Back In The Day ...

I did something today which I have been contemplating doing for a long, long time. At least a week.

And no, it has nothing to do with nudity, outdoor frolicking, or hamsters falling from the sky, for all my seasoned readers.

Today I logged on to Amazon and I hunted down all my favorite music from the times of my life which I thought were SO MUCH FUCKING FUN, DUDE! and I bought it. Yep, even singles. (Remember buying singles? I do. And I did it again today, for purely nostalgic reasons.)

I am WICKED EXCITED, to say the very least. Some of these are CDs which I used to own and no longer do for whatever reason; some are songs which I reallyreally liked a lot when they came out; some others just bring back memories which I thought I had lost in a drunken stupor years ago.

And they are coming here!

Yeehaw! -- as a cowboy would say if he were in a similar mood as I am! I mean, just look at all these exclamation points! I must really be pleased as a vat of punch! Except now I am wondering, who was the schizo who invented that expression, because it makes no sense!

Anyway. A small sampling of the music which shaped my SO MUCH FUCKING FUN years:

Bush - Sixteen Stone
Lil Kim - Hardcore
MTV Party To Go Volumes 7, 8, 9
TLC - Crazysexycool
S.O.A.P. - "This Is How We Party" (single!!)
Lauryn Hill - The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill
Fugees - The Score

(Hmmm ... did I like hip hop much? Was I a little teenage gangsta? Who also liked Bush because Gavin Rossdale was HOT? I may have been. For Gavin Rossdale certainly was HOT.)

And I got them all (plus a few more) for $35 plus shipping and handling, thanks to Amazon's groovy "Used & New" section -- woo hoo! Because I can't download music -- woo hoo!

Back In The Day, here I come!

Man, all these exclamation points ... I think I just used up my quota.

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So. I am beginning to wonder if my bed is trying to kill me.

This evening when I woke up to my alarm clock, I turned over and attempted to execute my normal routine of throwing it somewhere to make it stop. But I was thwarted.

People, my throwing arm -- it was gone. It had vanished. My bed had eaten it.

Or, you know, it had fallen asleep, but this was entirely my bed's fault. I sleep on that arm all the time, and it has never fallen so soundly asleep as it did today. I literally had to beat the veins out of it to make it resume its armly duties.

My bed is so fricking lumpy, I swear, if it were covered in snow, I'd see tiny skiers putting up little black diamond signs all over it. Miniature Olympic athletes would do the luge on my bed. It is that bad. It's like the Army said, "Hey, don't throw those crackhouse mattresses away! We'll give them to the soldiers!"

Therefore, every day I wake up feeling as though I have just been trampled by a wooly mammoth in stilettos, and now I have to deal with dead-arm on top of it.

I miss my bed at home, with its brand-new, queen-sized, all-over squishyness. It's got nice soft sheets, and a snuggly comforter, and a lovely box spring underneath it. And Husband's usually in it, too, so I can wake him up and get some ass if I want to. I miss getting ass.

But right now, I'd totally settle for the bed.

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Thanks to everyone who tried to freak me out about my Pop Rocks yesterday. Assholes.

If you'll notice, my belly has not imploded yet. (Another good one! Implode implode implode.) And it is not planning on doing so.

But it will make some scary noises if I don't feed it soon. Meaning, bye!

How's it poppin'?

Whoever came up with the idea to send Pop Rocks to the troops -- you deserve some kind of medal, or a free hooker, or something. Because Pop Rocks are the BEST, and I never would have thought of asking for them.

There is a party in my mouth!

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Today was my LAST DAY of extra duty -- extra doody, as I fondly and maturely call it -- and if I ever have to sweep a rubber floor again, whether it be in this life or the next, it will be waaaaaay too soon.

Seriously, though -- if I were ever to possess a rubber floor, and it needed to be cleaned on a daily basis, the last implement I would choose for the job would be a push-broom with the handle removed.

For that is what I have been using. And it doesn't really work too well, especially if you're using the translation of "too well" which means "at all."

But fun times, fun times -- today Gym Sergeant Number Two asked to see one of my famous interpretive dances. That is, my interpretation of The Lawnmower Dance and The Microwave Dance.

He then proclaimed me to be the "whitest white girl who ever was white," or something to that effect. I trusted his judgment, as he is a very reputable man of color-other-than-white. We devised a plan wherein we would walk around together, he shouting "White Power!" and me shouting "Black Power!" until we made someone's brain explode in confusion.

(By the way, have I ever mentioned that I am deeply infatuated with the word "explode"? I mean, who wouldn't be?? It's a great word! Explode explode explode. Go ask Pork. He knows.)

But, yeah, anyway, no more extra doody. Anger Management classes will be starting at some yet-to-be-determined point in the near future, though -- the light at the end of the What The Fuck Should I Write About Today tunnel!

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Man, one bag of Pop Rocks lasts FOREVER! This is GREAT! But my tummy kinda hurts. Maybe it's the Dr Pepper ...

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Last night I had a grand ol' time reading all of Christine's reasons for hating her husband.

Christine, if you're reading this post: you are the shizz-nit. And I mean that. Continue to rock the heezy, for sheezy.

What? Did you, like, miss the "whitest white girl who ever was white" comment from approximately two scrolls up?

Gorsh. Don't hate.

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I've discovered that pouring the Pop Rocks into a spoon and sucking them out of the spoon little by little is really, really, really better than getting my hands all sticky. Plus you get sugar shock.

And strange looks, too! Can't forget the passersby with the strange looks. Man, I love Pop Rocks.

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I'm sending out prayers to all the unfortunates in N'Awlins this week -- keep your heads up, folks! And, um, learn to tread water?

That wasn't funny, was it? Damn. Well, you guys know I'd send 'em some dryness if I could, right? Right?? I mean, we've got enough of it. If they want, they can have our sandstorms instead ...

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Dang! The Pop Rocks are gone. Time to go find some downers.

"Let's get together, yeah yeah yeah ..."

I think Roommate and I were separated at our respective births, two years apart.

If that makes sense to you, congratulations! Your brain has deteriorated even further than mine.

Anyway, at the very least, we are highly musically compatible, which is really all one can ask for in a roommate. You know, other than them not stealing your toys and throwing your dishes away (which, as I've found out the hard way, are actually valid concerns).

I don't know how the music conversation began, but before long, it consisted mainly of this exchange:

Roommate: "Oh my God, you like [artist name]?! I love [artist name]!! What about [other artist name]?"

Me: "Are you fucking kidding?? [singing favorite song by artist] Oh my God, I [experienced significant life-changing event] while listening to [artist name]! How about [obscure artist name]?"

Roommate: "AAAAHHH!!! You've heard of [obscure artist name]?? We are the SAME PERSON!"

Repeat.

The reason this kind of blows?

Mainly because due to Life being full of kick-you-square-in-the-crotch surprises, Roommate will be leaving to go home within the next few weeks, thus leaving the room open once again for any old dirty, lying, thieving, mentally-devoid skank to move in.

Of COURSE. Why not? After all, it's me. Someone up there knows you guys'll be bored to tears if happy things start happening to little ol' me.

See, all you atheists who enjoy a laugh at the misfortune of others? There is a God watching over you!

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A gigantic, nearly-suffocating hug goes out to all you guys who wished me a Happy Anniversary despite the fact that Husband has proven himself to be about as endearing as a bucket of Bobby Brown's toenail clippings over the past few weeks.

He's improving. I swear on the frozen wedding cake in our freezer, he's improving. So shall we try for another year? I believe we shall.

I do miss him terribly. Only four months and 7,000 miles to go!

Hopefully by then, my facial skin will have decided to look like facial skin again, rather than the city of Pompeii after being devoured by an eruption similar to the ones my pores have produced, except with less boiling hot mag-ma.

I can see it now -- my triumphant return after twelve long months of desert deployment:

I rush into Husband's arms, overjoyed to finally be reunited. He gazes lovingly into my eyes, and says ...

"Holy FUCK! Did something eat your face??"

Then I remind him that he is a Giant Douchebag, and we get into a huge fight amidst all the embracing families, arguing all the way home, yelling at each other as we carry my bags into the house and throw them down in the living room, where we have spectacular make-up sex and all is forgiven once more.

Shut up.

Do the world a favor today -- shoot an alarm clock manufacturer

I was an hour late for work tonight.

At these times, I wish I didn't live within five minutes -- walking -- of my workplace. Because there's really no good excuse for being an hour late, other than maybe if I was sick to the point of vomiting demons.

Or, you know, oversleeping.

Did you know that if you shut your alarm off and throw the clock itself deep under your covers while convinced you are dreaming, it still means that you have shut your alarm off and (most likely) will not actually wake up on time?

Yeah, I didn't realize it either, but go figure. Therefore, I am stanky and unshowered -- in keeping with the usual "Fuck! I'm late! FUCK!" routine -- and feeling insecure, as one often does when one can't exactly recall whether or not one applied underarm de-stencher before setting off for the office at a brisk pace.

I'll just pretend I'm an impeccably groomed, carefree, barefoot hippie.

Hey! Hey! Don't knock denial and disillusionment. Without it, my insanity would be much more criminal in nature.

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Night Boss has created a tradition.

Every night, he goes to the dining facility for "midnight chow," that most elegant of meals.

Every night, he asks me if I'd like to go first, and I say, "No," because I am usually writing a post at that time, and enjoy having the office all to myself for a little while.

Every night, he says, "Would you like me to bring you anything back?" and I answer, "An apple and a Dr Pepper, please." Because I am a strange one, I am.

And every night, upon his return, he looks at me and says, in his ever-monotone, inexpressive, put-a-velociraptor-to-sleep voice: "Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news." At first, I would look at him expectantly, and he would say something to the effect of, "I forgot your apple," or even worse, "I forgot your Dr Pepper." (NOOOOO!!!!!) Either way, I would humor him with the approriate response, and the shift continued.

I didn't realize how much of a tradition it had actually become until the lieutenant (whom we shall henceforth refer to as Alterna-Boss, for he is certainly no run-of-the-mill boss) joined our shift. Alterna-Boss thought that Night Boss' little "Good news, bad news" shtick was the funniest thing since lighting farts, and after a couple of days, he would scamper excitedly over to my side of the office to watch the situation unfold. What would the good news be? What about the bad news? How bad would it actually be? The suspense was killing him!

So Night Boss, now that he had an audience and never forgot to bring me my items of nutrition, began to come up with more and more inane "good news" and "bad news."

• "Well, I got your apple ... but there's a tiny spot on it."
• "I got your Dr Pepper ... but it's not very cold."
• "I got your apple ... but it's a little bit lopsided."
• "I got your Dr Pepper ... but the pull-tab is kind of bent."
• "I got your apple ... but it's not shiny."

Alterna-Boss always sat there watching, hands on knees with anticipation, eyes darting back and forth between Night Boss and me, waiting to see my reaction, which was inversely proportionate in enthusiasm to whatever the news was, i.e.:

• "No!"
• "Oh my GOD! WHY???!!!"
• "Not LOPSIDED! It's the CURSE!"
• "Bent pull-tabs are BAD LUCK!"
• "How DARE you bring me a NON-SHINY apple! Get that out of my sight!"

Etc.

How out of control has this gotten? Well, Night Boss went on leave a couple of days ago. Replacement Boss is here to, um, replace, him. Alterna-Boss is going on leave tomorrow, but before leaving work, accompanied Replacement Boss to midnight chow.

Replacement Boss returned to the office a little while ago. He looked at me, and he said, "Well, I've got good news, and I've got bad news."

AAAAAGHHH!

Now you see what I mean when I say that we bring new meaning to "stir crazy." As in, it used to mean, "a little frustrated as a result of being cooped up in one place for an extended amount of time," but now it means, "nuts enough to make up games which the mentally-handicapped would reject on account of said games being 'too retarded,' as a result of being cooped up in one place for an extended amount of time."

At least I've got my health.

Ha!

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In closing ...

A year ago today, Husband and I done got hitched. And also very, very, very drunk. Congratulate us for sobering up the next day! Oh, and staying married for a whole fucking YEAR -- also possibly a good thing!

Drillings and Vengeance

Got a drill shoved into my molar again today. It's a good thing, too, because when I looked at my Army Knowledge Online account, I discovered that my deployability status is currently RED, meaning that if I was not already deployed, I would not be considered medically able to go.

However, since I am already here, RED status does not mean I will be able to simply go home until my dental troubles are over. Yes, I asked.

Apparently, the only thing that could possibly get me out of the Army at this point is a claim of gaydom. Isn't it interesting that I'm about one crazy pill away from Out Of My Fucking Gourd, but the Army would rather have a mentally unstable heterosexual than a sane girl who does not hide the fact that she likes to make out with other sane girls?

But after all, we must keep our priorities straight -- can gays guard the sidewalk?

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The evil noncommissioned officer who was the instigator of my Article 15 Non-Judicial Punishment For Being A Lesser Human Being happened to come into the gym, where I was doing my extra-duty this morning.

Wait a minute, this needs a back-story. Let us, as Dane Cook says, "Tarantino it."

I began my week of extra-duty punishment on Tuesday. My tasks have been simple: pick up trash around our Army trailer park living area, and then report to the gym to see if the sergeant in charge has anything for me to do there. It's not hard at all, just cuts into my sleep time.

The first day I went to the gym, there were two sergeants in charge. Of course, they wanted to know how I had gotten in trouble, and I told them the story of Sgt. The Devil.

After I'd finished my explanation, one of them looked at me and said, "Hey, I know about that NCO. She tried to get in one of my soldiers' face once. She's got issues."

To which I responded, "Where were you during my Commander's Hearing??"

So, the Gym Sergeants are on my side against that crazy Sgt. The Devil and her Issues.

Side note: "Sgt. The Devil and The Issues" would be a FANTASTIC name for a death metal band.

Okay, fast-forward to today. [brrvvrrpppprrrvvpprrrrtt]

As I was whistling and working, sweeping dust from a rubber-matted floor (have you ever swept a rubber floor? No? Probably because it's impossible.), who comes through the gym doors, but the aformentioned Ruler of Darkness (and also the Ghetto, because she is so very "Oh no you di-in't!")?

Even though I have not yet begun my anger management classes, I successfully refrained from whapping her in the grill with my metal dustpan. I calmly, yet purposefully, walked over to one of the Gym Sergeants, and asked if I could attempt some minor vengeance via tunes piped overhead during her workout.

Given their blessing, I walked over to the music selection area, and chose the music which, I was sure, would have to be the best Anti-Ghetto selection available.

And then I Dancing Queened my happy ass on outta there.

Hey, you know -- I do what I can. We Lesser Humans are kinda helpless.

:::::

Speaking of anger management ... um ... a few paragraphs ago ... I'd like to quickly share a new self-restraint technique invented by my lieutenant and I.

We call it the "Punching You In My Head" strategy. It works thusly:

1) Somebody angers me
2) I want to punch that person
3) I do not punch that person
4) I do not say anything to that person
5) I violently seizure my head in the general direction of that person while imagining that person flying across the room and sustaining several injuries
6) If that person asks why I am twitching like a mental patient, I respond, "I'm punching you in my head"
7) I am not only left unpunished, but also left largely alone, until a professional psychologist arrives to recommend that I be chaptered out of the Army
8) Everybody wins

And that's all I got. Time to do some [shudder] work. I guess.

[EDIT] Why the crap does my sidebar keep dropping down to the bottom of the frigging screen??

Hilarity ensues

Is there something about me that just attracts totally batshit insane nutball freaks? I'm serious. There must be something in the air that just makes them seek me out. Or maybe they just recognize their own, who knows.

I bring this up because last night on guard duty (Yes! I had guard duty again! And it was so much fun! That I wanted a terrorist to come shoot me!) this guy came up to me and decided to test out his stand-up comedy routine.

I’m not being sarcastic. He really was testing out his stand-up routine. Which was the worst comedy routine ever exposed to human ears.

The thing is, he kind of warned me. He approached my guard post, asked me for a lighter, and then sat down. I asked him if he had actually be going anywhere, and he said, “Yeah, I’m going to midnight chow, but I usually stop on my way and bullshit with the guards.”

Okay, sounds fine to me, I thought. Better than standing here by myself.

But it wasn’t. No, standing by myself in the seventh circle of hell would have been better than the moments which followed. The moments in which he said, “Yeah, usually I come over here and do some comedy to make ‘em laugh.”

He then proceeded to bust out the worst Chinese accent ever to Is there something about me that just attracts totally batshit insane nutball freaks? I'm serious. There must be something in the air that just makes them seek me out. Or maybe they just recognize their own, who knows.

I bring this up because last night on guard duty (Yes! I had guard duty again! And it was so much fun! That I wanted a terrorist to come shoot me!) this guy came up to me and decided to test out his stand-up comedy routine.

I’m not being sarcastic. He really was testing out his stand-up routine. Which was the worst comedy routine ever exposed to human ears.

The thing is, he kind of warned me. He approached my guard post, asked me for a lighter, and then sat down. I asked him if he had actually be going anywhere, and he said, “Yeah, I’m going to midnight chow, but I usually stop on my way and bullshit with the guards.”

Okay, sounds fine to me, I thought. Better than standing here by myself.

But it wasn’t. No, standing by myself in the seventh circle of hell would have been better than the moments which followed. The moments in which he said, “Yeah, usually I come over here and do some comedy to make ‘em laugh.”

He then proceeded to spew forth a stream of random unintelligible words in said accent – some of which, I believe, referred to my mother allegedly being too fat to leave the eggrolls at the buffet.

It kind of hurt. My ears, that is.

Here’s the thing: when you are on guard duty, there is no option of leaving your post. Hence, in this case, I had to figure out a way to get HIM to walk away from ME. I didn’t think that would be too hard, seeing as how I seem to inspire people to all but throw their own feces at me in rage half the time.

I tried simply not laughing at his jokes. I tried turning my head the other way. I tried audible groaning every time he paused for breath.

Nothing worked. He was the Energizer Bunny of obnoxious amateur comedians. I wished he’d have been running on an actual battery so I could have yanked it out and whipped it at him. But sadly, he did not have a battery. Foiled again.

Finally, driven by mental anguish and uncontrollable antipathy, I just looked him in the face and said, “Dude. That’s not really very funny.”

Now, if somebody said that to me? I would burst into tears whilst punching them in their happy parts. But not he.

“But this makes people laugh!” he protested. “It’s funny!”

“No, it’s not. That Chinese accent? Sounds more like a Drunk Chinese With Downs Syndrome accent. It’s painful to listen to.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Well, how about if I talk about something else?”

[audible groan]

He then launched into a spiel about marriage, and how women are evil dictators who use matrimony to carry out their plan for world-domination. Ths could have been funny, except that it reminded me of something that a good comedian may have once vomited up.

Plus, the dude obviously had NO CLUE of the whole “play for your audience” concept. None.

I asked him, “Hey? Yeah. You realize I’m a woman, right? A ... married ... woman?”

“Um …”

“Have you ever been married?”

“I was engaged once –“

“Yeah. Okay. Please stop. Why don’t you talk about something you KNOW about? Like, um, being in Iraq, maybe? I bet that could be funny.”

“Man, there’s nothing funny about that.”

[pause]

[pause]

At which point someone (THANK GOD!) happened to come by, and the dude (who shall remain nameless, because I don’t know his name) left.

Seriously. What is it about me?

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I have come to the conclusion that the room next to mine is inhabited by hyperactive apes. There is no other explanation for the cacophony of raucous thumps, bangs, and grunty noises which are constantly being emitted from that area to my right, your left.

They always seem to be at their finest right around the time I’m drifting off to sleep. I’ll feel my brain begin to shut down (doesn’t take too long, considering the starting point), then my muscles become non-tense for the first time all day, then my breathing slows, then BANG! BANG! THUMPETY THUMPETY BOOM! [indecipherable noises] BOOM. SLAM! KAPOW! OTHER COMIC BOOK FIGHT TERMS!

Then they leave. And my heart resumes beating.

Dear Dubya: I ask again -- please, may I go home now? For real.

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To those of you kind souls who have requested my mailing address so as to send me fun and inappropriate items, I say “Thank you! You ROCK!” and I suggest that you e-mail me, so that I can e-mail you back, and then I don’t have to post my Secret Agent info for all the world to see.

Try bluemeanyATdiarylandDOTcom, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll figger sumpin out. Because I love receiving fun and inappropriate items.

Speaking of that! I also love to send you items in return. However, I’ve discovered that getting T-shirts for everyone can potentially make me broke. So, if I have already promised you a shirt, I will keep my promise. If not, I will find something equally as cool and not-equally-as-expensive. Cool? Sorry, I’m a bit freak-out-ish about saving my money these days, as I want to eventually be able to survive without the Army.

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I sorted a bag of Jolly Ranchers this evening, due to the fact that cherry and apple are yucky and needed to be removed and disposed of accordingly (namely, set upon my lieutenant’s desk). Now every time I reach my hand into the bag, I can be content in knowing that I will pull out only watermelon-, blue raspberry-, or grape-flavored candies.

This is as close to heaven as I believe I will be getting for the moment.

Buhbye DiaryLand! I'm still using your image-hosting services! Buhbye!

Wassuuuuup!

Thanks for alla youse guyses supportivey encouragement on my li'l switch, here. Hopefully Blogger doesn't piss me off like Andrew did from time to time. At least if it does, it won't have nads that I could potentially punch. So it's got that going for it.

Again -- if anybody's got any template suggestions, I'm all ears! Or, eyes! Whatever!

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FIRST ITEM: When choosing to involve oneself in any form of online dispute, one should realize that if one uses the spelling/grammar/typing skills normally associated with a seven-year-old, dyslexic orangutan, one's credibility/authority/sanity will most likely be questioned.

SECOND ITEM: See first item.

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I had my first day of "extra duty" today, since obviously the best way to keep me from standing up for myself is by giving me a bunch of meaningless work to do.

But wait! I already spend 12 hours a day doing meaningless work! Are you saying that my behavior will become more complacent and I will Learn My Lesson simply by doing this work outside, during a time when I would normally be sleeping, for one week? Is that it?

Oh, okay, just wanted to make sure.

Here's a thought: when you take a person's money and force her to do manual labor as a "correction" for acting on her human instinct to defend herself against a person who is attempting to defame her character, you can pretty much expect that she will talk all kinds of shit about you on the Internet. Also, you may possibly be a cold-hearted, self-important prick.

I can't wait to get this week over with so I can start my Anger Management classes! I hope we hold hands and sing "I Feel Pretty" while being berated by Jack Nicholson. That would be the SHIT!

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And now it's time for Things I've Recently Gotten In The Mail From You Awesome People!

The lovely Cassandra thoughtfully provided me with both of these two items:

What kind of Meany would I be if I didn't have my own personal Yellow Submarine playing cards? The alternative is frankly unthinkable.

Also, I have heard that sushi has healing powers. Even if that's not true, these are the only bandaids I've seen which depict food that is not immediately recognizable as food -- that in itself is simply outstanding. The "free toy," by the way, was a pencil topper in the shape of a cat's head. Not frightening AT ALL.

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This morning, the sky looked like this:

I half-expected some kind of goo-covered extraterrestrial to come hurtling toward me as I walked to breakfast, or maybe a big God-cartoon might appear and send me off to search for the Holy Grail. Or it could just be Zuul, coming to find the Key Master. Either way, pretty creepy, huh? Glad I don't live in the corner penthouse!

Man, now I'm all hungry for marshmallows.

Does anyone else think "Military Justice" is an oxymoron?

Would anyone like to guess what these three items have in common?

A) One week

B) $300

C) Anger Management classes

No?

Why, it's simple! They all play their own little parts in my non-judicial punishment under Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice:

One week = the amount of time I have to spend on Extra Duty Of Some Yet-To-Be-Determined Nature

$300 = the amount of money which is being deducted from my pay

Anger Management classes = the corrective training I have been assigned

All because some crazy bitch with a little bit of rank decided it would be fun to fuck with the chick on guard duty.

I may have mentioned this before, but ... gee, I love the Army!

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The Mandatory Physcal Fitness Session Of Gayness was really not all that homosexual today, surprisingly enough.

We did some entertaining Mandatory Gay Calisthenics (which I think in all fairness, I should call Mandatory Bisexual Calisthenics) in the gym, and although there is the Ow factor to contend with now, it was much better than the Mandatory Gay Run we've all grown so well-acquainted with.

However.

Have you guys ever heard of a little exercise called The Inchworm?

Apparently, it was invented by reallyreallyreally short, angry dwarves, who were mocked as children and picked last for teams during after-school basketball games.

It is a Tool Of Satan.

If you ever get a chance, watch how an inchworm moves: front stationary, little worm-butt squinches up, front moves forward. Repeat.

The Inchworm's only redeeming quality was that Night Boss -- who is approximately eleventy billion feet tall and .0902349 inches wide -- had to do it too, as I performed the customary Point And Laugh exercise.

There were also the Mandatory Bisexual Lunges. (Just TRY to say/read/think that phrase without horrifying images penetrating your train of thought -- I dare you!) (Gah! I said "train"! In addition to the original phrase! What is wrong with me?? Oh yes -- I need to get laid.)

The Lunges were anti-fun. My thighs, I know, had a terrible time with them, possibly terrible enough to secede from my body. I know I would.

But that's enough of that for now. I have to prepare my brain for all the journal material I'm going to be gleaning from this Anger Management class, which is sure to be full of others who, like myself, are carrying at least 30 rounds of live ammunition on their person at all times.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world!

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So why did none of you tell me what a colossal razor up the ass it is to move a whole damn diary to Blogger? Good LORD!

Andria (of Linked More Than Anybody Ever Has Been Linked From Here fame) has given me the code to make my name still light up on the D'Land buddy list dealie whenever I update -- which I know works, because here you fucking are, yay! -- so you can all rest easy knowing you'll still see my name in red on a regular basis.

I LOVE you crazy fuckers! How could I ever desert you?!? That would be as wrong as going to the New York State Fair and leaving without getting pizza fritte. (Hint: really fucking wrong. Pizza fritte is like the fried dough of the gods, except for the gods would be Italian.)

Or whatever. You know what I mean.

And, um, feel free to give me design pointers, as I have been known to ride the HTML short bus. While wearing a helmet.

Changin' it up

A big smushy thank you goes out to all of you guys for the lovin' feelings. These past few weeks have just been so very assy for me, and I think the momentum of every depressing, disturbing, distressing, disastrous and/or dicked up thing that has happened in that time period has glopped them all together as a Giant Ball Of Assy, which plopped down upon my unsuspecting subconscious right around last night.

Sounds like fun, huh?

So, yeah, thanks for the cyber-hugs, which I know some of you pervs were trying to turn into cyber-fondles, but that is so not happening because I am not that kind of girl. Although I love you anyway.

Unfortunately, I cannot take all of your suggestions. For example, Teets and Matty recommended I go not-quite-criminally insane in an effort to get out of the Army for good.

Now, that would just not be right. It would require the entire abandonment of my ethics/morals, which I just can't comfortably do.

Plus, I've already researched the whole insanity angle, and it doesn't get you kicked out anymore -- they just give you pills unless you threaten to do anyone harm, in which case they lock you up. Nice try, though, dear ones!

:::::

I watched the second Bridget Jones attempt yesterday after work and must say I have mixed opinions on it.

Yes, I know everyone else who cares to has already seen the movie, but I will talk about it because I CAN, DAMMIT! And also because I READ THE BOOK and can talk about it as a SNOOTY READER OF THE BOOK. So THERE.

Opinion 1: Renee Zellweger is really not that pretty, is she? I mean, good for her getting famous in spite of that, and she certainly spruced herself up a bit for Chicago, but as far as A-list celebrities go, she is the one who failed to dodge the ugly stick. Which makes her the perfect one to play Bridget Jones, who is supposed to be Not So Fetching As All That. But I don't think she needed to walk all bow-legged and waddly like that, I mean, what is she supposed to weigh, like, 130, 140? Last I checked, 140 doesn't make you lumber around like a pregnant mare.

Opinion 2: Although a few minor points from the book were kept in the movie, for the most part, the only similarities were the fact that the two shared a title. Therefore, I really can't compare any further, because it would be like comparing a chocolate pie to a chocolate cookie -- both edible, and tasty to those who like chocolate, but really nothing alike.

Opinion 3: Hugh Grant is really getting old! Holy shit! But I must admit, I prefer his asshole characters to his bumbling, shy, you-must-like-me-because-I'm-unsure-of-myself-oh-and-also-I-have-an-accent-so-don't-look-at-my-teeth characters.

And there we have it! The reason why I am not a movie critic.

:::::

Apparently, I have quit smoking. I just woke up the other day and realized I had not smoked in nearly 24 hours, and then I went back to sleep.

I know! How weird, right? I'm never able to get back to sleep once I wake up!

Oh, and the smoking thing, too -- fucking crazy. I don't know how it happened. I just, you know, quit, inadvertently. I smoked one of my roommate's Marlboro Reds ("Reds: For when you really just want to die quickly!") this afternoon, and it was cool and all, but I haven't really wanted one since then.

Ha! Fuck you, Addiction! I blow my nose at you! And cough up my lung, while I'm at it!

All right, here's the deal. This is a brandy-new blog, because my DiaryLand site is pissing me off. So be patient, and I'monna try to figure this crap out and get all my old stuff over here from there.

Man, what a fucking pain. If anybody can help me out with de-gaying my template, I'd be much obliged.

I will explode you.

Another #%!$@ weekend

You know, I'm getting really fucking sick of people talking to me as though I am a lower-caliber person than they are, just because my collar weighs a little less than theirs.

I understand that there has to be a rank structure for the Army to function; that's all well and good. But the regulations fail to specify that until you reach a certain rank, you may as well just be a convicted felon, because that is just about the level of respect you will receive -- no matter what your accomplishments, education, and/or personality.

One of my officers actually said to me this evening that he would not, theoretically, send me on a certain type of mission because I am not "an adult."

Oh, I'm sorry, sir -- I see now that in order to be "an adult," I have to be a pretentious yes-man who treats my subordinates as though they are amusing yet annoying little pets. I'll get right on that.

I can't even think about this anymore. It just makes me so angry I could kick a puppy. And I like puppies.

:::::

By the way, darling G, I must argue that dick is NOT overrated. Please tell me what drugs you are on so that I can get some.

:::::

I received a package o' goodies from the lovely and captivating Cassandra this morning, and since my camera's battery got all tuckered out before I could immortalize her package-putting-together skillz, I will leave you in suspense until Mr. Sony is fully recharged.

Yes, I named my camera Mr. Sony. Creativity was not flourishing the day I bought Mr. Sony, as that was during a period of time where I was getting laid.

Anyway, photographical documentation of the receiving of cool shit is on the way.

:::::

Since in most of the real world, this is the weekend, I'm sure most of you are out doing weekend stuff -- namely, stuff which is different from the stuff you do every other day.

Lucky.

Unfortunately, I am not one of you weekend-havers, and I am really a bit drained today, due to the fact that I am on the verge of a mental breakdown, and being drained is a symptom of that. So I'm going to go ahead and give my brain a chance to recuperate tonight, and hopefully tomorrow I will hate the world a little less.

Mmkay?

Now go give some love to any other soldiers you can find floating around in cyberspace, because I'm guessing they miss the concept of "Saturday," as well.

Isn't it fitting that as I type, strains of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" are eeping through my computer's speakers?

I thought so, too.

I NEED DICK

Seeing as how we have been thinking a whole lot about how my favorite orifice has been gathering dust for the past THREE MONTHS, and it will not be able to be cleared of said dust for another FIVE MONTHS, it is certainly a wonderful time for everyone to be writing about how they are getting all kinds of laid.

This makes Meany morph into I NEED DICK Woman.

I NEED DICK Woman has been lurking below the surface for quite some time, but she has now burst forth, in all her dick-needing glory, to tell you that she has "just got to get laid, you guys! [She] is suffering, here! [She] hate[s] you all!"

When I NEED DICK Woman appears, I find the best thing to do in this situation is take naughty pictures of myself to send to Husband, thus displacing the horniness and putting the restraints back on I NEED DICK Woman. (Shut up! I can displace horniness!) (But the restraints analogy was admittedly not helpful to the cause.)

Know what's really funny? When you're taking naughty pictures of yourself in your room, and someone knocks on the door, and you yell, "Wait a minute!" so you can put some clothes on, and they don't hear you, and they are a contractor so they have a key and can OPEN THE DOOR ON THEIR OWN, which they DO, and you are SCRAMBLING to NOT BE NAKED, and then there are SMALL FOREIGN CONTRACTORS at the door who are STARING AT YOU in a NON-ENGLISH-SPEAKING WAY, and you finally get dressed and have to SIT ON YOUR BED while they invade your room to "check the grounding" and your QUESTIONABLE PHOTO-TAKING ACCESSORIES are just LAYING AROUND.

That is SO FUNNY.

In fact, Husband owes me an extra week of us being locked in the bedroom when I get back, because of this VERY FUNNY incident.

And I [still] NEED DICK.

:::::

The Mandatory Physical Fitness Session Of Gayness was extra-gay today, possibly because it knew I was in dire need of a good, hard, heterosexual fuck.

Apparently, whoever drew up the P.T. program for our company was fathered by Forrest Gump, because all we do is just keep on runnin'.

Seriously. Every single time we meet, the instructions are something to the effect of, "Run around the hill, then up the hill, then around the hill again, then around the lake. Then, oh, I don't know, just continue to run until you're dead."

The only time we didn't run, we walked. Far. (See: intense ass pain brought on by four miles in less than an hour.)

For anyone who might be wondering why I am more bitter than a keg of sweaty jizz about the whole running thing, let us recall that my two-mile run was the portion of the Physical Fitness Test over which I ruled with an iron fist. However, the sit-ups portion made me its bitch. For this reason, I was ordered to attend the Mandatory Gayness (name shortened to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome).

I have not done a SINGLE Mandatory Gay Sit-Up. There have been many Mandatory Gay Runs, even a Mandatory Gay Walk, but not once have my abdominal muscles been affected by the Mandatory Gayness.

As a result of all this relentless and sometimes incoherent bitching, I think we all get the point.

That point being, I NEED DICK.

And no, you can't see the pictures.

Sugar high

When it takes me FOUR HOURS from the time I sit down at my desk and start pretending to work till the time I actually begin to update this thing, it becomes perfectly clear that I am way too obsessive-compulsive about reading every single diary on my favorites list.

Either that, or I'm spending too much time doing actual work ... yeah, let's go with that one.

:::::

I had to go stand in front of my company First Sergeant and get officially informed that I am being considered for the dreaded Article 15. That was definitely worth staying up way past my bedtime for, lemme tell ya.

"Hey, not only are we going to try to hammer you with unpleasant repercussions for speaking your mind, we are also going to take away from your valuable sleep-time to remind you of it in a demeaning manner! Isn't that so very considerate of us, in the same way that it would be considerate to poop on your shoes, light the poop, and run away giggling?"

That's what I think about that.

:::::

So, I've been having some really wacky dreams lately, and I'm thinking it might be because over the past few days, I've tended to snack on items of the Pure Hardened Flavored Sugar genre during my shift.

For real, I am pingin' by the time I leave the office. What with my Dr Pepper addiction and the abundance of Smarties (whose name and production are obviously some kind of very sick joke orchestrated by diabetics to get revenge on the sugar-eating world), it is amazing that I am even able to sleep at all. The presence of dreams which could double as schizophrenic LSD hallucinations should really not surprise me.

I would give you an example of what these dreams are like, but I usually hate reading about other people's dreams, so I'll spare you. Suffice it to say, I am at Johnny Depp's house (that's no shocker; all my dreams are set there), it is acid-raining outside, mortars are falling on my brand-new unicorn named Bud ("Bud the Unicorn," to his friends), there are Oompa Loompas involved, and Salt-N-Pepa are there performing a medley of "Push It," "Shoop," and "Nunya Business."

Yeah. Smarties, anyone?

Hypochondriacs really do have more fun

And we can build this dream together!
Standing strong forever!
Nothing's gonna stop us no-o-ow!

And if this world runs out of lovers
We'll still have each other!
Nothing's gonna stop us,
Nothing's gonna stop us noooooow ...

Why is this song in my head?

And how much did we all LOVE "Mannequin" even though, by movie standards, it blew sweaty cow cock?

:::::

Okay, so I want to thank you all for turning me into a TOTAL HYPOCHONDRIAC who could have anything wrong with me from ovarian knottiness to umbilical hernias to Kurt Cobain Mystery Disease.

For real, I love you guys, but you're beginning to freak me the fuck out. Although, I guess I did ask for it. Ah, well -- everybody needs some imaginary diseases to keep them busy from time to time.

The pain, at least, has diminished a bit. As in, I actually slept today without the help of Wonka-drugs, and upon awakening, did not feel like I needed to whack somebody in the jaw in order to properly communicate my misery.

And The Toothache is in apparently in remission, so there's that. Being able to eat without screaming in agony after every bite is certainly a plus.

"Wait a minute," you must be thinking, "all of this good stuff happening ... whose diary is this? What's the deal with all this ... this optimism?"

Well, dear ones, I just happen to be in a more-decent-than-average mood, due to a lovely present I got from the brilliant Witty last night:

EEEE!

Complete with my very own Blue Meanie, spelled the correct way which was already taken as a username, on the VERY FIRST PAGE!

See??

You are the COOLEST, Witty!

Another contributor to my good mood is the fact that I received a very cute and sincere card from Husband this evening, in honor of our upcoming ONE YEAR anniversary.

To those of you who have only recently stumbled upon the World O' Fun which is my diary, I should explain that a couple of very short weeks ago, Husband was being what I like to call a Giant Douchebag. Go on back a few entries and check out his Giant Douchebagness if you so desire; otherwise you can just take my word for it.

Anyway, he's made an admirable turnaround, very close to 180 degrees, in fact, and has transformed himself into Non-Giant-Douchebag Love Muffin. We'll see how long it lasts, hmm?

As for now, I am happy. Yay!

:::::

And now, a few pictures of random shit:

These are the desserts which I must avoid like the ever-loving Death Plague in order to keep from turning into Desert Camouflage Whale Girl.

Don't have an iPod case, but need to keep that pesky sand out of your miniature technological gear? The tiny baggie is the ONLY way to go!

Lastly, here I am, looking pleased as punch during a moment's reprieve from my helmet on guard shift. I have Photoshopped this image into a lovely watercolor rendering, because it makes my face look less like I have been bathing it in cooking grease.

Is it just me, or am I, like, wickedly boring tonight?

Please stop poking holes in my limbs.

Apparently God heard my prayers for a day off, but He must not have been able to make out the part that specified "without an IV in my arm."

After I got off of my guard shift (which was uneventful, except for a random popping flare-type thingy that went off but was very small and caused no trouble), I stumbled back to my room, looking forward to a good day's sleep.

However, I did not get that. What I got was a good day's restless non-sleep, complete with dizziness, nausea and a phantom stomach pain which caused me to say "Ow" many times.

I do not like saying "Ow," so I went to our top-notch aid station, where I was proclaimed dehydrated and given Mystery Hydration Fluid intravenously. I was also given some kind of magical nausea medication which has this side effect wherein upon taking it, one's legs melt, and one's speech becomes slurred to the point where one can just see Johnny Depp wearing a purple top hat and yelling "Mumbler!" at one.

Such a very nice pain medication.

It would have been very much nicer, though, if it helped the medics determine what was wrong with my tummy. But sadly, that was not one of the side effects, so I had to go to the main clinic to let some doctors prod Ye Olde Bellye until I felt like punching them in Ye Olde Mouthe (much like you will want to do if I keep writing in Ye Olde Englishe, eh?).

In the end, I had to undergo blood work, x-rays, a pelvic exam (!) and a rectal exam (!!!), as well as an overnight stay on a lovely little cot which was designed by masochistic insomniacs, all to be told that "We don't know what's causing your stomach to hurt, but since it's not appendicitis, and the medication we used to take away the pain worked, it might be a muscle thing."

Oh, well, great, I'm glad you had to stick your finger in my ass to determine that. It was such a nice experience which I would not have wanted to miss out on, that finger in my ass. Glad it was worth it. Thanks much.

So, I was sent on my way with a vat of Motrin and the instructions, "If it starts hurting again, take the Motrin."

Okay! Sounds like a plan! Let me know if you figure out how those tiny men with knives got into my gut, if you get a chance! Bye now!

If any of you out there happen to be a doctor, it's a stabbing pain in my left-side-of-belly-button area which makes me shriek like a total pussy if you poke it, but is fine if left alone. Got any ideas?

You know, my dad told me in an e-mail that my 103-year-old great-grandmother takes one aspirin a day, and that is it -- she is healthy.

One hundred and THREE. ONE ASPIRIN. I am not even TWENTY-THREE. And I take A MILLION TRILLION ZILLION MOTRINS and have IVs STUCK IN ME and get INEXPLICABLE TUMMYACHES.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?!? MOREOVER, WHY AM I STILL TYPING IN ALL CAPITALS?!? There, that's better. Sorry about that.

Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that the Army is hazardous to my health. Since I've been in, I have had a broken nose accompanied by two black eyes, a sprained ankle, a pulled groin (that one really made me say "Ow," hoo boy!), an infected blister on my foot which left a scar, a neck lump so large that I actually named it, and countless variations of the flu, for starters.

Nana was smart; she just went to work in a pocketbook factory. Me? I went to war!

I guess good decision-making isn't hereditary, after all.

:::::

Roommate has a fiancee.

If you just went, "Awwww," that is because you do not know yet that Roommate's fiancee is, in fact, in the same country as her. That two days ago he was, in fact, in the same room as her.

I.e., in the same room as me.

I.e., if she ever complains of sexual frustration, I will beat her with a bat.

I just had to share that, as it correlates with my theory, "some people have all the luck when it comes to getting laid in a situation where most people are not getting laid."

Stupid "some people."

:::::

Some good news: the spectacular aimeelori has managed to get a morsel of my writing published in the paper which she regularly ruminates in, and you can see it online here in the next couple days.

The name I used is not my real one, so don't try to stalk me with it, because you will fail. Not that you will attempt to do so -- I'm just saying.

Yay for publication!

:::::

I don't really want to end this up on a sour note, but I fear I must.

I found out a little while ago that Neighbor's (or, I guess, ex-Neighbor, now) mother passed away about a week ago. If you are down with the praying thing, please pray for her. If not, send some happy thoughts, or whatever you do when bad shit goes on. She found out several days after it happened, and has already missed the funeral. Which sucks badly.

And which goes to show me -- things can always get worse.

Hi! I'm an entry title!

I just knew that the only thing missing from my desert wardrobe was a tiny fez!

Many thanks go out to Kathy for making this dream of mine come true.

And hey, while I'm thanking people, here's a big, smoochy "You rule!" for Andria (who is apparently a regular feature here) for a rockin' CD -- theme: Fuck You And Everyone You Know -- which provides an excellent soundtrack to my more pissy moments/hours/days.

That's right, you fellow attention whore! You heard me! No more links for you!

[Aside to Andria] You know I'm just kidding, right? We are down like that. I mean, lower than average, like that.

Anyway. Thank you!

:::::

A few interesting Google searches which have led some unsuspecting weird-asses here:

"his pretty dress"
"blue sex world"
"pictures of people sweating"
"clay gaykin"

Well, wouldja looky there? Welcome back, folks!

:::::

Okay, is there something specifically wrong with playing the Tarantella at work?

Because people keep giving me these looks, as though there IS something wrong with it. It's like they've never heard Italian folk songs wafting over a cubicle wall before.

I mean, it's not like I'm actually dancing the Tarantella on my desk. I'm not merrily prancing around the office, shouting "Eh, paisan!" and strewing spaghetti and biscotti onto every available surface while pinching my co-workers' cheeks and telling them they're too skinny.

Although that would be kind of fun ...

:::::

I am in Deep Suffer mode from yesterday's walk. Even though I was fortunate enough to not be carrying shit while walking, it still feels like my gluts have been beaten into submission by a meat tenderizer. I have been gracefully moving like The Incredible Waddling Girl for several hours now, and it's getting a bit old.

Bonus entertainment derived from aching ass pain:

When one of my lieutenants overheard my geezer moans, he mentioned that if I were to regularly work out my ass muscles, they may not be so sore. I replied that my butt is already disappearing, and I'm not trying to get it completely flat. (I know this is not the result of a good booty workout, however, I was eager to see how the conversation would play out, since I was bored.)

Lieutenant: "Well, when you exercise your butt, it gets all firm and full."

Me: "Are you talking about my butt, sir? Because I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

Lieutenant: "No! I'm talking about butts in general! I mean, er ..."

Me: "Ha ha ha! Now you're all uncomfortable! Ha ha ha!"

Have I mentioned that life is SO exciting here?

:::::

I have nothing more to say for now, because The Toothache is back (woo hoo! I [heart] pain!), and I have to go find a freezer to stick my entire face in. I'm on guard duty tomorrow night, so if you happen to be standing in one place being bored out of your mind for any amount of time, please think of me.

Smooches!

Has anyone noticed that I really don't have anything to say?

Let me say, for the record, that I have not read the original Roald Dahl masterpiece, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

Once I have done so, I will watch the movie once again, very open-mindedly, and see how I feel about it.

However. This does not mean that I am now, or will ever be, happy with Johnny's molester-ish appearance, or those horrid Loompa songs. Just so we're clear.

Now, I have so little bitching to do, and so much time to do it!

Strike that. Reverse it.

:::::

"Somebody who is not directly in charge of me" thought it would be a good idea to have a ruck-march this evening during the Mandatory Physical Training Session Of Gayness.

Ha! Good thing that "somebody who is directly in charge of me" never told me about it. I showed up all light and non-carrying-stuff to the formation, where my fellow P.T.-ers were all weighted down with their ruck sacks, sweat already dripping down their earlobes and gender-specific body parts.

You see, there is a benefit to having sergeants who do not know what the fuck is going on -- had they known, I would have been told in advance to bring a large, heavy pack with me to P.T., thus making my day slightly less pleasant than that one Martha Stewart had when she found out she was going to jail.

I still ended up having to walk the necessary four or so miles with the rest of the group, but I have no problems with a brisk walk, just a walk-while-toting-shit. I felt bad for my buddies, who were subjected to the latter, but I did my part by walking with them and making sure they knew that it sometimes pays not to give a crap on a toothbrush about what's "required."

Seriously, though, I thought the fact that anybody would have to walk that far, carrying a ruck, in almost 120 degrees, was completely -- how shall I say it? Oh yes -- dicked up. I guess it'll take someone ka-thudding to the ground and shriveling up like a slug in a salt-shaker before the appropriate higher-ups actually begin to notice that THIS IS NOT HEALTHY, YOU IGNORANT ASS CLOWNS.

It is so time to go home.

:::::

I haven't heard anything new about the supposed Article 15 and its degrading punishments for my disrespect to a person who totally deserved it. That could be a good thing; who knows? Not me! I have given up looking for anything to make sense around here.

I'm hoping that maybe if I keep quiet and wait this whole ordeal out, nothing will ultimately come of it. Although keeping quiet is certainly not my forte', I may as well give it a shot.

Of course, I am open to suggestions -- anything that doesn't involve nudity or actual assault is a viable option at this point.

:::::

The scathingly sarcastic and pleasantly punkish Emma has been sadly neglected lately. Someone go give her some STD-free, voyeuristic journal-lovin', mmkay?

:::::

Since I am more boring than a high-powered drill today, I'll leave you lovely folks with a HILARIOUS joke, brought to you courtesy of the brain belonging to one of my dear cousins, which I have only slightly modified (the joke, not the cousin) (derr). As she told me, "You have to say it out loud, or it's not as funny."

"A drum and a cymbal fell down a cliff. Ba-dum ching!"

If you don't get it, I don't care. That's what family is for.

I got yer doompa-de-do right here!

I spent my first hour at work listening to the officers and senior enlisted men in the next cubicle discussing Tourette's Syndrome.

Well, less that than just randomly spewing obscene phrases, giggling like strung-out eight-year-old girls, and every now and then dropping in the term "Tourette's Syndrome" so it would look like there was some sort of non-worrisome reasoning behind their outbursts.

I wish I could say that these obscene phrases were at least creative so that I could take pride in sharing them with you as the products of hard-working soldiers.

But sadly, no. All I can offer you is the word "fuck," combined with the words "fucking" and "fucker(s)" in as many permutations as could possibly make some form of sense.

Can we give a cheer for the Leaders of Today's Army?

:::::

I sat down to eat this evening, and was promptly confronted by this flyer, which is not a joke:

Discuss amongst yourselves; I'll be right back.

...

...

...

All righty. The questions which this little sign raised in my mind were as follows:

1) Why do Middle Eastern women do different aerobics than all other women? Did Mohammed give them the Workout Instructions Of Allah? Is the burqa just not conducive to a regular fitness regimen?

2) Why would anybody who is not from the Middle East want to learn this workout? Middle Eastern women are not particularly known for their svelte figures. Not to say that large, shapeless clothing indicates fat-ass-ness, but we certainly have no testimonial to base this on.

3) Isn't it interesting that I got to read this as I sat down for a nice, hefty meal of rib-eye steak and mushrooms? I sure didn't feel like a large chunk o' nasty after that, no sirree!

4) What exactly are these "popular Middle Eastern tunes," and how do I know that they will truly make me want to get my fit on?

Please -- ponder.

:::::

I finally saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, thanks to the Bootleg Fairy, and my initial reaction really needs its own paragraph.

It SUCKED.

Johnny. Darling. You realize that I now am forced to love you in spite of this movie rather than because of it, right? For it did indeed eat chunks of vomit.

There was one main reason for the vomit-chunk-eating quality of the film.

That reason was not the fact that Willy Wonka was written as a Jacko-ish, psychologically-warped, child-hating dumbass who seemed unable to function on his own.

That reason was not the absence of "I've Got A Golden Ticket," or any of the songs I'd come to know and love -- except for "Cheer Up, Charlie," which, frankly, was too long and boring, and which I always fast-forwarded through.

That reason was not even the way the other grandparents seemed to dominate Grandpa Joe, who didn't even get a chance to make Charlie try the fizzy-lifting drink, seeing as how THERE WAS NO FIZZY-LIFTING DRINK.

No, although these aspects did contribute to the general suckitude of the film, the clincher was simply ... and oh, God, how I hate to say this ... the Oompa Loompas and their gayer-than-Richard-Simmons SONGS.

Come on, now! The Oompa Loompas are supposed to have orange faces and green hair, and sing endearing little rhyming songs while doing cute squatty dances because they are so grateful to Willy for saving them from the Vermicious Knids of Loompa Land.

They are NOT supposed to wear shiny pleather suits and eat bugs and attempt to RAP and be otherwise Gangster. They are NOT supposed to talk like they have been sucking on helium. They are NOT supposed to have synthesizers.

And above all, they are NOT supposed to make me want to SHOOT THEM.

I am very disappointed, and I have to go recover.

I have now successfully not done work for another hour

I know we've had the "Army Logic" discussion before, but still, I must put this forth -- mandatory running at 6 p.m. when it is 115 degrees out? Why? What have we ever done to them?

"Them" being "those who are in charge of us yet do not join us in the running because they are hypocritical man-skanks."

Needless to say, I am perturbed.

:::::

To add to the shiny happy bubble which is my life lately, I was told two nights ago that I was being moved to a different room, and I would have to have all my stuff completely transferred by last night. Besides the fact that moving in general is up there with sharting flaming kittens on my list of Fun Stuff To Do During Absence Of Sex, my new room also is a pretty far distance from my old one -- so I asked why I was being made to transfer.

"Well, two new soldiers are coming in, and they're in the same section, so they wanted to be kept together," came the reply.

"But," I said (as always), "if you move me, I will be far away from everybody in my section, too. Why do these two get a choice and not me?"

I think, beyond the resounding silence that followed, I may have heard the sound of a human heart actually shrinking. I shit you not -- it was kind of creaky, and there was some popping.

So of course, I completed the moving with no large issues, mainly because I have accumulated a surprisingly minute amount of useless crap since I've been here. This is very odd for me, seeing as how I am the type of person who would save something like a used napkin from the camp dining facility because it might someday remind me of Iraq.

Then again, maybe it's not too odd, seeing as how I have been trying to block this place out of my mind since I got here. ("Specialist Meany, did you remember to check over our vehicles in the motor stables?" "What? Motor stables? Do we have vehicles? Where am I?") So I guess the ol' nostalgia nerve has been taking a rest.

Anyway, my new roommate seems pretty chill, which is a relief. I had been preparing to end up with a mutant, deodorant-hating, messy thief. Thank God, this girl is actually human, and hates The Man as much as I do, because she just got an Article 15 for an offense she did not commit.

Somebody with a brain obviously made this room assignment after VERY careful consideration. Seriously, what could they have been thinking?

Boy, seeing as how I am a total mental case, I had better take these two ladies who have been ass-raped by the Army and put them together. We wouldn't want to keep two bitter, enraged soldiers apart, now, would we? Who knows, maybe they'll improve each other's attitude!

Ha ha! Bullshit!

On the plus side, the two of us get along very well.

:::::

I watched "Pretty Woman" AND "Runaway Bride" today, courtesy of Roommate's TV, DVD player, and movie collection. I apparently had some sort of Julia Roberts/Richard Gere deficiency, so I had to take care of that.

(The Haji movie-sellers make it so easy to fill an actor deficiency, since they often sell discs containing two or three movies of the same nature. This makes it easy to watch "Road Trip" and "Freddy Got Fingered" in rapid succession -- in case you ever feel like it after smoking giant amounts of crack and being a total douchebag.)

Is it just me, or did the years not treat Richard Gere anywhere NEAR as well as they did Julia Roberts? I mean, don't get me wrong, he's still very much Richard (pant) Gere, but whereas he seems to have actually aged a few years, she looks like she has possibly gotten younger -- insert Dorian Gray theory here.

Not that that had anything to do with anything. My life is just too miserable to talk about at the moment, so why not speculate about celebrities and their freakish non-aging-ness? Exactly.

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I am overjoyed at the number of you who have embraced the Literal Slang Craze which La Dork and I introduced yesterday -- Batten has used it very impressively, and I believe she deserves some hearty props for that. A piece of language is directed at the woman who gave birth to you, Batten! (For you non-fad-embracers, that would be, Word To Your Mother. Learn it, love it.)

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Last but not least, the Overheard Quote Of The Day Which I Hope Was Not Spoken By Anyone Who Is Entrusted With Any Important Decisions:

"I don't think of coffee as burned; I think of it as fermented."

Could I make this stuff up if I tried? Possibly, but it would certainly not be as frightening.

The Literal Fad

My real entry is right here, but I just wanted to share this here inspirational chat I had with Andria this morning.

Background: It all started when we stumbled upon the topic of "slang" ...

Andria: haha.. what a dumb phrase that is. "Slay me"
Meany: I know, but it's so PERFECT!
Meany: Better than "you, um, make me ... laugh ... sometimes."
Andria: yeah, no shit.
Meany: We should take all slang phrases, and translate them literally, and use them that way.
Andria: Oh my god. People would have no fucking clue. Let's do it.
Meany: Like, instead of "that's so cool" it would be, "that's so below temperate."
Andria: Instead of
Andria: oh dammit
Andria: I was going to make a joke about "that's the bomb", but I don't know the literal definition of bomb. "wow, that's an explosive nuclear device."
Meany: Yeah!!
Meany: "You are awesome" = "You fill me with fear and dread"
Andria: Oh, man... I am so doing that.
Meany: Yay! Me too.
Meany: I'll tell my brother, too, he'll be so down with it.
Meany: I mean ...
Meany: He'll be so lower than average with it.
Andria: Dude. Sugary. We'll insert our foot into someone's buttocks all over the place with this.
Meany: Like someone who commits incest with maternal figures!
Andria: What?!
Meany: A motherfucker, dude!
Andria: I thought "word to your mother" but I can't
Andria: Oh, goddammit. I am so LAME

[edit: What Andria meant to say was, "I am so unable to walk."]

Meany: HAHAHAHAHA
Andria: That's so obvious now that I look at it.
Meany: So I really want to post this retarded -- mentally handicapped -- conversation and share the happiness
Meany: We could TOTALLY start a new CRAZE
Andria: Dude, do it. I post my chats all the time.
Andria: Hells yeah we could.
Meany: You should do it, too, because some people read you who don't read me ... we'll start by taking over Blogger, and work our way out!
Meany: We sit on the throne!
Andria: YESSSS!!!

So there you have it, my dear friends -- we are starting a New Craze, and you shall help us. And together we shall sit on the throne.

Goodwill on the outside!

This just in: It can always get worse

When you walk out the door in the morning and see this ...

... you know it's probably not going to be the best of days.

In fact, if days were actors, this day would be Jessica Simpson.

You may wonder why I even walked outside after noting that it looked eerily like the pit of hell. Well, I had to go, because the Toothache Which Is Capitalized Because It Was That Fucking Excruciatingly Painful had kicked in, and I decided that sobbing like a drunk and curling up into the fetal position probably wouldn't yield many pain-free results -- so I went to the dentist.

Yes, that's right. I braved the sandstorm for the dentist -- and for what ultimately became the first root canal in a series of many, leading up to some kind of wack-ass surgery that will allow me to not lose my tooth. Plus, the surgery is free, and I am a total sucker for free stuff. Call it my inner shoplifter.

Okay, so after the dentist had put some kind of Silly Putty-ish stuff on my nubby little toothling, I was free to go eat food without having to pause my chewing to whimper and beg for Orajel.

As I sat in the dining facility munching on my cheeseburger ("My lovely cheeseburger! I'll wait for you-ou, yeah, I'll wait for you-ou!") (never mind; it's a dork-who-loves-Veggie-Tales thing), my company's First Sergeant approached me, and after affirming that I, as a person, was not worthy of anything more than a dismissive, "I'll deal with you accordingly" -- due to yesterday's events -- went on his way, leaving me all sunshine and smiles.

"Sunshine" meaning "anger," and "smiles" meaning "bitterness," that is. But I'm sure you knew that.

I returned to my room o' Arctic temperatures, and finally laid down to sleep. After an hour or so of tossing and turning like I was trying to kick heroin, I managed to drift off for a few hours, until Boss knocked on my door to inform me that we had to report to the gym for mandatory company P.T. Which is exactly what I loooove to do after a day of a stranger's hands being in my mouth and being briskly belittled by someone who barely knows me -- bring on the physical pain!

The ab workout I subjected myself to was bearable only because one of my buddies, who happens to do a kick-ass Will-Ferrell-as-Dubya impersonation, was able to take my mind off of my elusive muscles ("You know what else is in the Axis of Evil? Sit-ups. Sit-ups are now in the Axis of Evil."). Good times.

So now, here I am at work -- or as I like to call it, Place Where I Sit On My Ass For 12 Hours A Day. I was able to nap for an hour or so, after which Husband called to convey spousal sympathy for my rotten luck. All in all, not so horrible. For here.

I'm probably just brightening EVERYbody's day, here, with all this happiness I'm spreading like so much confetti. Sorry about that. Let's wrap it up with a happy picture, shall we?

Anyone got a couple pennies? I hear the river Styx is great this time of year.

You know you smelled this one coming

So. Who's surprised that I have managed to get myself recommended for an Article 15 (best known for its work in the Uniform Code of Military Justice) for "disrespect toward a noncommissioned officer"?

Seriously, you guys. It was only a matter of time.

See, I have this thing where I hate to be talked down to, have my character attacked, and/or be lied about. I tend to react to any and all of those offenses via the Bitch My Man Ain't Yo Baby Daddy method of response, except that I have never mastered that nifty little neck-swerve move which indicates an imminent ass-whomping.

Of course, this is not always the most, ahem, proper or effective way of handling such situations. I have noticed this from time to time, when it has resulted in my having several very, very shitty days.

Apparently, I never learn.

Note to self and to all others like self: Do not tell recent-ex-drill-sergeants that they are a fucking liar -- even if they are, in fact, a fucking liar. It will not end well.

Life is about to be anti-happy, I fear.

But let's look on the bright side, shall we? For it turns out that Husband did not cheat on me. He just told me he cheated, "to see if [I] would confess to having done anything [my]self."

Hooray for mindfucks! Especially during deployments! Yay!

Okay, now I'm just being silly. Ha ha! Whee, I'm at the end of my rope!

Anyway, as a result of this "disrespect" situation into which I have involuntarily thrown myself (again) (dammit!), I've determined that I may not be capable of keeping my thoughts where they belong -- on the Internet.

Or, you know, in my brain. But whatever.

With that in mind (Was that a pun? If so, ha!), I may have to look into some kind of anger management-type shizznit if I am to make it through my remaining two or so years in the Army before I turn and flee back into the arms of La Vie Civilián. (Hey, Julia, how do you say "civilian" in French? Is it okay if I just Frenglish it? Like I did, with the accent-thingy? Oh well, too late now.)

Remember how I thought, like, stuff couldn't get any worse after the Husband ordeal? Yeah, we'll keep that in mind for the 2005 Bitter Irony Awards.

Have I mentioned "send liquor"?

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All righty, I now must get on with a li'l mission for which I was tagged by the aforementioned Qu'est que c'est:

Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:
The Beatles (Derr.)

Are you male or female:
Another Girl

Describe yourself:
Her Majesty

How do some people feel about you:
Fool On The Hill

How do you feel about yourself:
Getting Better

Describe your current significant other:
Long Long Long (!)

Describe where you want to be:
Octopus' Garden

Describe what you want to be:
Paperback Writer

Describe how you live:
With A Little Help From My Friends

Describe how you love:
Why Don't We Do It In The Road

Share a few words of wisdom:
Happiness Is A Warm Gun

There ya go! Shall I tag somebody? Hmm, I believe I shall -- Witty, Batten, Hiss and Andria.

Now get crackin'!

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Lastly, I borrowed a bike and rode to the pool this morning, and my ass now feels like it is trapped in a vice. And not the kind of vice we would associate with a weekend of uninhibited, kinky animal sex, either. Which sucks.

I am obviously not in the best of moods

Reason #58342 For Me To Stop Being Such A Tight-Ass And Purchase A Damn Haji Cell Phone Already:

It is not often pleasant to be awoken from sweet, sweet over-sleeping by your boss pounding on your door.

If you have a phone for him to call you on, he will not have to witness the sight of your zombie-face, accompanied by morning-after hair and lovely oh-look-at-these-clothes-I-just-pulled-from-the-bottom-of-my bags-and-decided-to-sleep-in jammies.

It is just not pleasant.

I admit that I stayed up later than usual, Yahooing away with Andria till the break of noon ("midnight," in my distorted night-is-day world), and probably am overtired anyway, due to the fact that Large Boring Building has been draining the life out of me for the past seven months. Also, my alarm clock gives the term "piece of shit" new meaning like Britney Spears never could.

But still ... exposing one's just-woke-up-not-quite-alive-yet persona to anybody to whom one is not married or related or even friends with?

SO not right.

For them, that is. Man, I pity the foo' who has to see me emerge from my nightly cocoon. I slither forth with a face-melting glare and probably equally-as-lethal breath, daring the individual to look directly at me, for fear of crumbling into a heap of burnt dust. Ashes, if you will.

Have I mentioned, it's not pleasant?

I hate that out here, there's no such thing as calling in sick to work.

I mean, there really isn't much of that back home either, since the Army doesn't believe in "sickness" ("Are you vomiting right this second? No? Here's your Motrin, get back to work."), but there, you at least can get a few minutes of shit-I-overslept lateness-leeway via "car trouble" or "traffic" or "there is a man with no head knocking on my front door."

Here, there is no escape. They know where you live. They may, in fact, live twenty feet away from you. And they WILL come a-knockin'.

It's almost enough to drive a girl sane.

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So, now that we know how my day/night/whateverthefuck started, let's talk about something completely unrelated to that!

There's this guy, a soldier, back in Joe-ja, who is on his way to prison for 15 months because he refused to go back to Iraq with his unit.

I have mixed feelings about this guy, and if you don't want to know what they are, you can go ahead and scrollllll on down. (I can drag out consonants like that because I'm special. Nyah.)

Now, this sergeant (whom I will not mention by name because I don't want that kind of Google hits) decided, after going to war the first time with his division, that he didn't want nunna dat no mo'.

Okay. Understandable. Who really does want to return to a third-world country where people wearing the same uniform as you are being slaughtered every day?

That was a rhetorical question. I'm sure there are a few nutbags who really want to come back, but I don't actually care who they are.

ANYWAY.

My beef is not with the sergeant's desire to stay home, but with his decision to JOIN THE ARMY and then desire to stay home.

Um, hi? The Army? That organization that goes to war sometimes? The one you joined, Mr. Quitty-Face? Right. You did it. On purpose.

Now, I am all for bitching and griping and complaining and being a big ol' whiny-ass, and Lord knows if I had the option, I'd go home in a heartbeat. However -- I would just not feel right about flat-out refusing to do the job which I signed up for, as soon as I got the feeling that it wasn't all that fun.

As much as I and many others hate it, we knew what we were getting into when we signed the dotted line. Sure, war sucks. If you don't want to be a part of it, there are probably better career choices for you to pursue than one in the military -- just a thought.

This soldier has been waxing all "War is Bad" since he returned, as though he is the first one to discover this.

This guy actually SAID, and I QUOTE, "I have learned that I have done things that are not to the benefit of mankind."

No shit, Sherlock! Did you think we learned how to fire a weapon as practice for the paintball range? How about low-crawling? Was that just a fun activity to take up in case we ran out of beer?

He prefaced that previous statement with, "I cannot tell anyone else how to live his or her life, but I have determined how how I want to live mine -- by not participating in war any longer, as I feel that it is stupid and also that it is against everything that is good about the world."

Okay, Mr. Enlightened, here's the deal: if you don't know what war is, and you decide to join the military, you are stupid. If you know what war is, and it's not altogether appealing to you, and you join the military, you should be prepared to have to do things that do not really float your personal boat. It's just the way things are.

The beauty of the Army is that you can always find someone to gripe with. If you want to be all "Fuck the Army!" you will not have to look far for a like-minded companion.

But there's a difference between "Fuck the Army!" and "Fuck you, Army!" -- that is the difference between being angry and being self-righteous. I can understand why this soldier didn't want to come back here, and hooray for him if he's happier in jail than in Iraq -- he got his wish to not deploy. I don't care what his reasons were, and shit, I sure wasn't rooting for him.

What I'm trying to say is this: If you jumped into the lake on your own, don't start crying when your clothes get wet. If you didn't know that jumping in a lake would make your clothes wet, you're an idiot. And if you think you should have the right to dry off quicker than anybody else who jumped into the lake, you're an asshole.

Everybody get my drift?

Great. Now let's move on.

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Come to think of it, I don't have much else to say today. I think was going to say something about tattoos, but honestly, I'm spent. Talking about that dickwhack really drained me. Dammit.

Oh well -- I'm on guard duty tomorrow night, so I'm sure I'll have plenty to say after that.

Have a pleasant Friday, and think of me during Happy Hour.

You lucky bastards. Fuck the Army!

Did I just write something?

I am taking a break from listening to the new Dane Cook comedy CD, because I've found that I can't guffaw uncontrollably and do anything else at the same time. Still, don't ever tell me I can't multi-task -- this guy almost caused me to rupture several internal organs, wet my pants, and lose consciousness due to lack of oxygen, all in the first ten minutes of his routine.

Dane Cook: I love you. Do not ever stop talking.

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All of you people out there who go running "regularly" -- you might be onto something. Because, OW.

My body has this thing where it likes to not move. Or, if it must move, it likes to be carried. This is fine with me; I like to make my body happy.

Running two miles is never a good way to make my body happy. It is a terrific way to make my body say "AAAAGH! Go to HELL!" and punish me severely for even thinking about moving at a pace faster than Corpse On Valium miles per hour.

Which is why I couldn't sleep today. Every position I tried (and I'm very creative, as evidenced by my all-time favorite of "knee grazing earlobe") was accompanied by feelings of pain which can usually only be brought on in the event that one is being trampled by a herd of crazed hippopotami.

Finally, I got up, creaked geezerly over to our camp's Internet Cafe (read: room containing approximately six functioning computers), and amused myself by reading diaries, writing e-mails to people about how much pain I was in ("It HURTS. So BADLY."), and setting up a Yahoo instant messenger account.

All very productive activities, especially seeing as how I can only use instant messenger from those computers. The Department of Defense has this weird "thing" about using its computers to talk to "outsiders." Apparently "diaries" are "okay," though.

"Whatever."

So, yeah, thank the pain for the fact that you may now possibly be fortunate enough to espy my Yahoo-y self cruisin' around the dubya dubya dubya.

And that's pretty much where I was going with that. Stupid sleep-deprivation.

:::::

News from Husbandgate: things are getting more confusing by the day. Not necessarily bad, just confusing. As in, my brain may have just given up and gone to find some other skull to occupy.

If I make it through this deployment without developing some kind of disorder where I just spontaneously start doing backflips around the room while grinning like an idiot and singing expletives inserted into Broadway showtunes... that would be very nice.

Otherwise, hey -- at least you'll always know when I'm in the room.

And all that motherfucking, jizz-drizzling, monkey-humping jazz.

And now, back to meaningless drivel

Just to clear one small thing up -- we will not be keying/beating/wreaking havoc on Husband's car as previously planned.

Yet.

You guys will be the first ones called, though, should he re-piss me off, so keep those bats polished!

To everyone who has taken the time to leave me little words of love and devotion and wisdom over the past few days of So This Is Hell, please know that I love you back! If I haven't dropped by to thank you personally, it is because I am busy trying to download porn, and that takes a lot of time. Nothing personal.

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Dear John Grisham,

Whoever told you that you could write anything but legal thrillers was obviously playing some kind of cruel joke on you and all of your unsuspecting fans. Also, smoking lots of free crack. Please stop this recently developed trend of writing books which suck.

"The Firm"? Fantastic!

"The Rainmaker"? Captivating!

"The Pelican Brief"? Superb!

"Bleachers"? Made me want to gouge my eyes out!

Please, John Grisham. Don't you know that once I begin to read a book, I am compelled to finish it? Don't you know that once I have enjoyed, say, ten of your books, I should be able to expect the others to not cause me intense boredom to the point of becoming distracted by my own breathing?

Let's talk about "A Painted House." Did it have a plot? Or did you just feel like rambling about cotton farmers for a couple hundred pages, and when you were done, just gave it a name and sent it off to the publisher? Because when I finally finished it, the first words out of my mouth were, "Fuck you, John Grisham!"

Usually, that's not a sign that I am pleased with the story. Usually, it means that I continued reading it solely to see if it would ultimately fail to make me want to burn it and forget it ever existed. Usually, it means I was sorely disappointed.

Dammit, John Grisham! You used to be so rockin', for an ex-lawyer! Now go back to the Dirty South, find you a trial, and write about it!

For the love of God, go!

Love,

That Chick In Baghdad Who Used To Like You

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I had to re-take my Physical Fitness Test today, due to the fact that a drunken quadriplegic would have performed better than I did during my first one.

Of course you'd be THRILLED to know how I did, wouldn't you?

Let's just say that if my sit-ups event was a John Grisham book, it would be "Bleachers."

Yeah, that pathetic. I'm not even saying how many I did, because I've blocked it out of my mind. [Shudder] I will say that my abdominal muscles are apparently on strike or hung over or maybe dead, because they were of no help to me this morning. Unless my liver had a gun to their head (entirely possible -- you know how livers can be), that is just not acceptable.

However, I did improve my push-ups -- BARELY -- without developing the usual Floaty Arm Syndrome.

And my run? My two-mile run, which I previously (less than a month ago) ran in just under twenty minutes?

16:07, baby!

Yes. That is right. You may cheer now, for I have run my best two-mile time EVER, and therefore am not officially the Queen Of No Muscles. Until tomorrow, when the horrible aching death hurt will set in and I'll be all flopping around like a spastic otter.

Ah, exercise -- where even success is painful.

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Overheard Quote Of The Last Thirty Seconds, spoken in monotone by an unknown individual passing through the building:

"I am a conditioned soldier working for Colonel Taylor. I have no emotions ..."

Maybe you hadda be there.

Putting the insanity on pause

I have bathed in the fount of your wisdom, and I am now allowing it all to soak in.

I've had several conversation with Husband, in which I have discovered

- he did, in fact, cheat on me -- several times
- he is sorry
- he is quite fucked in the head
- he is a pain in my gorgeous behind
- he may be worth sticking with, but then again
- he may not

It might seem crystal clear to most of you that I should just ditch the poor, confused bastard and move on, but here's my thought:

No matter what I do, I'm still in the desert until January. I have five months to figure out what I want. In the end, as I've mentioned to a couple of you already, I will be able to look back at this and laugh -- either alone, or with him.

Because, really -- who needs regrets?

In the interest of keeping my soul from fleeing my body in terror due to the tremendous strain I have recently placed on it, I will mull this all over in my exquisite brain ("Ze leetle gray cells, zey never fail me"), and the decision will be made when I feel I am fully able to make it wisely.

Thank you for all of your advice -- I am definitely one of the luckiest girls to ever consider divorce. And I know that should I decide to go that route, I shall have a horde of volunteers to accompany me as I get astoundingly smashed and/or laid and/or remarried in a drunken haze.

That is just a lovely thought.

And, THANK YOU to everyone who has offered to send items with which to assist me in the getting-through of days. I heart you all!

Oh! By the way?

He's getting rid of the car.

Damn STRAIGHT.

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Now, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to move on to bigger and better things.

Who wants to see an Apache (which I thought was a Blackhawk because I'm a 'tard), of the sort which wakes me from my slumber eighty jillion times per day?

Everybody: "Me! Me! I wanna see the annoying fucking helicopter! Me!"

Okay! Here ya go:

Just because, you know, I was bored. And it was there.

Aw, hell, here's a few more random shots of lovely desert scenery:

Here we have the sunrise (or sunset? Who even knows, anymore?) as seen from my tiny trailer-porch, as I blearily search for my room key in the same pocket that I keep the camera in. The blimp-looking thing up there is what we use to make people feel like they're always being watched -- when in fact, they are.

The dusty sun points the way to dinner. That attractive hunk o' building on the left is our dining facility. There is a sign on the front which says "Feeding the D0g F@ced Soldiers" -- which makes me feel so very, very feminine.

I think this speaks for itself, but I will speak for it anyway. "Hey, um, did you guys mean 'modern' as in, 'more modern than the rest of Iraq'? Because that would be the only instance in which this sign would not be more grossly, absurdly out of place than Richard Simmons at an NRA convention. I'm just saying."

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Well, wouldja looky there? I have not completely lost my mind over the past few days!

I'll be damned.