Five carefully chosen subjects toward which I direct obscene amounts of negative energy

Good ol' Gerg assured me that I was indeed tagged to give you all a list of the things in this world which I think are more irritating than a tangled Slinky, but which are for some reason socially acceptable, and in some cases adored, by most everyone anyway.

I must extend my apologies for the scolding I gave you yesterday, Gerg. You really are a super guy, and your diary makes me guffaw very regularly. And your spaghetti sauce seems to be fantastic. And you did a great job fixing my link.

Without further ado, and in no particular order ...

1) Commercials who abuse classic rock songs in ads for extremely non-rocking products
Whenever I hear Journey wailing "Anyway you want it!" for a used-car dealership or George Harrison's Sensitive-Beatle-crooning of "Here Comes The Sun" for a prescription medication, I want to leap off the couch, grasp the commercial's producer firmly around the pasty throat and bellow, "IS NOTHING FUCKING SACRED?!?!" Come on, commercial people! Whatever happened to the Jingle? We all liked the Jingle! Bring back the fucking Jingle! Leave our classic favorites where they belong (hint: ANYWHERE EXCEPT YOUR COMMERICALS).

2)Celebrities whose fame is inherited or just plain inexplicable, as they have no talent at anything worth being famous for
Paris? Nicole? Ashlee Fucking Simpson? I'm talking to you, sweethearts, just as a small sample. Why have you polluted the collective consciousness of the world with your incomprehensible presence? Paris and Nicole, you are of no value to anyone except boys who daily shoot their frustrated, adolescent, never-getting-screwed-by-actual-women sperm in the direction of your hooker-esque magazine likenesses. Even though you both are apparently fine with this, your combined 15 minutes were over right around the time Paris' FIRST sex tape became proof that her outer SkankHo-ness was not just a publicity stunt. Please vanish now. Nicole, you are not far from doing this, seeing as how your Very Attractive Eating Disorder has put you in the running with Mary-Kate (who I won't even START on) in the Who-Can-Starve-Herself-Hideous-First competition. Keep it up, and maybe, with a little luck, you'll just disappear.
Ashlee, your sister's stroke-of-luck fame was and is offensive enough without you hopping your obnoxious lip-syncing booty onto the bandwagon. If you were anyone worth noticing, you wouldn't have to be enthusiastically booed off a stage for the over-13 crowd to acknowledge your existence. Just the fact that you are primarily famous for having no talent and being the sister of a mentally handicapped soon-to-be-divorcee, should say it all. Take the hint, and stay inside your mother's house where you belong.

3) Trend Diets Mr. Atkins, Mr. South Beach, and Dr. Fuckface who invented that other way to make people feel shitty about themselves: I desire to punch you in the mouth. Hard. Everyone I know who has lost weight on your little "plans" has gained it back -- plus a little added pudge for good measure -- the instant they even sniffed a Forbidden Diet Item. Why are you allowed to become rich? You are not good people, and I hope you die from complications of obesity.

4) Activists of any sort who reject all opinions that are not their own
Okay. All this fuss about tolerance, and how everyone needs to accept everybody else for who they are, etfuckingcetera? How come it only seems to go one way? I personally don't give a piss in a bucket what your "lifestyle," "beliefs," "political party," or "mental health status" is, but how is it right for me to be berated for not embracing it if you won't embrace mine right back? If you happen to be, do, or believe something different from the so-called mainstream, and you want your opinion to be heard, go ahead and let it be heard! But if others forced their ideas on you the same way you force yours on them, you would call them Narrow-Minded, Biased, or many other things, including my favorite: Wrong. Here's MY opinion -- tolerance goes both fucking ways. Live your life! Be happy! And don't fault the rest of the world for wanting to do the same.

5) Any and all individuals who act like they belong in the Royal Fucktard Family, and are rewarded with an assload of undue attention for doing so
Jennifer Wilbanks. You are a loser. I don't want to have to see your loser image splayed all over the news while I sit at breakfast in fucking Iraq, where people who SHOULD be getting attention for their heroics are dying before they even get the chance to call home. You didn't even CALL home. I hope you get abducted for real, and nobody believes you when you try to call 911.
Amber Frey. You slept with a fucking psycho killer, and you think that you should get some recognition. Here's some: You have bad fucking taste in men.
Anna Nicole Smith. Stop being on TV. You were fat; now you're skinny; you have always been a herpes outbreak on the already-disease-ridden face of what passes for entertainment these days. If you absolutely must be seen, get fat again, so we as a nation can point and laugh at you for being a miserable failure and overall waste of life.

Whew! That was exhausting! Next in line to bitch and moan -- er, share their thoughts: arc-angel666, sixweasels, sparkspark, eBeth, and miss-k2.

If you've already done this, and I either didn't know it or forgot about it (same thing), tell me with the quickness and I'll pick someone else.
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I went to the pool today at a neighboring camp, and as soon as I arrived, became aware that I personally was 25% of the vagina-owning attendees therein.

For those of you who did not pass math in small-child school, that means that I was one of Four. Total. Women.

Maybe I should also mention that there were approximately enough male attendees to fill the stands at your average Olympc stadium.

Here's a portion (just a PORTION) of what I saw when I walked up to the pool area:

I wanted to just curl up into my ovaries and hide.

My other option was to adopt the Young Child Playing Hide And Seek Stealth Strategy of "If I can't see you, you can't see me":

Of course, it worked ... but as a result, I have what's known as the Hey Stupid You're Supposed To Turn Over tanning effect.

But it's better than being forcefully ogled by the residents of Testosterone City, so I can live with it.
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Speaking of boys, this is what they will do if the Army provides them with a large container filled with dirt:

Notice the tiny-but-proportional tank in the back? Yep. They got skillz.

Now if only their mommies would come get them, already ...

Another entry written mostly to kill time

Okay, Not-Tom-Cruise. I can see you're having an identity crisis right now, so I'll just sit back and let you continue to be the oddly endearing freak of nature you are.

This is not because I have changed my mind since yesterday ... more like, I'm listening to some rockin' Sinatra tunes at the moment, and Frankie's inspired me to "take it nice and easy" on you.

So go ahead, be a good psycho and say thanks to the dead singer.

You got lucky this time.

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Since gerg has not yet gotten back to me on my tag-status, I'm going to assume that I've been rejected.

That hurts, Gerg. It really hurts. After all the nice things I said about your spaghetti sauce, too! Shame on you.

Not that you guys really wanted to know about any top five beloved-by-society-but-hated-by-me things, anyway.

What do I know about society, anyway? My society consists of dirt and dirt products.

But damn, I hate that dirt! With intense passion, even! Fucking dirt! GAHH!

See what you've done to me, Gerg? I hope you're proud of yourself.

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My Headache Of Doom And Despair has faded a bit since yesterday. I'm crediting that to a nice sleep and some tasty Rice Chex (my co-workers have asked me to refrain from my usual Cheerios, for health reasons)(their health, that is), rather than the jillion and four Motrins I attempted to appease it with.

And ... yeah. That's all there is to say about that.

Gosh, I am so on top of the "write a somewhat-not-boring diary entry" item on my to-do list for the day! This blows!

I wonder ... what would Affleck do?

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I took some pictures of my STILL-CLEAN room to share with you.

Also for historical documentation, because it's only a matter of time before the area looks as horrifically repugnant as a naked sumo wrestler riding a unicycle in a steam room.

Here it is, in all its government-funded glory:

Yep, that's it. The whole shebang. For an entire year. This is why I Love Life.

Wanna check out what I see when I step outside it?

Ain't no Mr. Bluebird on my fucking shoulder, you better believe.

He did, however, shit on my head.

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That's all I got for ya today. If you need an extra chuckle, check out the pathetic assclown who's been trying to take Violet's money.

Aaah ... the idiocy of humanity in general is the basis of my belief that God does indeed have a sense of humor.

Keep it up, idiots. You're doing a great job.

Who are you, Tom Cruise?

Okay, first of all, before I even say a WORD about anything else:

Who ARE you, Mr. Random Comment Leaver Who Is Anonymous But Obviously From Syracuse And Calling Himself Tom Cruise?

I mean, sure, if you want to leave me a comment, you're more than welcome to -- that's basically the reason for the comment box being there. In fact, your comments are quite nice and rather clever. I'd thank you for leaving them if I knew who you were.

If any comment-leaver wants to be anonymous, that's fine; I can understand if you don't want to worry about potential stalking by a trained killer such as myself.

(I would never do that. Unless you really wanted me to, and even then the weirdness of that request would probably make the stalking extremely non-fun.)

Anyway, anonymity is one thing ... but, Mr. Not The Real Tom Cruise, you apparently think I should already know who you are, or possibly be able to guess who you are based on the fact that you are from a city that I used to live in which contains roughly 145,000 people.

Riiiiiight.

Also, the fact that you don't have a link in addition to not having a name freaks me out a tiny bit. Most of the folks around here don't use their real names, but at least their fake ones are connected to either a diary/blog site or an e-mail address -- sometimes both.

But oh nooooo, not you, Mr. Dare To Be Different! You have breached the Unspoken Diary Agreement wherein if you are going to give your input on another person's life via their diary comments section, you must not attempt to make them want to call the police on you by mentioning facts about them which have not been released to the general public.

Unless they have been released and I just don't remember it, which is actually a possibility due to my Alzheimer-esque memory.

I have come up with a few ideas as to why you might be doing this (coughtotalwackjobcough), so you let me know if I'm on the right track, mmkay?

1) You are someone who knows me personally and who knows I wouldn't want you reading my diary, so you read it anonymously anyway and play little mind games with me in my comments section,
2) You are one of the few people who know me personally and whom I've given permission to read my diary, but you won't tell me who you are because you are an asshole,
3) You are a stranger who somehow found out that I used to live in Syracuse and started reading my diary, but you are excruciatingly paranoid about leaving personal information due to the visit to your home by a large man called "Gut-Punch Louie" after the last time you made such information available,
4) You actually are Tom Cruise and you have realized that every woman in the world now thinks you are a freakish, overbearing, sparkly-toothed pedophile, so you decided to try to regain your popularity by posting comments on my wildly famous diary which was read by almost 90 entire people on Earth yesterday.
5) You're stalking me, OR
6) Any, All, or None Of The Above

I have a response to all of these situations, so you just figure out which one is right and read the corresponding reaction, and we'll go from there:

1) That's just rude. Although there's nothing I can do about it, you should be very ashamed of yourself.
2) I don't give out my diary's URL to assholes, so that idea probably shouldn't have even been on the list. If you were previously not-an-asshole and only recently became one, I obviously liked you better the way you were before, so be that way again.
3) Paranoia is a disease. Go get some help; my diary will be here waiting when you're all better.
4) Katie Holmes doesn't really love you, and it's very likely that nobody else ever will again, especially if you keep acting like the Scientology version of a Jehovah's Witness on several types of crack.
5) You won't find me in Syracuse, that's for sure, so run along now and find a more potentially successful hobby.
6) Either tell me who you are (preferred) or stop being a weirdo. Your choice.

Got that? Great. Please excuse me while I continue my regularly-scheduled diary entry.
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I had one of those garden-variety, drive-you-to-suicide headaches today.

Accompanying it were the Mysterious Bodily Aches Of Minor Discomfort and the Two-Bowls-Of-Cheerios Farts.

Not a pleasant day for the ol' body, I'm tellin' ya that.

Especially because of the Army's general health-care system, which consists of Motrin.

In the Army, Motrin will be prescribed to you whether you are in the clinic for a regular sick-call or in the emergency room because your internal organs have just spontaneously combusted.

You may be prescribed another medication along with the Motrin, but ask ye for medical treatment, and Motrin ye will receive.

So I've been popping the things like candy for most of the day, and the only result I've seen is that I now have fewer pills to take before I run out.

Either I've developed an immunity to Motrin, or my body has simply ignored the fact that the several thousand milligrams of Army cure-all I've shoved into it is supposed to make a fucking DIFFERENCE.

What's the deal, body? Are you too good for Motrin now; is that it? Are you holding out for something better? If this is about the IV they stuck in you a while back, it's not my fault. You can blame Rufus for that.

Stupid Motrin-rejecting, grudge-holding body.
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I've decided, just for poops and giggles, that in addition to the regular news articles I gather tonight to send up to the division commander, I'm going to include this one somewhere in the mix and see if anyone notices.

Teehee! Guess we'll find out if anyone really pays attention to the news review!

Titles are so overrated

All you guys who left me comments for yesterday's entry -- you have no idea how much your support means to me.

When I first started this diary back in Kuwait a few months ago, I was hoping it would be a therapeutic thing, you know, a venue in which to open up my brain and dump my thoughts onto the unsuspecting public.

Now, thanks to you, O Unsuspecting Public, it's so much better than that ... and you have earned my undying gratitude for the part you've played in keeping me mostly sane.

Thanks.
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Other than the standard work/eat/sleep/repeat routine I've fallen into, not a whole lot has been going on in my specific space -- outside the camp, a whole bunch of stuff has been happening, but as I remain snugly tucked into my quarter-cubicle, I don't ever see that kind of excitement in person.

Sorry ... I know you were all waiting on pins and needles for some kick-ass, first-hand hunk of shiny journalistic gold, but I'll have to disappoint you yet again.

Oh well. If I can get over it, so can you.
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I haven't heard from Husband in a while, which I'm sure just surprised some of you to the point of blinking.

I called him on Friday, I think it was, and we had a decent conversation that was virtually free of Pauses During Which Mold Visibly Grows, so that was encouraging.

I've gotten to the point where even though I miss him intensely, I'm not letting myself get all into that "if he really loved me he would call so why the fuck hasn't he called" mindset that tends to get me down.

Because, you know, being "down" actually sucks, no matter how hard those contemptuous, pissy-faced Gothies try to make you believe depression's the hottest thing since black eyeliner.

Yeah, depression's so in right now, Mr. Trendy Goth Boy. I can totally see the uber-coolness dripping from your face. Oh, no, wait -- that's just your manly eyeliner melting onto the black cloak you've chosen to sweat through on this lovely summer day. My bad.

**NOTE TO ANY FASHIONABLY DESPONDENT GOTHIES WHO WERE OFFENDED BY THE PREVIOUS STATEMENT: DON'T BE OFFENDED. IF YOU ARE CONSTANTLY SAD TO THE POINT OF ALLOWING A SINGLE TEAR TO RUN DOWN YOUR CHEEK SEVERAL HUNDRED TIMES A DAY, THAT'S YOUR CHOICE. EMBRACE IT. IF YOU WANT, YOU CAN EVEN GET YOUR OWN DIARY AND USE IT TO MOCK ME! ISN'T FREEDOM OF SPEECH GREAT?!**

Anyway, since the idea of turning into a world-hating, sun-fearing party pooper doesn't really appeal to me, I'll just go ahead and try to keep my chin up for now and remember that as a rule, Husband sucks at communication.

(Blink)
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Well, my dumplings, it's been terrific as always.

I must now go and immerse myself in the meaningless, redundant, eyeball-burning, time-wasting Google search which has lately become the sole justification for my existence.

See how I just got all that off my chest? It's therapeutic, I tell ya. My sanity remains intact for one more day, and you guys get to have a little chuckle at the mental picture of Goth boys running frantically to the bathroom to fix their walking-death makeup.

We all win.

Hear me out, now ...

So how about all these people getting killed over here in this godforsaken country?

GHETTO-ASS WARNING: MEANY BE 'BOUT TA GO ALL ON A TIRADE AN' SHIT ABOUT IRAQ, YO! IF YOU DON'T WANNA BE HEARIN' IT, YOU BETTA SKIP TO THA END, G!

You know, I don't even know what I think about this "war" anymore.

I mean, since I do have a soul (yes, I have one, I admit it), I hate that something like a jillion people are dying every day for a cause which they may or may not believe in.

I hate that the Iraqi Security Force can't seem to get themselves organized long enough to stay alive for our guys to train the "old regime" mentality out of them.

I also hate that Saddam is now being looked at as an amusing old fart, rather than the cold, calculating, power-hungry dictator he was and would still be if he hadn't caught the Dubya Beat Down. Sure, now that he can't keep slaughtering his own people, he has to pursue other interests, eat some Doritos. Big. Fucking. Deal.

I always hated that we came over here in the first place, no matter what the original reason for our involvement may be. I may have a soul, but that doesn't mean I wanted to come to Baghdad and help America play hero to a bunch of strangers. Oh, and I give exactly zero shits about oil and all other types of fuel, just to get that entire topic out of the way.

Mostly though, I hate that this whole ordeal seems like it's never going to end.

BUT (there's always a BUT, isn't there?) even though I've been known to just dismissively say, "Yeah, how 'bout let's get the hell outta Dodge and let the Iraqis fend for themselves against all these psychotically fanatical terrorists" ... now that I've been here and seen this insanity for myself, my annoying little conscience just won't let me take those words to heart.

I really want to be able to just go home and forget about these unfortunate individuals whose only fault was being born Iraqi, and who are paying for that involuntary mistake every day, whether or not they even involve themselves with a particular "side" of this ongoing battle.

There's just one thing that keeps nagging me, though, and it has to do with a comment a friend of mine made the other day.

"I could ignore them," she said thoughtfully, referring to the general population, "but ... I can't ignore the children. This violence and hatred is all they know, and unless somebody like us steps in and tries to do something about it, to make life even a tiny bit better for them, this is all they'll ever know. If for nothing else, we have to do this for the kids."

Now, I know what you're going to say, and I've said it before, myself: "What about all the kids in America -- our OWN country -- who are starving, abused, homeless, etc? Why don't we worry about them?"

Well, we do. That's the beauty of America -- there's always somebody there to worry about somebody else. Sometimes you have to look pretty hard for that somebody, but the truth is, he or she is always there if you persist.

That's not the case in Iraq. While Americans are carrying on about issues like animal abuse just because we can (calm down, I love animals too, just stay with me here), Iraqis are cleaning up a neighborhood in Kirkuk after a terrorist strapped a bomb to a dog and blew up their police station.

Sure, animal abuse sucks and all, but if you're more concerned about the well-being of a Molotov Cocker Spaniel than for the first-grader who just happened to be in the area and was one of the more than 35 killed or more than 40 injured, you really need to remove your head from your ass long enough to come and take a look at this place.

I could go on for at least ... well, a lot longer, but I know all you ADD-sufferers are probably getting restless, maybe going through lack-of-subject-change withdrawal, so I'll stop the madness for now.

Okay, then. For the kids.

YO! SHE DONE NOW, HOMIES!
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Yeah, so I cleaned my half of a room today.

(Three cheers for the invisible segue!)

Since this side of me has never really been discussed before, maybe I better explain:

Me voluntarily cleaning ANYTHING while sober and awake is about the same, achievement-wise, as an elderly, hunchbacked, no-legged, catatonic asthmatic climbing Mount Everest.

Right. Now that you know and appreciate the magnitude of my feat, I can tell you that at about 10 minutes B.C. (that would be "Before Cleaning") the room resembled a military-surplus store's basement after a violent dust storm.

It took me about four hours from start to finish, and my half-room is about the size of your average crossword-puzzle-square.

After I was done, I just walked back and forth across the floor from wall to wall to celebrate the fact that that activity no longer carries the risk of tripping on a stray bayonet and severing a major limb.

So, um, yay for me!

And boo for work! Which is what I must now go and look like I'm doing, while instead I shop on Amazon and read your diaries!

Sleeping and eating ... isn't my life complicated?

I have been sleeping like a dead person on Valium lately.

Seriously, I fall asleep about eight seconds after I walk into my room, strip, and fall gratefully onto the piles of clothes which cover up my bed.

I don't even DREAM about waking up until about 10 hours later, when my alarm's whiny beeping invades my subconscious until I throw it at something.

Although I absolutely adore being up at night and sleeping during the day, I think it's kind of fucking with me.

Like, my body's taking revenge on me for not allowing it to make me sweat out every liquid I imbibe during the heat of the day.

"Oh yeah, you don't want to be awake during daylight hours so I can torture you, huh? Well how about this, missy -- you'll never again wake up without a fight!"

Stupid fucking body. Why can't it just be happy for me?
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Thanks bundles to all of you who left me the weight-loss encouragement/mad props that keeps me on my diet.

My diet consists of four major factors:

1) Smoking a lot
2) Eating about one meal per day, usually breakfast since it doesn't necessitate waking up early anymore
3) Not exercising
4) Not continuing to eat after I become full

Amazingly, it works!

But I didn't begin this diet on purpose, lemme tell ya. The motivation behind each of those four factors is as follows:

1) Co-workers piss me off, which leads me to take more smoke breaks than the fricking Marlboro Man just to get away from them
2) It's too hot/much of a hassle to walk all the way to the dining facility or the PX three times a day if I'm not on the brink of starvation and/or nearing a breakdown unless I leave the office NOW
3) Exercise involves effort and dedication, of which I have already used my ration by the time I leave work
4) Massive quantities of toxic gaseous fumes burst from my ass when I over-eat, no matter what the meal is

So you see, I really have no choice but to stick to my diet, which could be a good or a bad thing ...

Pluses: I can eat whatever I want; I get to lose many pounds of vicious, evil fat; I get to also lose muscle (an advantage if there is a terribly attractive, burly man nearby when I am having trouble lifting a heavy object) (What? A married girl can look, can't she?!).

Minuses: I've been told smoking causes your lungs to convert to Fuck You And Your Desire To Breathe status; the exercise I'm not getting will probably taunt me when the Army makes me take my Physical Fitness Test and my two-mile-run time is right up there with that of a comatose slug; and ... I heard somewhere that eating is supposed to be good for you, or something.

Hmmmm.

As my 103-year-old great-grandma says, "Eh, whatchou gonna do?"

It means, "I have no idea what to do in this situation, so fuck it -- it'll work itself out."

And I respond ... "Well spoken, Nana."
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Okay, it's time for me to stop fucking around with this diary and start pretending to do some work, but first, I promised Beckers a joke, which I was told by my superbly and geekishly cool brother ...

Q: Where does the general keep his armies?

A: In his SLEEVIES!

HAHAHAHAHA!

Yes, I'm cheesy. Yes, I'm leaving now. Thanks.

Obviously, I'm delirious

Let's talk about worthless jobs, hmm?

Better yet, let's talk about MY worthless job.

It is the job that taunts me by making me endlessly file through news stories written by all the real journalists in the world, as I, a mere propaganda-spreader, look helplessly on.

The job which requires approximately zero active brain cells, two active limbs, and the ever-lovin' Internet.

The job which is done not only by me, but also by two other individuals who either are oblivious to this utter redundancy or else suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder and can't go to sleep until each worthless job has been completed three times.

The job which, after less than a week of doing it, has already made me suspect that it is merely a plank on the Bridge To Hopeless Insanity.

Just watch. One of these days, you'll see me on the news, wandering around downtown Baghdad with a dazed, desperate look in my glinty eyes as I stumble down the streets stopping the passing terrorists as they prepare for a fun-filled day of setting off improvised explosive devices.

"Have you seen my Google?" I'll ask them anxiously, a glimmer of drool escaping down the side of my chin. "I have to find my Google."

As they slowly and carefully back away from me until reaching a point where they feel it's safe to turn and run, I lurch toward the next group of unsuspecting passersby.

Sounds pretty, huh?

Glad I came into the Army to be a "journalist."

Bring on the propaganda, baby!

My mouse is ready.
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In other news, I've lost four pounds. Yay!

I'm now a mere six pounds away from finally reaching my pre-boarding-school weight.

Why is it so important for me to attain the pre-boarding-school weight, you ask?

Well, the fact that I packed 40 pounds onto it in six short months has something to do with it. Once I gained that much in such a small amount of time, I felt like losing it was ... my DESTINY.

So six years later, I'm six pounds away from DESTINY.

Yeeeeah. I'll let you know how that goes.

Fuck, I'm even boring mySELF. Why didn't you tell me how bad I needed some sleep??

Happy Summertime, Merry Thursday, and have a dandy day.

The Mission goes on and on and on ...

I came across this entertaining site tonight during the Google Search Of Such Boredom That I Would Like To Claw My Eyes Out:

The Ever-Changing Definition of “Mission” In Iraq

Kind of sad, when you think about it.

It's like when a little kid wants, oh, let's say a new bike, and his parents tell him, "You can have one if you clean your room for a week."

So the kid does, and he's all happy because he's getting his new bike, on which he can more easily run over small squirrels and his sister's Barbies, but then his parents say, "Well, you can't have the bike yet, but if you clean your room for another week AND take out the trash for a week, we'll get it for you."

Okay. The kid can live with that. He's still pretty trusting, so he is PSYCHED at the end of the week, because there are some squirrels and Barbies around that are just begging to be smushed.

"Um, okay. Here's the deal, little Jimmy. Clean your room for another week, take out the trash for another week, and make your bed and wash the dishes for a week. Then you can have a Huffy."

At this point, little Jimmy's getting a tiny bit annoyed. He's been working like a SLAVE for this bike, and soon it's going to be winter, and he wants to start smushing stuff now! But he does what he's told anyway, hoping against hope that maybe this time he'll get his bike.

Of course, little Jimmy's shit out of luck again. A few more weeks go by, and he's cleaning his room, taking out the trash, making his bed, washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, pulling the weeds, changing the baby's diapers, and being the Official Human Remote Control for his daddy ("Boy, change the channel. Change it again. Again. Again.") every night after the dishes are done. He's exhausted, he has lost all trust in his parents, and he becomes irritable every time he sees another kid ride by his house on a shiny bike.

Still, he gets nothing from the folks except a longer list of chores and a pair of work gloves, because that weed-eater can be rough on the hands, and they need those hands to be fully capable of lots of work.

Finally, little Jimmy realizes that he's NEVER going to get his new bike (he would have figured it out before, except Jimmy's not the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I mean), but at this point his parents are used to having a personal slave. They aren't about to give that up, PLUS spend a bunch of money on a friggin' bike.

So Jimmy is screwed. He's not getting what he wanted, and there's no way for things to go back they were when he was a happy-go-lucky kid who stupidly decided to ask Mom and Dad for an upgrade from the Big Wheel.

Jimmy grows up to hate his parents, hate bikes, and hate manual labor. He eventually becomes a male stripper called "Big Jim" so people will love him and stick money in his g-string. He never has a girlfriend because he has lost the ability to trust people. When he finally kicks the bucket, his dying thought is, "If only I hadn't asked for a bike. I would have been fine with some Play-Dough."

Now we'll play the Substitution Game!

Jimmy is the American People, his parents are the U.S. Government, the chores are The Mission, the work gloves are Saddam Being Overthrown, and the bike is The Terrorists Bastards Who Attacked Us Being Gone And The World Being A Better Place (or as some say, "The Freezing Over Of Hell").

"Hey government!" we say. "We'd really like it if the terrorist bastards who attacked us were dead and the world was a better place! Can you hook that up?"

"Sure," says the government. "But first we're gonna have to ask you to send some troops over to Iraq. Just for a little bit."

You know how the rest of the story goes: The Mission never ends. We become Big Jim. We hate our government, we're sick of people blabbing about the world someday being a better place, and we're pissed because getting Saddam out of Iraq only made more shit for us to do.

And I know some of us are kicking ourselves because from the start, all we really needed was a beer.

This one's for Dad

Dad, I know you're not going to be reading this, mostly because you'd have an embolism if you read my diary and found out what really goes through my mind every day, but I'm going to write it to you anyway, and maybe someday I'll invite you to read it. "Someday" meaning "when you're too senile to think about going through all the other entries."

Thanks, Dad, for instilling in me a sense of humor. You've taught me to look at the funny -- if not bright -- side of life. You've showed me the importance of laughter and the times when laughing would just be the wrong thing to do. Your goofiness and love of the silly things in life will always live on, even after you're gone, but hopefully that day is still a long way off.

Thanks, Dad, for showing me how to be a good friend. Everyone who knows you, loves you, because you are kind, compassionate, trustworthy and generous in every sense of the word. You taught me to accept everybody, regardless of their race, faith, or personality. I'm still struggling with the personality part, but don't worry, I'll get there eventually.

Thanks, Dad, for showing me what a good marriage is by living it. During the 25-plus years you and Mom have been together, I've seen you two persevere through even the roughest of storms -- even when I was the one causing the storms. You don't let anything get in the way of your love and devotion to Mom, and you never mistreat her, ever. If my marriage is even a fraction as happy and healthy as yours and Mom's is in 25 years, I'll know who to thank for pointing me in the right direction.

Thanks, Dad, for being so strong in your faith. Although I've deviated from it a bit over the years, I always know the way I should be living simply by looking at you. You are a strong Christian, but not an obnoxious one. You draw others to God by living the life He wants you to live, and you are Happy. I know that if the day comes when I am able to truly live for God, you will be the first to help me along, but you will never rush me toward that decision, and for that I am grateful.

Thanks, Dad, for believing in me -- your rebellious, foul-mouthed, deviant daughter -- when just about everyone else was certain I was doomed for failure. You refused to give up on me, even when I gave you every reason to do so. You never stopped giving me advice, but you never took it personally when I tossed that advice aside and did whatever I wanted to do anyway. Now that I've grown up a little, I've drawn from your words and experiences more times than I can count. I don't know what I'd do without your ever-present counsel.

Thanks, Dad, for always being there for me. You are happy with me, sad with me, stressed out with me, and from time to time angry with me -- but always ready to forgive. Whether there are three weeks between my phone calls or three days, you always understand and you always have time to talk. Without your patience and love, many of the trials in my life would have defeated me. You wouldn't allow it; you helped me become strong and confident. That strength and confidence is what makes it possible for me to handle life today, whatever it throws at me.

Thanks, Dad, for being everything I could hope for in a father. I'm blessed and fortunate to have you to laugh with, to look up to, to lean on, and to love. If I ever have children, I pray that I will be the parent to them that you are to me. Even though I'm playing grown-up now and I don't live with you anymore, I still think of myself as your little girl.

And in the end, isn't that all that matters?

Happy Father's Day. I love you.

No longer the Scrabble queen

Should I be ashamed that four Filipino women repeatedly and soundly whomped my ass in Scrabble today?

These ladies were crazy wit' the words, yo!

I mean, they came up with more shit than I did, and knowing words is like, my JOB.

But wait, I'm sure you're wondering exactly why I frittered away my afternoon losing word games to the English Is My Second Language League.

Well, of course it was because I had stand-outside-in-120-degree-weather duty -- which I know just sounds like a party, party, party.

Here's the deal. The Army has a bunch of civilians (mostly from the Philippines and India) working for it on each camp in Iraq and Kuwait and probably everywhere else in the universe, and they do all the cleaning and maintenance that becomes necessary when you bring tens of thousands of people to another country and expect them to live there for a year.

Holy run-on sentence, Batman! Sorry, I'll try to break it up a bit more.

The civilians are required to be escorted around to wherever they need to be to do their daily work.

I was one of the escorts. So I got to stand outside the bathroom/shower trailers as they cleaned them.

Woo hoo!

But I also got to hang out with them in between their regularly-scheduled cleaning jobs, and let me tell ya, those girls were more fun than watching J.Lo be burned alive in a vat of boiling Affleck-spittle.

(So what if it hasn't happened ... yet?)

Anyway, after the ego-crush that was Scrabble, the women turned on some hip-hop and asked me to show them how to dance.

I have the dance moves of an epileptic walrus.

I told them this.

They insisted.

There are now six more ladies who are skilled at The Sprinkler, The Lawn Mower, and (my personal favorite) The Fishing Pole.

Hey, I warned 'em.

After the hip-hop, we reassembled for a third game of Scrabble, or as I now like to call it, the Tiles Of Shame.

They changed the music to -- what else? -- '80s power ballads.

If you have never witnessed several Filipinas singing loudly and passionately along to "Open Arms," I suggest you find a few (maybe rent them?) and crank up the Journey.

It was, to say the least, FUCKING PRICELESS.

So, yeah, that was my day in the land of Holy Shit It Can't Possibly Get Any Hotter Oh Wait Yes It Did.

Time now for some tasty chicken/turkey/beef-like dinner, a hot or cold shower (the faucets decide) and a nice, long sleep.

Oh, and if you are one of the several ultra-fucking-cool folks who took the time to send me any form of care package, please e-mail me with your address and t-shirt size, because you are getting a PRESENT and there's NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.

Smooches!

Life's better when I'm unconscious

As soon as I got to sleep after my shift today, the gods of Fuck You thought it would be cool to have the creepy contractors from We Don't Speak English But Have No Problem Staring At Your Tits Anyway Land knock on my door to "check the grounding" in my room.

The main reason that sucked? Other than the fact that I had to stand outside in the blazing sunlight half-asleep for ten minutes?

Mostly because now that my life's been hit by the Dipshit Tornado, I've really been enjoying sleep.

I never realized how welcome a six- to eight-hour escape from the world could be until I actually had something to escape from.

So when those whatever-they-weres came and WOKE me UP, it was like an obnoxious reminder that my shitty situation still hasn't fucking fixed itself, my "leaders" still have the equivalent leadership abilities of a loofah, and above all, I'm STILL IN FUCKING IRAQ.

Damn, this shit's getting pretty depressing, isn't it? At least I haven't had any disturbing dreams to bitch about.

"Yeah, so then this frigging monster with ten legs and a stench like a diseased sow took a huge dump on my face. Then I got my period and I had no tampons and I had to walk around all day with Diseased-Sow-Monster feces on my face and my pants all stained and EVERYBODY WAS LAUGHING AT ME!!"

Because that would suck.
_______________________________________

My Night Shift job consists of Googling news articles about Iraq, copying them, pasting them in a Word document, and e-mailing them, along with several attachments that nobody reads, to my bosses.

One of the attachments?

A compilation of news articles virtually IDENTICAL to my compilation, except formatted a tiny bit differently -- like, the headlines are bold instead of italic or something.

This task is more pointless than a quadriplegic track meet, and far less entertaining.

But at least I don't have to be subjected to Annoying Boss and her unceasing brain-dead monologues, and I don't have to witness Incompetent Co-worker raising his Suck-At-Life level to even more epic proportions with every breath.

Plus, I get to sleep through the most ass-melting part of the day.

I walked outside around 4 p.m. today, breathing normally, and immediately realized that said breathing was apparently an affront against the air, which decided to punish me via the Choking Death method.

The air was so fucking thick that I probably could have balled it up and chucked it at Dubya's head for forcing me to leave the comfort of America.

Message to Dubya: Go sit on a dick.

Better yet, put on a fucking uniform, fly your little toy airplane out here and join all your miserable peons.

But still, sit on a dick.
_______________________________________

All you guys who focused your unbridled rage on my dickbrained bosses ... thank you.

Maybe if we all concentrate really hard, they'll spontaneously combust or something.

Yes, I know, that's not very nice.

It's much too messy. Everyone concentrate on it happening outside.

Aaaaargh! And again I say, Aaaaargh!

As part of my First Night On Night Shift initiation, my bosses decided it would be fun to take on the roles of total fucking assbites.

They pulled me aside for my "initial counseling session" and told me that I was being moved to night shift because of my "inability to co-exist with co-workers" and that I was being replaced by Incompetent Co-worker as associate editor of the newspaper.

That's right, they want to put the dumbass who can't even form a complete fucking sentence and follow simple instructions in charge of laying out and editing the entire division newspaper.

They don't like that I get angry at him when I have to correct his work for the eleventy jillionth time, as though I should patiently take his hand and give him the same fucking lessons over and over again while simultaneously, I don't know, giving him head or something.

First of all, excuse me so I can go vomit with rage.

Secondly, what the shit? I have more newspaper experience than both he and the editor (Annoying Boss) put together.

I'm not saying that I'm perfect and The Supreme Goddess Of Newspaper Layout or anything, but working on a newspaper for three years (and actually learning as I've gone along) has made me more proficient than them, and they both know it.

But since little Mr. I Can't Do My Job Right Because Someone Apparently Took A Dump In My Skull gets his poor wittle feewings hurt whenever I point out his mistakes, I'm being punished.

Cool, huh? Since they're sick of hearing me correct his mistakes, they're taking away my job and giving him MORE RESPONSIBILITY.

Care for some crack with that logic?

Oh, also I reportedly say "shit" and "fuck" too much, and that's just not "professional."

You know, intolerance for foul language might be understandable if it wasn't for the fact that my "profession" is THE ARMY.

I live in a trailer in the desert surrounded by concrete barriers and concertina wire, I wear a dyke-ish camouflage uniform to work every day, and I carry an M16 rifle WITH AMMO everywhere I go.

I'm not a fucking banker. I'm not a corporate executive. I don't wear a little pantsuit to a nice office. I don't get treated like a woman -- shit, I'm lucky if I even get treated like a HUMAN BEING instead of just a replaceable body.

I do work in an office in the desert. And over the walls of my cramped quarter-cubicle, I get to listen to the guys in other sections swapping stories about whose wife is hotter and who really needs to get laid before his dick stops working. I hear our commanding general tell his staff officers to get their shit together over a loudspeaker during the morning battle briefs.

But God forbid I say "fuck." Because that's unprofessional.

Let's go tell the infantrymen to tone down their language, too. Let's tell the combat engineers to stop calling each other bitches in everyday conversation.

Or, let's just start a fucking mutiny, because that'll have the same effect.

I don't know which Army my cock-licking bosses think they're in, but it's sure as shit not headed by a purple fucking dinosaur.

Next thing I know they'll be asking for hugs.

Pussies. Go watch some Teletubbies and get the fuck out of my face.

Bite my ass, stupid entry title. I don't need you.

If anyone is interested in getting an idea of what it might feel like to be trapped in a sauna, which is in an oven, which is firmly and deeply lodged in Satan's asshole, step right up and get your ticket to Baghdad.

I would seriously sell a tit to be able to just sit nude in a tub of ice all day.
_______________________________________

Let's see, today ... slightly uneventful, supremely unproductive.

Yep, just the way I like it.

I had to go do "preventative maintenance" on a couple of humvees which, as I may have mentioned before, I will never drive, since I have no humvee license.

In fact, I don't think ANYONE is driving these vehicles, seeing as how I involuntarily inhaled spider webs when I opened the driver's side door.

As opposed to all the bug-dwellings I willingly and happily snort on a regular basis, of course.

Anyway, I took the whole experience as a message from Above ... something like, "Don't waste time messing with the fucking infested trucks."

Good thing Above has a lot more pull with me than any of my bosses, or it might have been a shitty morning.
_______________________________________

The time has come for me to admit to myself that I have way more to say than I have energy to say it.

So everyone just let out a nice long stream of curse words, give a couple people the finger, punch someone in the teeth, and we'll consider me vented.

Thank you. I feel much better now. Nighty night.

Night Shift, and whatever the fuck else has been going through my head for the past hour

Let's all join together in the Ecstatic Dance Of Switching To Night Shift, shall we?

No?

Well I'll do it myself, then, because starting very soon, I am -- you guessed it! -- switching to the Night Shift.

This is a wonderful thing, because it means I will be far from the suffocating presence of BOTH Annoying Boss and Incompetent Co-worker, who have been the bane of my glorious existence since, ummmm, I met them.

So now, at least temporarily, I will be rid of the walking freaktards and free to go about my business in peace and relative quiet.

It'll even be better for my health, because I won't have to take approximately eight dillion smoke breaks merely to escape their web of merciless retard-dom!

Yep, life's gettin' better.

Now all I need is Husband, a few naughty toys, a beer and a grip on reality, and I'll be set!
_______________________________________

I've been on this "Chicago" soundtrack kick lately ... fine for me, but a little perplexing to random co-workers who catch me passionately screeching "Mister Cellophane" while swaying down the hallway and doing my best Jazz Hands -- which looks like a cross between the Chicken Dance and someone being electrocuted.

Heh. Ya think that's scary, you should have seen my "Grease" phase ... some three-year-old out there is still catatonic after witnessing my "Greased Lightnin'" shimmy.

Which is why I write for a living, thankyouverymuch.
_______________________________________

Still no word from Husband, but he should be back home in a week or so, which is when he should have Internet access, so I won't fret till then.

Like it would do any good anyway, right? I mean, my track record for Worrying Making Things Happen is really about as impressive as Mary-Kate Olsen in a Not Looking Like A Freaking Alien contest.

So I figure, eh, fuck it. I have too much other shit to deal with right now.

You know, like working on my Jazz Hands.

Oh, and in answer to Miss-k2's
assertion that our men should just be kept in the dark about our diary-type things, I'd have to say ... shit, he's never gonna read it, so as previously stated: fuck it.

Dontcha just love my fun, new optimism?
_______________________________________

Speaking of Husband -- during my two weeks home, he purchased for me a pair of the largest, most unflattering pair of sunglasses ever made.

He then smashed them onto my head, squinched his irresistible dimples at my subsequently dwarfed and bewildered face, and said, "Baby, these look GREAT on you!"

Sure.

Why don't YOU be the judge?

Be honest, now. You know these shades fall under the "a little too big for Jabba the fucking Hutt" category.

Good thing Husband's the only man I'm trying to impress, since he has the fashion sense of a lobotomized hippo and all.

One good thing about these babies, though -- when I wear them, they block dust better than if I were holding up an actual wall in front of my face.

YEAH, I fricking wear them!

And all I can say is that my new nickname, "Jackie Onassis," is WAY better than my previous one, which I will never tell you.

But how 'bout this: if you can guess it, based on all the shit you know and have seen of me, I will allow you to call me by it.

Whee! I've just won the Least Takers Of Any Challenge Ever Award!
_______________________________________

And now, my dear, loving DiaryLand, I am off to hit the proverbial hay.

And all that jazz.

I am going straight to hell for so many reasons

So apparently, while I was gone, our camp was, like, shat on by mortars.

Seriously. People were killed in the PX and gym.

And this is really, really, sad, but because I'm a coldhearted bitch with a freeze-dried soul, I can't get truly misty-eyed over it.

I mean, I didn't know any of these people. True, they died unexpectedly while either shopping or working out, and in places where I personally could have been.

Well, not the gym. I might as well be honest. My flabby ass hasn't seen the interior of a gym since two days after a fucking long time ago.

But anyway. See how I got off the subject? Damn. I really do have a heart of stone.

The truth is, I feel terrible for these people's families and everything, but ... shit, we get mortared every day around here. Some land a little closer than others. And bad things happen to good people.

But you know what? Since I've been back, the mortars aren't as close to us. Or so frequent, either.

Thanks, God. Let me know when you need a favor; I'll get right on it.

Please don't send me to hell. I can care about people, really, I can!
_______________________________________

Speaking of caring about people, I haven't talked to Husband since the day I got back here, but that's not really bothering me that much.

Yes, yes, I know. Soul-less bitch, and all that.

Mainly because I have nothing of interest to say to him that can be said in a room full of people who are the boss of me.

And I know he doesn't have much to say to me, even though he, like most men, is a fabulous phone-conversationalist.

Me: "Hi Sweetface, how are you?"
Husband: "Good, good."
PAUSE SPANNING THE TIME IT WOULD TAKE FOR THE SUN TO BURN OUT, REGENERATE ITSELF MAGICALLY, AND BURN OUT AGAIN
Me: "So what've you been up to?"
Husband: "Oh, you know, nothin' really."
EQUALLY-AS-RETARDEDLY-LONG PAUSE
Me: "Well (looking nervously over my shoulder), I feel like tearing the feet off of all of my co-workers and beating them with the bloody remains."
Husband: "Aw, baby, that sucks."
PAUSE IN WHICH MY HAIR GROWS SEVERAL INCHES LONGER

Are we getting the picture here?

Yeah, so because I feel like I could have a more fulfilling conversation with my toenails, (except for the "Love you, baby" at the end, which I can never hear enough -- awwww!) I'm thinking that I might as well just wait for an e-mail and save my phone card minutes.

Anyway, I think I told you guys that I informed Husband about this diary, but I don't really think he'll check it out.

Dear Husband, if you ever do make it to over your loving wife's diary, let me know, hmm? Not that I'll stop writing about you or anything. But it'd be nice to know.
_______________________________________

'Nuff o'that.

I've been assigned an article about the harmful side effects of drug abuse during a deployment.

Har! Maybe I can also tell them that sex is an instrument of the devil and alcohol will make their babies hairy in unnatural places.

Not that I've ever DONE drugs here, mind you. I swear I haven't.

But if some Haji came up to me with a joint in his hand and there was nobody else around ... I have to say I would have trouble refusing.

"Hello, ma'am" (they call us all "ma'am" over here) "would you like to not think about missing your family and friends, and also be able to ignore your co-workers, even if only for a short while?"

Um, sure. Hell yes, at that. Puff puff give, motherfucker!
_______________________________________

Have I mentioned that my nose-holes now contain more sand than both the Sahara and any Baywatch coochie?

Yeah, every time I pull the Kleenex away from my face, I have to sweep the floor afterward.

Shit, you'd think the sand was actively executing an elaborate plan to escape from Baghdad via my nostrils, because it's packed tighter than a big rig on the border, if ya get my drift.

Yeah, I know, that was kinda crossing the line ...

Ha ha! Get it? Crossing? The LINE? Ha! Ha! ... (ahem) yeah, anyway, maybe I better be getting off to bed now.

Yay! Tomorrow's gonna be the same as today! Better rest up for it!

The desert is trying to blind me

When the sky is the same healthy shade of brown at 7 p.m. as it was at high noon, I tend to get concerned.

Check it out:

My eyelashes are now coated with dust, and send showers of happy little dirt particles raining down into my eyeballs at every opportunity. At this point, it would take a Clear Eyes squeegee to clean the film off of my pupils.

But I'm not complaining. I could be living in a tent like some of those poor souls up north.

At least I work inside, in the A/C, hidden away from nature and all its mischief.

NOTE TO NATURE: Fuck Off. We all are aware that you can make sand fly around and turn the sky disturbing colors. Give it a rest.
_______________________________________

I am pleased to say that I managed to carry back with me a small container of EXTREMELY NON-ALCOHOLIC liquid.

It was so NON-ALCOHOLIC, in fact, that I was still not-intoxicated when I arrived at work this morning.

I was so NOT-INTOXICATED that I did NOT fall promptly asleep at my desk for 45 minutes after sitting down.

And shortly after my NON-NAP, I did NOT stumble to the bathroom and vomit in pretty colors.

In related news ... has anyone noticed how much whiskey resembles iced tea?

Me too. (Hiccup)
_______________________________________

Annoying Boss and Incompetent Co-worker have been in rare form over the last couple days since I got back.

The former gave me a five-minute response to the simple question, "Where are the tissues?":

"I don't know they're probably in that drawer because we moved all the stuff off your desk when you left you know you should have cleaned it before you took off and why should I use your tissues I don't have snot problems I just wanted to clean off your desk because it was so messy you should have cleaned it then you wouldn't be asking me where your tissues are ..."

And the latter has simply managed to become even more incompetent. Which I don't even have the energy to explain.

It's okay, though, every time I got fed up, I just walked outside for a breath of fresh air:

Yum!
_______________________________________

After reading what you lovelies had to say about my photos, I wanted to mention that Husband and I are indeed legal.

Yes, in ALL 50 states.

And our combined ages make 45, Witty, so let me know if your shoe closet passes the test!
_______________________________________

I inhaled larger-than-normal clusters of airborne dirt molecules today while guffawing at the concept of a new cologne called "Boiled Ass Juice."

It may not seem funny to you, but when suggested right after a petite, Southern, ex-cheerleader soldier girl has ever-so-sweetly told all the world to "Fuck me in the ass running backward," it packs a little more punch.

On that note, I must saunter off in search of sustainance, dawdle to the DFAC for dinner, find fulfulling food -- whoops, sorry, my automatic alliteration button was stuck.

Seriously, the noises coming from my tummy aren't happy ones, so off to eat I go.

See you tomorrow, my dear ones!

A peek into the Meany Gallery

Quick li'l news byte from the I Officially Rock Department:

My Toby Keith story made it onto Ted Nugent's web site!

To complete the experience, I must now go shoot something edible and wail on a guitar in front of many screaming fans.

OOOOOR, I could show you some fantabulous pictures.

Since I did promise you guys the pictures, I guess I'll do that.

You can answer to my fans later.

First of all, I don't remember if I mentioned that Husband purchased a new mode of transportation right before I got home. Here it is, in all its orgasmic splendor.

I say "orgasmic" because as soon as my booty landed on the red leather interior, I swear I almost came.

And yes, he insisted we do the obligatory teeny-bikini photo shoot of me with the black beauty (I call it Rex the Deathwalker), but I don't have any of those pictures ... now hush that booing! I knew you only loved me for my body!

We went out to my favorite bar, Bay Street Blues, where I sang karaoke.

The DJ (Scotty of the Superb Mullet) and his wife both know me, since it is, as I said, my favorite bar, and I am the best karaoke singer in the land.

At least, to my drunken ears I am. In actuality, I sound like Norah Jones ... choking on a rodent.

So Scotty and Wife O'Scotty just adore my off-key ass, and advised the bar patrons to empty their wallets and get me some shots to celebrate my being home on leave.

Oh, and here are a few of the patrons who did just that:

Husband and I shared several adorable moments, such as this one (ALERT! CUTE PICTURE APPROACHING!):

And of course, I was so pleased with the cuteness of the previous shot that I rewarded Husband with a little bit of tongue.

Unfortunately, all good times came to an end when I hopped back on the plane to Kuwait in Atlanta.

Or did they?

During my lovely 3-day return trip I met up with my travel buddies, the R&R Posse:

We enjoyed extensive grumbling about how shitty the trip was, to include our excellent accomodations in Kuwait ...

... which continued to impress us on our C-130 flight to Baghdad ...

... and once we got to the Baghdad "airport," where I set up a luxurious lounge area:

So, there you have it. My two weeks of sex, drugs, and karaoke all rolled up into a nice, neat, inoffensive little package.

Sorry. Next time I'll do better!

And no, my pornographical efforts will not be available for DLand viewing, but only because I don't want to make anyone too jealous of Husband.

Also, I wouldn't want you guys to objectify me as merely a hot ass. You'll have to be content with my hot brain.

Which, by the way, looks absolutely ravishing in a thong.

Zzzzzz ...

Back in fucking Baghdad.

I have some pictures to post for you guys, but they'll have to wait till tomorrow.

They depict drunken revelry, the Coolest Mullet Ever, and various shitty moments from my trip from home back to here.

AND (the highlight of our show) the cutest picture of Husband and me that I've ever seen.

If that doesn't bring ya back for more, shit, I don't know what will.
_______________________________________

Husband and I made some high-quality amateur porn the weekend before I left.

How come nobody told me that butt plugs, dildos, gag balls, nylon handcuffs and large amounts of lubricant were so much more fun when you throw a video camera into the mix?

Sorry Hiss, no live donkeys this time. I've realized that all I really need is a live Husband.

And maybe a goat.
_______________________________________

As I may have mentioned, it royally sucks balls to be back in the Land Of Necessary Shower Shoes.

The trip back was fairly uneventful, except that it caused me to miss Tuesday (yep, it just disappeared somewhere between Monday and Germany) and I had the opportunity to discover that Kuwait in early June is hotter than a hooker's crotch.

Actually, to be more accurate, I'd have to say it's more like a hooker's crotch which is currently being baked with a blow-dryer, because the wind was more or less merciless.

It did help me come up with a new hair style though -- I call it, "Unwashed, Unbrushed and Unattractive."

In other words, completely irresistible to the Stinky Men Of The Desert.

The Stinky Men Of The Desert are the male soldiers who have been over here just a little too long for their own good. They rate girl-hotness based on these two criteria:

1) Does she have at least two holes?
2) Is she definitely a She?

If the answer to both questions is "yes," they attempt to seduce the woman using phrases like, "Wow, I really need to get some ass," or "You have a nice rack. Wanna fuck?"

Such perfect gentlemen we have out here!
_______________________________________

Time for me to go for now, since this pretty, shiny screen is about to lull me to sleep.

Stupid pretty-shiny technology-building geeks.

Nighty night!

Yay! I'm still in America!

So, since Husband has abandoned me for the day to go slave away packing parachutes, I'm now at my leisure to write all about him.

Husband and I had a nice little talk last night which resulted in his one-baby-step advance toward the final goal of being a Loving, Caring Spouse.

Then we got drunk and adventurous, and this morning ... well, let's just say a certain area of my body hurts that generally doesn't hurt after a night conventional ("boring") sex, but generally does hurt after a night of porn-star fucking.

Let me tell ya, what the man lacks in warm-fuzzy emotions, he COMPLETELY makes up for in other warm, fuzzy areas.

If you get my drift. Heh.
_______________________________________

My poor little car broke down yesterday at a busy intersection in the pouring rain, but some nice guy in a beat-up pickup truck stopped to help me get it taken care of.

Sounds like it's time to write a country song, dontcha think?

My piece of shit car just up and died
In the middle of this here road.
Since I know nuthin' 'bout friggin' cars
I guess I'm gonna hafta git 'er tooooowed.

But wait just a second, here's a kind truck driver
Who says he's got a clue
But before I even pop the hood,
He says he's gonna need a backseat screw.

I think I could make it big in Nashville.

By the way, I didn't really have to fuck him.

These days, I've discovered a simple blow job will suffice.
_______________________________________

Time to go watch Days Of Our Lives and wait for Husband to get his sorry behind home from work.

Oh, how I love being on leave!