, so I want to make sure that it's a quality entry ...

You know, just like the other ones.

Unfortunately, for once I really have nothing of interest to say, and although that usually wouldn't stop me, I'm kind of being rushed right now.

So how 'bout this: I'm gonna go ahead and leave you for now with one of my favorite cheesy jokes, and then ask for your prayers and positive energy over the next few days, during which I may or may not be able to share the goings-on of my fascinating life.

Here goes:

There are two muffins in an oven.

One muffin says to the other, "Gee, it's pretty hot in here."

The other muffin turns, in shock, and says ....

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

"Holy shit, a talking muffin!"

HAHAHAHAHA! (The crowd goes wild!)
____________________________

On that note, I'll see youse guys later, so make sure to leave me a bucket of fun on my doorstep for when I return.

My wrath overfloweth, like so much boiling hot magma

Have you ever made a sandwich?

How long does it take you to properly construct and prepare that sandwich, assuming that you have in fact made one before and haven't lived your whole lfe being waited on hand and foot, or else under a rock?

Take a minute to think about this.

I'm talking about your average lunchtime "throw the meat on, throw the cheese on, add a few condiments, cut it in half" type of sandwich, not the "six-foot hoagie with everything on it, suitable for feeding a family of 37 who've been stranded on an island somewhere" type.

Two minutes, tops, right?

Tell that to those comatose slugs at your local Kuwaiti Subway.

Because the ones I went to were obviously either on sedatives or were the most poorly trained "Sandwich Artists" Subway could drag in and hand paychecks.

I timed them when they were attempting to put together my SIX-INCH tuna sub, on top of which I only wanted white cheese, lettuce and tomatos.

But after seven minutes I stopped timing and started contemplating hopping my happy ass over their little glass counter and making the damned thing myself.

I mean, we're talking FOUR INGREDIENTS, all dry (except the tuna, but it's not like they had to go out and catch the fucking fish or anything), all prearranged and laid out in neat little piles and just WAITING to be picked up and set upon my sandwich.

I'm just glad I didn't order a "hot" sub, because God only knows what would happen if you threw a microwave into the mix.

This is why I miss America.

Not because the employees are faster ... no, I think they care even LESS back home ... but because at least when I decided to bitch at them for being sloth-like fucktards, they would know enough English to know that I'm calling them miserable fragments of apathetic garbage.

The jackholes at the place I went to could barely understand the words "white cheese."

Don't make me angry ... you won't like me when I'm angry.

_________________________________

Nothing very interesting happened today, other than the death of my journalistic idol and the later near-death of Subway employees.

Oh, and the wind, which seems to be exacting revenge against this entire country for, I don't know, just sucking such major asshole.

If I'm carried away by it and land a house on someone's sister by accident in a fantasy land full of midgets, don't try to kidnap me and steal my shoes, k?

Thank God I got that out of my system.
___________________________________

Speaking of things that are in my system, I have to make a confession:

I'm a smoker.

Yep, and I know all about how bad it is for me and everything, and how the devil will use me as his puppet until I quit, yada yada yada.

Don't msunderstand me here -- I respect all you non-smokers. I'm not trying to convert you or infiltrate your healthy, pink lungs with my infectious secondhand smoke ... hell, I used to be one of you, till the tobacco companies brainwashed me at an early age.

I've even quit a time or two, and I still try to quit, you know, some days ...

... when I run out of cigarettes.

My point is (holy shit, I have a point!) that some people smoke, and some don't, and people who don't are always trying to convince people who do to stop ... like the 100,000th time someone says to me, "You know that shit's bad for you," I'll throw down my Marlboro Light, mid-inhale, and exclaim, "Wow, you're right! I'll quit right now!"

Because here's my beef:

I'm about to go into a COMBAT ZONE.

Tell me, if the vehicle you're traveling in is suddenly bombed, are you really going to think, "Gee, if I had only quit smoking!" as you frantically fight for your life and your friends' lives?

Because I know what most people would do after going through some sht like that.

They'd get the fuck out of there, sit down somewhere safe, thank God for saving them, and then light a gosh darned cigarette, that's what.

I'm telling you right now, the next person who tells me "Smoking'll kill ya," -- as they're receiving training about improvised explosive devices -- is gonna get an earful.

Because, sure smoking will kill you over time, but war will kill you quicker.

So the minute my healthy, alive feet hit American soil, THEN I will attempt once more to quit this "filthy habit."

Till then, you know, what have I got to lose?

________________________________

Sorry about this entry of incessant ranting, but it needed to happen, and I feel much better now.

Oh, and for anyone who was wondering, my tuna sandwich tasted like yak vomit.

Nighty night!

In memoriam ... Hunter S. Thompson

Someone told me the great Hunter S. Thompson shot himself this morning.

As he was and is one of my biggest inspirations as a writer (he used to be a military journalist, as I am, and in fact recieved training at the same place I did) and was and is one of the best writers I've ever read, I consider this a horrible waste of life, but hope that he finally found whatever it was he was looking for.

Rest In Peace

I've been screwed by the Army, and I didn't even get off.

Before I begin, I want to make it perfectly clear that this whole updating-three-times-a-day thing is not the type of thing I am planning to be doing all the time.

Shit, how much much of a nerd do you think I really am???

Obviously a pretty big one, or I wouldn't have had to even MAKE that little disclaimer, it would have just been crystal clear that I am one of the most rulingest creatures alive.

If you've read any thing I've previously written, you'd realize that I have completed my allotted workload since I arrived in Kuwait ("Satan's Asshole") and am now more or less free to do whatever the fuck I want till it's time to go north to Baghdad.

So, I will update this thing whenEVER I have something to say, which is all the time.

Having said that ...

I miss Husband.

I miss curling up with him on the couch all cozy, only to have him fart on me and giggle.

I miss falling asleep with my arm around him and my other hand squeezing his ass.

I miss his nasty porn that's always laying around our apartment and on the back of the toilet so that when our friends come over they give me a knowing smirk and say loudly, "Well, you can tell who lives HERE."

I miss his cooking, because he's my little kitchen bitch and cooks WAY more than I do.

But what I'm really missing right about now is ...

(Say it with me)

... his DICK.

That's right, I said it.

We all knew it was coming ... I've been in this far-away land for a month now without so much as a dick on a stick, and I am not a happy camper.

I am the type of camper who needs a good hard fuck at LEAST every other day.

You know, like the type of camper who'd bang a tree if it was hung like her man is.

Holy shit, if I had Husband with me right now, I would jump him so fast he'd think he was lost in Compton with a neon "I'm White And My Clothes Are Stuffed With Money" sign flashing above his head.

Because I love the cock ... and I am suffering.

I love it like a love a good sandwich ... lots of meat with extra man-ass.

When I got married, I was the happiest girl on earth, because I knew then that I would never have to look for far for a lay, ever. Ever.

I could have Mr. Toad's Wild Ride any time I wanted it.

ANY TIME IS SWEET HOT LOVIN' TIME, BABY!

And then, as I put a bunch of gear on and boarded a plane, I remembered I was in the Army.

And Uncle Sam is a cockblocker.

No, let me re-phrase that: Uncle Sam is worse than a cockblocker, because he will take you away from your husband, and then fuck you in the ass himself.

No K-Y, either.

So now, here I am, heterosexual and deeply committed to Husband, amongst several thousand sexually frustrated soldiers, bored out of my mind and horny as ... as ...

... as someone who is so horny that she can't even think of anything to compare her horniness to.

I wasn't made for a year (or more) without a screw.

Just you wait ... SOMEone's gonna wish they had never issued me ammo.

Should a new template make me feel this good? 'Cause I do ... I feel goooood.

Right now, I am as happy as a pubescent pervert in a porn shop.

Wanna know why?

Well, look the hell around you!

I've figured out how to look pretty, oh so pretty (right Witty?).

So, of course I had to throw in another update to express my glee at achieving this new look.

I think it brings out my sensitive side, don't you?

Shit, something had to ... I never bring it out on my own.

__________________________________________________

I talked to Husband for a minute or two on someone's satellite phone this morning ... but it was the middle of the night for him back in Joyja, so he was kinda groggy.

Also, the connection was a little sucky.

How sucky?

Say something out loud in a normal voice ...

... now do that underwater.

That's how he sounded.

So, either Husband was talking to me with his face submerged in the sink, toilet, a puddle, etc., or the connection was sucky.

Whatever.

Anyway, I told him I'd call back in a few hours from a better phone, and I did.

The little turd didn't answer his phone, so I'm hoping he was passed out from the fifth of Jack Daniel's he usually consumes on the weekends, rather than ... you know ... anything else.

An idea I won't even entertain.

Will someone please tell me, is it wrong of me to worry about fidelity in poor Husband's case?

I know he loves me, he knows I love him.

He has sworn to me that his chastity will rival the pope's while I'm gone ...

... while I'm gone for an indefinite period of time, thousands of miles away.

In the fucking desert.

I believe him.

But shit, a man's gotta get him some from time to time, and I am not gonna be there to give it to him!

Help.

_______________________________________________

On to more amusing topics ...

I was talking to this guy who workd in the tent next to mine today, and HOO DOGGY this boy was a Southerner.

At least, that's what I thought, until he said he was raised in Ohio and Florida.

So shoot me, the man said "rassle."

As in, "Ah lahk ta 'rassle' with ma dogs while Ahm warshin' m'clothes."

Can you blame me?

ANYway, the conversation turned political (buckle up!) and he made it as clear as healthy discharge that he hates ALL liberals and ALL Democrats.

I told him I didn't vote, because I think both Kerry and Dubya are shitbags who should have just conceded to Nader so we would have all been happy and high by January.

This Midwestern/Southeastern country boy don't give a holler'n a toot.

Because he then stated that he was ABSOLUTELY against gun control.

Really, Bubba?

I had to leave before I got any more involved, but I couldn't resist letting the words slip out of my mouth:

"Yeah, most people who say 'rassle' ARE all for shootin' shit up, aren't they?"

Bubba turned beet red and started stuttering as everyone else around us started laughing at him.

Was I wrong?

Because it felt SO right.

But now I'm gonna have to watch my back ...

That little shit's got ammo.

_________________________________________________

It's been fun once again, but now I must go rassle up some grub.

Y'all come back now, hear?

Rain, rain, go away ...

My baby, he wrote me a letter ...

He wrote me a letter, said he couldn't live without me no mo'

Listen mister, can'tcha see I got to get back to my baby once mo' ...

... anyWAYYYYYY

________________________________

In case you missed that, Husband is now forgiven.

He e-mailed me an sincere apology with the explanation that he's been working like a dog (though not a dog in heat, thank God) and has been denied the use of the computer he usually gets on.

Plus, he said he sent me an ACTUAL LETTER the other day.

For those of us who have had e-mail for most of the time we've been alive, a LETTER is what I like to call a Big Fucking Deal.

Especially from Husband, whom I have never seen write a letter to ANYONE, including his mother.

So, I'm happy now (as I wear a huge "just shit my pants" grin and pirouette around the room).

____________________________________

It rained here last night.

RAINED.

In the motherloving DESERT.

Is that supposed to happen?

So now, in addition to the lovely wind and sand and general nastiness around here, we get to have the extra bonus of rain.

Who knows what rain makes when it mixes with sand?

That's right ... fucking MUD.

I love the desert.

Yeah, and I also love when someone shits on my chest and then punches me continuously in the neck ...

... while we're on the subject of things that I say I love, which I actually hate.

_________________________________

I'll tell you what I DON'T hate, though!

Wonderful people like %%diary-aawittykitty%% and %%diary-hissandtell%% who help me figure out how to do stuff I previously didn't know how to do.

Ya'll mofos is the bizz-est!

(That means "you guys are the best!" in "gangsta." In Instant Message Speak, it's "u r the best LOL".)

__________________________________

The Internet went down this morning in my office/tent, which means I am currently typing in a room full of other people who had to stand in line to use these computers.

It's reallyreally quiet in here, and I have the urge to just stand up, walk over to someone, and lean over their shoulder, whispering,"Whatcha doin'?" repeatedly till they freak out and then we can have a whole mess o' fun up in heah.

Come on, I know you've wanted to do something like that before.

Just go up to someone, stand in front of them about two inches away and stare at their crotch till they get freaked out and try to walk away.

But they can't walk away because you follow them around the room until they finally flip out.

Then you act retarded or blind or someting so they feel really bad about it.

What, nobody?

Oh, I guess it's just me then.

________________________________

I haven't eaten in the dining facility here in a couple days because it makes me constipated and I really enjoy my B.M.'s.

Just thought I'd share that ...

'cause I'm hungry.

_____________________________

Gotta go, kisses!

Give me a task, and I'll complete it. Give me a journal, and I'll bitch till your ears bleed.

Did I mention that since Worthless Magazine is done, I now get to sit on my thumb and rotate for the next week or so?

Yeah, I thought I did.

But oh lawdy, I been havin' some fun that's so much less painful!

I been readin' ALL yo diaries, and I been LIKIN' it.

You diarylanders have some of the most fucked up heads I've ever had the luck to peek into, and let me tell ya, I feel like I am among my own.

________________________________________________

Wanna know what else I did today? Great!

I swept a tent.

Yep, that's right ... I swept the dirt out of a gosh darn tent.

Because, you know, it's not mainly open to the outdoors anyway.

God forbid the little crawling desert creatures get their feet dirty.

Don't you wish you were me?

_______________________________________________

Ooh, ooh, I also got issued some ammunition today to carry around with my trusty M16, Bungalow Bill.

This is in case some Iraqi insurgents try to attack me, I can wave it at them crazily, and maybe they'll back off before I have to shoot at them and miss.

See, I'm the worst shot ever, because I HATE guns. Even when they're called "weapons," like we have to call them for some reason.

Where'd my point go, where'd it go ... oh, there it is! Some bright motherfinger decided to give me ammo, and I think that individual should himself be shot, because the day I want some ammo that could potentially be fatal in my hands, will be the day I go clinically bonkers.

I don't wanna shoot no-fuckin'-body.

___________________________________________________

As I was typing that last thing, somebody even more dimwitted than the aforementioned ammo-distributer entered my life.

The dude entered my office/tent, saw that I was the only one in here (and that I am obviously not a lieutenant), and asked me, "Uh, do you know where a Lieutenant ... uh ... Something ... is?"

Folks, what do you do in a situation like this?

My inclination was to pick up this laptop I'm typing on and start beating him on the head with it, yelling, "Stupid! Stupid boy! Get out and come back when you're less of a fucking moron!"

But I didn't.

I said, "Whoever you're looking for probably works on the other side of the wall that divides this tent in two, and you should look over there, because no lieutenant works here."

He stands there.

He thinks.

He speaks.

"Uh, well, can you tell them I came to find them?"

He should not have spoken.

"Hey, I don't know you, except that you're a FUCKING IDIOT, and I don't know who you're looking for either, since you yourself can't even give me a name for reference, plus I'm not their frigging secretary, so NO, I will not give ANYbody ANY message for your retarded ass!"

... is what I wanted to say.

But no, I calmly suggested he go look around the office of whoever he's looking for (not this office), and sat back down before my brain absorbed anymore of his obvious stupidity.

Thank you, I'm proud of myself, too.

Yes, they let anyone in the Army.

They promote us too.

Here come the fuck-ups, assholes, retards and illiterate inbreds to SAVE THE DAY!

Don't worry, America's in goooooood hands.

Those insurgent dicksucks are gonna get just what's coming to them.

And then ... I'M-A COMIN' HOME!

Is it the weekend? Oh shit, I hadn't noticed

Now that the most worthless magazine ever to be published has been shipped off to the printers, my days are about to get about 100% more boring ... but guess what?

I DON'T CARE!!!!! (Sung to the tune of anything, as long as you dance around the room with a smart-ass grin.)

Why don't I care?

Well that's quite simple, my dear.

Every day in this barren desert wasteland is just about exactly the same, so no matter what I do or don't do to fill time isn't going to count.

It's not like I have a weekend to look forward to or anything ... shit, isn't today Saturday?

Why, yes! Yes, it is!

And you know what I've done so far on this beautiful Saturday?

Well, I got up at 6:30 a.m. and went driving through the desert to hand a disk to some Kuwaiti who's going to print my stupid magazine.

Then I dropped off my laundry at the free laundry service on base (or as I like to call it, the "We Take Forever To Wash Your Laundry So It Damn Well Better Be Free" service).

Then I went and bought a towel, some snacky food and a pair of physical fitness uniform shorts from the crowded-ass post exchange.

Followed it up with a Haji Whopper from our camp's poor excuse for a Burger King, then ...

Came back to my office/tent to write this diary entry and check my e-mail, which STILL contains NOTHING from Husband.

What a great weekend, so far.

Tomorrow is Sunday ... I can hardly wait ... for it to be just like Monday through Saturday.

_______________________________________________

I want to thank awittykitty for the kind words of support and offer to smack Husband where he'll remember it. (If I knew how to link you, I would, but I know exactly jack shit about HTML ... if you want to tell me how to do it, I'd be glad to hook you up.)

The bottom line with hubby dearest is, as long as he's being good, I'm happy.

But would it hurt him to drop me a fucking line a couple times a week as he chills in our nice little apartment enjoying all the creature comforts the good ol' USA has to offer?

Yeah that's what I thought.

__________________________________________________

Saw an assload of camels driving through the desert this morning ... they're starting to be such a common sight to me, I barely look up when they come herding around the road.

(By the way, I use the word "road" in its loosest sense possible -- the "roads" out here are pretty much just dirt tracks which lead somewhere, but only if you know where you're going ... otherwise you're stuck in the middle of the desert.)

I have no idea what the hell those camels are doing there ... eating dirt, I guess ... Lord knows there's nothing else out here in Sandland.

I saw one or two wearing some kind of harness ... why the shit would anybody put a harness on a camel, then send it out to graze?

Or whatever the crap they're doing out there.

I mean, it's like saddling up a horse and turning him loose in the pasture -- pointless.

Okay, now I'm starting to ramble ... gotta get back to work, on this here lovely Saturday.

Fuck you, terrorists. Give me back my weekend.

I make the best magazines in the fucking world

I was one productive piece of person today.

AND I just used some damn good alliteration to say that, so I rule doubly now.

Here's why I'm so proud of myself:

As we know, I'm in fucking Kuwait hating life right now, and my job (other than continuing to hate life) is to be a hard-working military journalist (yes, I know, those two words should never be put together) and put out a product that will make Uncle Sam so happy he shits Skittles.

The assigned product this week was for me to put together an eight-page "magazine" thing to serve as our division's "photo album" of Kuwait -- our "memories" of the shitty training we all had to go through before being allowed to go up north to the Wonderful World of Mortar Fire.

Okay, first of all, most people spent two weeks, TOPS, in Kuwait.

Secondly, I can tell you right now, NONE of them were thinking, "Won't these two weeks be great to look back on once our lives are in danger next month?" like it's a freakin' summer camp.

So, I try to explain this to the Evil Powers Above Me, and of course, they ain't havin' nunna that. You make this magazine, you insignificant underling, or we'll ... we'll ... well, shit, I guess we'll just keep you here, because it's the biggest shithole on the planet, next to Hinesville, Georgia (where our unit is based).

SOOOOOOOO ...

I go ahead and make the magazine, which I think is gonna be as retarded as a PETA pork roast, and -- it turned out FUCKING GREAT.

I am, of course, a genius, because I did this all on my own, using only my own little noggin and a nifty little computer layout program.

Now, of course, my only purpose in life, at least till I travel up to Baghdad, is completed, and I get to be a useless piece of shit till next week.

Yippee!

_______________________________________

Now, I wanna talk a little bit about my loving lifemate, who I am perfectly comfortable with just calling "Husband," since that is what he is.

Husband and I, as I've mentioned before, have been married for 6 months on the 28th. About three and a half weeks ago, the Army (which I love about as much as Hitler loved the Jews) sent me over here to Hell's Waiting Room and told me I'd be here till Dubya felt like letting me come home.

This means that for a year or MORE, Husband and I can only communicate via e-mail or the occasional phone call.

He has NEVER been one to like the phone (as I've noticed most men to be), and we don't own a home computer.

So, I get e-mails from him whenever he can illegally use the government computer at his shop for personal business, or if his buddy Toe stops downloading porn long enough to let him use HIS home computer.

For awhile, the correspondence was going pretty well; I got an e-mail every day or every other day, and I was able to give him a ring every couple days or so. Great, we're fine so far.

THEN, all of a sudden, out of the blue, I haven't gotten an e-mail from my lovey dovey darlin' in almost FOUR DAYS.

Weekdays, mind you. He's at work every day and can illegally use the government computer as much as his little heart desires to jot his dear wifey a quick little note or two to reassure me he's not gettin' busy with all the military wives left in our town now that all their husbands are deployed over here.

At first I was concerned, but now I'm just getting pissy.

I mean, come on ... would any woman want to have to leave her new husband involuntarily to travel to a combat zone on the other side of the world, only to not hear from him as often as humanly possible?

Hear that?

CRACK!

It's my poor newlywed heart breaking. (Sniffle.)

___________________________________________

Anywho, I must be off ... it's time to continue ridding the world of evil.

Oh, and if anybody sees Husband, could ya give him a smart smack on the sternum and tell his lazy ass to get on the e-mail and let me know he's still alive?

God, I hate fucking Kuwait.

Privacy issues

Ah, another dust-filled morning in the land of Almost Hell.

I took a nice, long, hot shower this morning, which is a rare thing around here. My first couple weeks in this country, I was under the impression that the Kuwaitis think hot water is a tool of Satan.

Now it looks as though I may be wrong, but still there was one unsettling thing goin' on in the female shower trailer.

(Yes, we shower in a trailer. Yee haw!)

Anyway, the military hires a bunch of civilians to cook for us, drive us around, clean, sell their bodies to us for our personal enjoyment, etc.

That last one was a JOKE. We don't solicit Kuwaiti prostitutes over here.

YET. Keep in mind it's only been a few weeks; the real sexual frustration hasn't begun to set in yet.

Okay, sorry, I love my tangents.

SO as I wander into the shower trailer in desperate need of cleansing, I realize I am the only person in there.

YESSSSS!

There is nothing like a nice, hot shower all by your lonesome.

So I get all naked and everything, all hyped to get in the shower in privacy -- when the door opens, and in walks the cleaning lady, who speaks exactly zero words of English.

Great. Fine. I'll just go without my private shower, at least by the time I go to brush my teeth, the sink will be clean.

I take my sinfully long shower, get out of the stall, and start drying off.

Something over to the left catches my eye -- the cleaning lady, who has finished cleaning the sinks, is now just SITTING on a bench, waiting for me to finish so she can clean the showers.

Keep in mind that there are about, oh nine other showers than the one I am personally using, so she could easily start on those, thus at least giving the ILLUSION that she's not just sitting there, facing in my general naked direction, as I conduct my person hygiene rituals.

It was the most disconcerting thing EVER. I don't know how many people like to be gawked at while they're naked and not get paid for it, but I was starting to become pissy.

I wanted to go over to her, shake her perverted foreign neck, and yell, "Do you have nothing BETTER to do that sit in this smelly, steamy, ghetto-ass trailer and watch me dress? Get the fuck OUT! Take a smoke break, do SOMETHING OTHER THAN SIT HERE AND GAZE AT ME."

But of course, the chick speaks no English.

By the way, I usually have nothing against foreign people. However, let ANYBODY piss me off and I immediately have a grudge against their entire family, town, career field, race, you name it, till I cool off.

For example, I hated the color pink for YEARS while I was in high school because this girl who stole the guy I liked from under my nose wore these nasty pastel pink corduroy pants all the time.

Who wears pink corduroys?!

ANYway, I couldn't wring this dumb lady's neck, so I just went about my business as she sat on her ass and watched me, then began RE-cleaning sinks as soon as I walked over there to brush my teeth.

Crazy bitch.

I hate fucking Kuwait.

Slap my ass and call me Shirley -- I'm addicted

You know, this semi-anonymous diary thing is like crack ... I'm now addicted to writing down my random thoughts for anybody and his or her mother to read.

So, I'm pleased to say, my first entry of a mere two hours ago will now have a little friend that goes by the name of "My Second Entry."

Soon, I'll get used to this thing and actually start writing down diary-worthy shit, but for now I'm just too damn excited that I became computer-literate enough in the last two hours to figure out how to make my page look cooler.

In the immortal words of Kevin Spacey a la "American Beauty": I rule.

Now that this is already my second entry (trust me, this need to share things will not usually hit me more than once a day; this is the exception to the rule), I might as well say a few things about the wonder that is my life.

First of all, some quick background and a peek into my current situation.

I'm originally from the frigid North (a.k.a., upstate New York) and moved down to coastal Georgia when the Army forced me to.

I really don't care much for Georgia, except that living there gives me the ability to call up my family in early April, as their driveway is still covered in snow from Easter, and say, "Hey, just want you guys to know I'm tanning right now ... outdoors ... at the beach," and then cackle the most maniacal of cackles as their teeth chatter into the phone.

Still, I'd really rather see some kick-ass fall foliage and have a white Christmas than sweat my booty off nine months out of the year.

HOWEVER. I would rather spend winter in New York with hyperactive wind chill and snowfall and summer in Georgia with carnivorous sand gnats than ANY AMOUNT OF TIME AT ALL in the place I'm at now.

Fucking Kuwait.

I hate fucking Kuwait, and I hate military bases in fucking Kuwait worst of all. So of course, I live on a military base in fucking Kuwait, and will for the next week or so until I move to a military base in fucking Baghdad.

Believe it or not, Baghdad's gonna be better. I know cos my friends up there told me it was true. And you know what? I know it's true.

Here's why:

In Baghdad, they have indoor plumbing.

Damn straight, they do, and until you have read some of the fucked up shit written in the Porta Potties around here, and smelled some of the rankest smells known to man (comparable to nothing except what they are: sun-cooked bodily waste fumes), you will never be able to truly value indoor plumbing the way I believe I now can.

Let me tell you, in one of the shit boxes around here, SOMEONE has drawn a picture.

"Oh, a picture, how nice!" you may be thinking.

Think again, my dear Watson.

This is a Porta Potty Picture. It's possibly the scariest, most detailed drawing I've ever seen, and the thing is, some mother fucker actually sat in the sun-cooked shit fumes long enough to lovingly create this horrendous masterpiece so it can be inflicted on every poor soul who ventures into the box to relieve him- or herself.

This sick puppy actually filled up the ENTIRE BACK OF THE STALL DOOR with his crazy-ass little sketch, which apparently was itching to come out of him SO BADLY that he had to sit there and draw it while taking a shit.

I tell ya, some people.

Now, this is just the icing on the cake of my bitches and complaints, but I can already tell that me and this journal are gonna hit it off, so I'll be nice for now, and wait till we get to know each other better before I sling in the REAL shit.

My poor husband usually is the lucky guy who gets to hear all this griping whenever I get a chance to call home, but NOW ... (cheshire-cat grin) ... NOW, Her Blueness will spread my happiness over this here diary, and Husband will not have to hear his darling suffer so.

Ain't life grand? Hell yeah it is. God has finally given me a place to vent, and OH I LOVE IT!

And if you know what's good for ya, you'll love it too.

Here goes nothin'

Okay, I have to admit this is all a little strange to me, because the last time I kept a diary, I was 11 years old, and the kind of stuff it was filled with was like, "I met a really cute boy and I hope he thinks I'm cute too so we can do absolutely nothing about it because we're both 11-year old dorks!"

I never, ever, EVER remembered to write in it for any number of consecutive days.

We'll see how well I do here.

Let's see ... the beginning of my new life as a slave to this inanimate diary should probably begin with some kind of background, so when I come back to it in five years for my second entry, I can remember what the fuck I was talking about, and can update it accordingly.

At this point in my life, I'm 22, brand-newly married (six months on the 28th, baby!) and also brand-newly deployed to the middle of the damn desert for God knows how long, since I was a fool and decided to join the Army for college money two and a half years ago.

My job here? Write pro-Army propaganda (along with the occasional witty commentary), help edit the HIGHLY biased division newspaper, try to keep my ass out of trouble and attempt to mask my contempt for the assholes in charge.

Sounds like fun, huh? And all I can do is kick myself and say, "Well, shit, it sounded like a good idea at the time."

However, if I hadn't joined the freakin' Army I wouldn't have met my husband, who is the love of my life, even though he's bad at spelling and smells a little funny.

So, I guess you win some, you lose some.

My main purpose for starting this thing (diary) is that I am hoping to write an international best-seller some day, and hell, no time like the present to get the ol' creative juices flowing.

Let me close this thing out for now with one of my favorite things in the world: a truly cheesy joke.

"So, a pirate walks into a bar, and there's a steering wheel attached to the zipper of his pants.
The bartender looks at the guy and says, 'Hey, pirate, did you know you have a steering wheel on your zipper?'
The pirate looks down, grunts, and says, 'Arr, it's drivin' me nuts!'"

Lights dim, curtain falls, a standing ovation follows.

Stay tuned for the encore ...