It's not exactly Pepperland ...

Dear Blogger ...

2005-10-01T22:53:00.000+03:00

You've pissed me off. Your silly "Down for Maintenance" screens make me want to slap elderly people. I'm going back to my home (go ahead, say it -- "Go to your home! Are you too good for your HOME??"), where I can actually update WHENEVER I WANT TO.

Love,

Meany

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If you think this template is badass (which I totally do), go visit Jordan and tell him that he rocks, because he made it for me, and he certainly does rock.

The Mood abides

2005-09-30T01:04:00.000+04:00

I am in a Mood.

To clarify, a Mood (capitalized) is generally not the type wherein flowers bloom, sunbeams dance, babies giggle, etc.

No, no ... a Mood is what happens when I want to cause certain people great amounts of pain, but for some reason -- like "the law" or something -- I am unable to do so.

The Mood usually begins when I wake up. Every day since I arrived here, I've woken up pretty much hating humanity. In fact, my first word upon waking was "FUCK" for a few months running, until I decided I just didn't have the energy to speak that early in the day.

However, most days I'm able to pull myself out of the Mood. I come to work, sit down at my desk, turn on some music, and just ignore the humanity I hate until the Mood goes away and I am able to function like a normal person who doesn't want to throw heavy things at her co-workers.

Sometimes, though, my co-workers/bosses feel it necessary to prolong the Mood.

I don't know why, honestly. Maybe it's because they are also in a Mood, and wish to share it with me. Maybe it's because they're tired or they have a headache. Maybe it's because they don't like me. Or maybe it's because they're all shriveled little asstards.

Who knows?

All I can say is: we're all here, we're all miserable, we all want to go home. Why inflict more misery on each other? You leave me alone when you're pissy, and I'll do the same for you.

I bring this up now because it seems that one of my bosses just can't get it through his head.

I mentioned that when I come into work, I sit down and turn on some music. No particular genre, just whatever I happen to feel like hearing. Since my CD collection is pretty diverse (i.e., anyone looking at it would have a hard time figuring out which personality was my dominant one), what I happen to feel like hearing could be just about anything.

Country? Maybe.

Alternative? Maybe.

Gangsta g-dawg rap? Maybe.

Folk? Maybe.

Classic rock? Maybe.

Completely random mix? Probably.

Suffice it to say, there are not many people who could look through my CD case and not find something they like.

Except for two of my bosses.

One of these I have previously dubbed Annoying Boss. I haven't had to deal with her since I switched to night shift back in June, but she managed to leave a grating impression on my brain, because no matter what music I turned on, she hated it and It Must Be Turned Down Now.

And although I always just wanted to respond by dealing her a smart knock on the face, I always turned it down.

My secondary boss on night shift (whom I believe I mentioned yesterday, for a similar reason) is the same way, except he actually enjoys '80s music, and sometimes a few minutes of Ace of Base. (Which, yes ... I know.)

Also, and remarkably -- he strongly dislikes Annoying Boss. With a passion.

So -- unless The Sign is being seen or we are wondering if it's entirely possible to count 99 Luft Balloons in the sky -- as soon as the tunes burst forth from the speakers, he's going all Granny on me: "Turn that down! Put on some headphones! Blah blah blah! I'm man-PMSing! All the time!"

Side note: There is a reason I do not put on headphones. That reason is, I hate them. They drown out my surroundings, which freaks me out, and I can't hear the phone ring (which, since answering the phone when it rings is about 85.7% of my job, is not altogether okay). So no headphones for me, thanks.

Anyway, tonight I was rockin' out with the Cranberries, doing the whole yodeling-in-my-head thing along with Dolores "The Human Vocal Chord" O'Riordan, when my boss, he approacheth.

"Turn that down or put on headphones! Cranky cranky cranky!"

[Sigh] "Fine. [turning that down] Is this better? Seeing as how, at this point, I can hardly tell that instruments are being played?"

"As long as it doesn't go any higher than that."

Now, did I mention that I was in a Mood? A Mood which, with the help of Dolores and her vibratto, was slowly dissipating, but which suddenly returned in full Mood Mach 3? A Mood which has been known to overpower the angel on my shoulder which tells me when to "Just shut up. Shut the fuck up and do not speak. I am telling you. Do Not Say That"?

Well, I was. And the angel got its ass kicked.

And I muttered, "Geez, you remind me of [Annoying Boss]."

You would have thought I'd just told him to go fuck a strip of Velcro or something, because this look appeared on his face which I can only describe as the Look which goes perfectly with the Mood.

He said, "Just turn it off. Turn it off now."

Now we have battling Moods. Whose Mood will win? I bet it's the Mood with the most rank!

"What? I turned it down."

"Off."

Apparently, he is going to be like that.

So I stood up, turned off the music (goodbye, Dolores!), and said, "You know, maybe I should just go to sleep. That seems to be an approved course of action around here."

And then I walked out.

When I came back in fifteen minutes or so later, he said nothing.

Tee hee! We'll see what happens!

But needless to say, the Mood abides.

Baghdad -- the jet-setter's best-kept secret

2005-09-29T00:46:00.000+04:00

Way #328476 to Annoy the Living Shit Out of Your Boss:

Watch your brand new Bob Dylan documentary just loud enough for Dylan’s voice to jerk him out of his deep sleep during every musical performance, but quiet enough to allow him to slip back into slumberland between songs.

Because, really, what can he do?

“DAMMIT! Why are you shirking work in a louder way than I am??”

“Umm …”

“Shut up! Turn that shit off and go to sleep!”

“Roger, sir.”

Come on, now. The chances of that happening are, what, 60/40?

Most likely he’d just hand me some headphones, lean back and close his eyes.

See, working nights at a worthless job in an office building in a combat zone can have its benefits!

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I want to thank EVERY SINGLE PERSON I READ for updating today.

God only knows what I would have done for the past five hours without you all.

But you'll have to forgive me if my comments kind of suck. I get burned out after a few journals. After a while, I'm just, "Hahahahahaha. Fuuuuuunny." Or, "So sad. [Sob]" Or, "Interesting. Hmm."

So, yeah, if there's a comment from me like that on your site, that's because the sector of my brain which thinks up witty comments just needs to sleep sometimes. Nothing personal.

I would just refrain from comment (which I do sometimes), but I'm just OCD enough to have to write something but what should I write the creativity is GONE. GONE BUT MUST WRITE AAAAH!

I'm sure you understand.

[EDIT] Okay, I don't ALWAYS comment. But usually that doesn't mean I'm not reading. I still love you guys, but sometimes (and this is going to be hard to believe -- I swear it's true!) I just don't have anything to say, or can't think of a way to say it. And that's just the way it goes. Smooches! [/EDIT]

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Did you know that Iraq is the Next Hot Tourist Spot?

No??

That's so funny; I didn't either!

But apparently, the good folks at the Bradt Travel Book Publishing Place thought they had the scoop, back in 2002.

Yep, it seems that they instinctively knew how many people were going to want to flock to the Cradle of Civilization in the next few years, so they sent one of their top Travel Book Writers to this beautiful country o' evil dictatorship to do a little write-up.

The finished product was this:

Not too shabby, if I do say so, myself. But somebody thought its original copy needed a little bit of touching up. So they made a few changes, and went to press ...

That's right!

Welcome to Beautiful Baghdad, now 100% Saddam-free! We invite you to visit our lovely palaces ... but you might want to watch out for those holes.

I suppose not EVERYONE's existence needs to be justifed ...

2005-09-28T00:01:00.000+04:00

I did an experiment tonight.

I came to work ten minutes early, sat down at my desk, and decided to see how long it would actually take me to complete my nightly duties.

First, keep in mind that I work roughly twelve hours a night (my shift goes from 8:30 p.m. to 8:30 a.m., give or take), and I generally stretch out these duties over that entire time in order to avoid being burdened with whatever other useless tasks my supervisors dream up.

So, tonight I thought I'd see exactly how much time I really needed to complete my job.

And I figured it out!

Wanna know how long?

Actually, you might want to prepare yourselves for this. Go ahead, take a few deep breaths, I'll wait.

It took ...

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

Yep. Really. Seriously, read it again!

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

So what am I doing for the other eleven hours and fifteen minutes of my shift?

Well, I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "ducking a ground."

And sometimes "fleeping."

And sometimes "pluthing."

I feel so needed.

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Speaking of useless tasks dreamed up by my supervisors -- waaaay up there [pointing] -- one of them must have had a bitch of a nightmare last night, because there are now approximately thirtrillion boxes of little information cards on our table, and guess who gets to be a part of counting them out and preparing them for distribution to people who will probably just throw them away immediately?

You guessed it! I can't wait!

This is going to be SO MUCH FUN. And USEFUL. And PRODUCTIVE. And WORTHWHILE. And INTERESTING.

And A GIANT LOAD OF BULLSHIT.

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I had a lovely conversation with the dashing, debonaire, valiant and verbose Michael last night, in which it was established that if Husband does anything else of the "stupid asshole human tricks" variety, Things Can Be Done about that.

Do you hear that, Husband? If you are indeed reading this for the second time in your life?

Eh. Probably not.

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And now, because I have nothing else to say and I think it's about damn time I posted a photo here, I give you:

Random Artsy Night Shot of the Row of Trailers in Which I Live

Thank you! I'll be here till January! Be sure to tip your waitress!

Pain pain paaaain ... pain of fooools

2005-09-27T00:37:00.000+04:00

I was under the impression that once I passed my Physical Fitness Test (thus proving that I was not probably going to spontaneously collapse into a gelatinous heap, I suppose), I would no longer be bound to that tool of Satan, the Mandatory Physical Fitness Session of Gayness.

Well, I was wronger than truckload of dead babies about that one (hi, freakish Googlers! Move along, now!), because due to Night Boss and his Dazzling Display of Logical Reasoning (good name for a second-rate jazz band, dontcha think?), I should, "Hmmm ... just go anyway."

I've still managed to avoid it pretty well, thanks to my ever-deepening well o' excuses (i.e., "My alarm clock didn't go off," "I went there, and nobody showed up, so I left," "I had cramps" --showstopper!), but today I guess my imagination died, because I ended up "just going anyway." Dammit.

There were three (3) of us.

Three.

Tres.

Tre.

Trois.

Ee-thray.

THREE FUCKING PEOPLE.

And I was one of them. Thanks, Night Boss! I'm sure glad you're more of an idiot than the bosses of all but THREE PEOPLE.

So, yeah, we ran around the base of The Hill. That's short for The Only Hill In Iraq, And It Has Thirty Jillion Fucking Signal Towers On It Which Will Make Us All Sterile.

It's only a mile around, but since my legs still haven't fully recovered from the Plunge of Idiocy (I know! I told you guys it was bad ... my thighs are still fucking maroon from the bruising), I was in a decent amount of pain.

I was able to tell when we quickened the pace, because instead of feeling "ow ... ow ... ow ..." it became more like, "ow, ow, ow, ow, let's, slow, down, ow." And that was fun.

What I'm trying to say is, if you guys can think of any good excuses for me to skip this bullshit on Wednesday, then Friday, then Monday, and so on ... please, don't be shy.

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Husband is keeping himself busy at home:

I got your car to stop making that really awful noise it had been making. Ijust had to tighten a few things. Im not sure if you got to here it when youwere here but it was pretty bad. I think it was doin it before you left ondeployment. Anyway thank Hey-Suse that I aint gotta hear that nomore.

That sound (it was like a whhiiirrrclunnkwhiirrsccrrrclunkwhhirrrsputtersputterDIE) had been pissing me the fuck off ever since the last road trip Husband and I took back in January, till I came over here and immediately forgot about it.

But it's nice to know that poor little Bruce (yes, my car's name is Bruce. He's a drag queen. What?) is once again happy and in reasonably good health, for his 135,000 miles.

And in THREE AND A HALF MONTHS I get to drive him again! Thank Hey-Suse!

Circles, lines, and Anger Management

2005-09-26T01:17:00.000+04:00

A couple people asked about my bitchin' tattoo (one of EIGHT; I am such a badass!) yesterday, so here's the deal with that (and I don't feel like posting the picture again, so just go ahead and scroll down if you want to see it).

It's supposed to be a giant marble, with a perpetual line going through it, and a chrome ring around the perpetual line.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because I'm on crack," I smile, patting you fondly on the head.

Ha! I joke. Actually, when Husband and I went to premarital counseling (I know! Funny, huh? But we totally did!), we were told that women think in a circle, and men think in a straight line.

"Cool!" we said. "So that's why we always disagree!"

(Because I'd thought it was just because I'm always right, and he's always wrong. But that cleared it up.)

Later that day, we were talking about the whole thing, and he said something to the effect of, "Both a circle and a line go on forever."

To which I replied, "I love you in a circle!"

He came back, "And I love you in a line."

So there we have the circle, and the line.

The marble's just there because I needed something to show that the line went on continuously, and I thought that would do the trick.

I love the thing. But most people just say it looks like a mushroom.

So fuck them.

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Which reminds me, I haven't talked about Husband in a while. So let's talk about him!

Husband has a toothache (HA HA, BITCH) and doesn't know why.

His theory?

"That whore who cleaned my teeth a couple weeks ago poked me really hard, and I think she poked a hole in my tooth. I've never had any cavities before, so it's probably that whore's fault."

Funny, I always thought the term was "dental hygienist" ... but whatever. I'm sure "whore" is just as acceptable. Let's hear it for the loose women working in Army dental clinics! Hopefully they're generous with the Percocet!

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I know some of you are wondering if I'll ever have to go to the infamous Anger Management classes my command sentenced me to back in August.

Yeah, well, I have no idea.

It's been more than a month since the punishment was handed down. Apparently, I am so completely unable to control my temper that everyone above me seems to have forgotten that I Need Help.

About a week ago, Night Boss returned from his two weeks of leave and asked me, "Hey, did you ever go to those Anger Management classes?"

I answered, "Well, no ... but I haven't gotten in any trouble for anything since then. Maybe they decided I didn't need the classes, after all." [according to CAPTAIN OBVIOUS]

"Hmmm," he said (he precedes just about every statement with "Hmmm"). "I still think you should go."

See, this is the way Night Boss operates.

I present a situation to him, and tell him exactly what I think should happen, based on logic, common sense, intuition and all that lovely stuff.

He looks me in the eye as I speak, nods -- making me think he understands -- and waits till I've finished making my (correct) point.

Then he proposes a course of action which not only is (usually) disagreeable, but also which flies miles over the head of logic, common sense and intuition until What We Should Do is only a tiny speck, far far away from What We Actually End Up Doing.

In this case, given the facts:

A) The punishment given me was ludicrous to begin with
B) I haven't committed any offense since the ludicrous punishment was handed down
C) If the person who originally decided on the punishment has forgotten about it, it probably isn't too big of a deal

My idea was simply, "Let's just not bring it up unless they ask. Unless [insert dripping sarcasm here] you feel that I pose an immediate threat to this office, and may possibly judo-CHOP your throat if I am not properly instructed on how to refrain from doing so."

I'm guessing he fears the judo-CHOP, because the next night, he was filling out paperwork for the classes.

But I've still heard absolutely nothing about it. And I'm not surprised, for this is the way the Army works.

So we'll see what happens. And who knows, maybe I'll just judo-CHOP him anyway -- you know, for the hell of it.

Because around here, we have to make our own fun.

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LASTLY! (But not leastly!) I owe some mad propz to Jordan for helping me make this page extra booty-ful for you guys. So go say hi to him, and tell him what a kick-ass template-booty-fier he is.

Aydeeose compadrees!

For-ev-ver ... for-ev-ver ... for-ev-ver ...

2005-09-25T00:16:00.000+04:00

Since absolutely half of nothing happened to me today, I had a chance to do some uninterrupted pondering.

After I spent awhile wondering why peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were so hard to come by around here, and another few minutes on the mystery that is the Olsen twins' celebrity (WHY? They are UNATTRACTIVE and TALENTLESS), I turned my attentions to my surroundings.

And I thought ... why does this seem so normal to me?

The twin bed in my Army-issued trailer-room ... the shower shoes always next to my door ... the M16 propped against my wall ... the locker I keep my clothes and belongings packed tightly inside ... the duffel bags, partially packed with extraneous gear, stowed away above the locker ... the uniform I put on every, single, day ... the cafeteria-esque dining facility ... the Large Boring Building where I spend 12 hours every day ...

I feel as though I have been here FOREVER.

And I don't mean FOREVER in the "really really really fucking long time" sense, either. I mean it in the more Twilight Zone-y, "but haven't I always been here?" sense. Like Home is just some magical, mystical place that's in my memory, but doesn't seem real.

How fucked up is THAT?

But don't worry, America -- I'll never let go ... I'll never let go!

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When I get out of the Army, I'm sure I'm going to have to get some kind of unpleasant job and be someone's peon for at least a little while.

But whoever's peon I am, I hope they don't mind that I like to dance around the office to the Dirty Dancing song.

Because honestly? Doing that, just now? Totally made my day.

That is to say --

I've ... had ... the time of my li-i-ife ...

I've NEver FELT this way beFORE!

Yes, I SWEAR!

It's the tru-u-uth!

And I owe it all to YOU-OU-OU!

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Before I dance off into the sunset, I have a little treat for my favorite Pie Rat -- the clever, witty, brightly-colored, playwright-y Poola:

Arrrgh! This be me best pirate face, matey!

And OKAY! By popular demand ...

The things I do for you people!

Thing #1287462 Which Pisses Me Off

2005-09-24T01:15:00.000+04:00

Night Boss has many little idiosyncrasies which make me want to chop him up into little pieces.

Although all of these are more or less equally homicide-inducing, there is one habit in particular which makes me want to take those little pieces and cook them up and feed them to cheetahs or other hungry carnivorous beasts.

Needless to say, that one is the one which occurs with the most frequency. In fact, he will probably do it while I'm sitting here writing this.

Enough suspense? Okay, this is what he does ...

I am sitting at my desk, pretending to work on something very important. Night Boss approaches, stands about two inches behind me, and, about twelve years later, speaks:

Night Boss: "Specialist Meany, did you do that superfluous task I asked you to do moments after it actually needed to be done?"
Me: "Yes. I already put it on your desk/e-mailed it to you/looked at it, snorted, rolled my eyes and begrudgingly did it."
Night Boss: "Oh." [standing there]
Me: [ignoring]
Night Boss: [standing there]
Me: [ignoring]
Night Boss: [still standing there, apparently asleep or in some kind of trance]
Me: [feeling uncomfortable, yet saying nothing]
Night Boss: [STILL fucking STANDING there, possibly comatose]
Me: [freaking out]
Night Boss: [probably dead]
Me: [about to throw computer at him]
Night Boss: "Okay." [walks away}
Me: [internal voice: WHAT THE HOLY SHITTING BASTARD FUCK]

He does this. All. The. Time.

You'd think I would get used to it after a while, but no, it just never loses that seemingly-friendly-co-worker-who's-about-to-murder-you-at-your-desk feel. Sometimes he throws a disturbingly distant, faint smile into the mix, and that's when I just want to run and hide.

And you guys think I'm a wacko.

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Halo Askew asked me very nicely to post of picture of myself doing a particular strange and unnatural thing with a particular type of snacky food. So I did it, but this does not make me her bitch.

No, indeed. Definitely not her bitch. Heh.

Oh, and I know it looks like my left eye is being bathed in Pepto Bismol, but that's just left-over burst blood vessels from the Plunge of Idiocy off of the Baghdad Hilton's high-dive.

It's actually a big red spot which gives me a bit of an Evil Eye effect, but I Photoshopped it a bit so it would look less like my eyeball is actively bleeding.

For YOU! I do this all for YOU!

They better have smoothies in heaven

2005-09-23T00:01:00.000+04:00

Today I learned that Australians make the angels weep.

Beep! Beep! Beep! [me backing the Random Statement Truck right the fuck up]

At our dining facility, we have an ice cream bar, and that totally rules.

I don't usually get ice cream, because there's this thing called "fitting into my uniform pants" that I like to be able to do, but there are a lot of people who enjoy it on a daily basis, because their metabolisms are not a vindictive whore.

But there are also smoothies made at the ice cream bar, and since a strawberry-banana smoothie is a festival in my mouth, I get one for every dinner.

I don't know why they aren't offered for breakfast -- apparently "yummy fruit drinks for breakfast is good" is as foreign to the cooks as "chopped-up onions in my mashed potatoes is bad."

Anyway, I was standing at the ice cream bar, waiting for my smoothie to handed to me, and I struck up a conversation with a chaplain who happened to be there waiting for the same thing. (Smoothies! Approved by men of God everywhere! Get yours today!)

Now, when I talk to the chaplain, I try to be a little more polite than I would be if I were talking to any old body -- i.e., I tend to refrain from the very heathen "Where in the MOTHER FUCK is my SMOOTHIE??" and favor the more holy "If Jesus loved me, I would be sipping my delicious fruity beverage right now."

You see, in my mind, offending a chaplain is like kicking God in the face. And God can Smite, so I steer clear of that. Nobody wants to be Smote.

But as I was Christianly conversing with the chaplain, this Australian soldier (Of course I thought of you, Hiss and Sally! Smooch!) walked up to get a bowl of ice cream.

"How ya doin', Padre?" the Australian boomed.

"I'm just fine, how are you?" replied the chaplain -- a very soft-spoken man.

"I'm eatin' a bowla bloody ice cream on the U.S. government's dime! I'm great!" the Australian grinned. "Now all I need's a fuckin' green card!"

And he walked away.

What would YOU do?

Because I burst into very unChristly laughter. And I may be going to hell now.

And since we all know that the angels weep when people go to hell, I can say that Australians make the angels weep.

Ha! Never doubt my broad generalizations! I know exactly what I'm doing, when I pull them straight out of my ass!

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US soldiers' Iraq books show humor, horror and anger

Look at all the competition I'll have for my tell-all memoir about The Deployment!

I mean, these people are writing poignant, emotional, controversial war diaries. What do I have?

A journal that covers everything from "FUCK Kuwait!" to "FUCK Baghdad!" to "FUCK the Army!" to "I NEED TO GET LAID" to "Can I please go home now?"

Yep. That there's a bestseller. Damn skippy.

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Brilliant Overheard Statement of the Day:

"I need to find some trash bags. Otherwise, the people in my section are gonna start throwing trash in the ... fucking ... trash cans."

A child of Army Logic, he is!

Isn't milk supposed to do a body GOOD?

2005-09-22T01:20:00.000+04:00

I just took a sip from a box o'milk -- actually "Awal Skimmed Milk Plus" (with an expiration date of January 21st 2006, I don't know or want to know what exactly is being "plussed") -- and I have to say it is really, really, really nasty.

Like, if I had a choice between drinking this "milk" or drinking, maybe, diarrhea, I would need a minute to think about it.

I mean, it is gross. I have never had this ... stuff ... sans cereal before now, and it reminds me of a mix between what I know "real" milk is supposed to taste like, and what I imagine "raw" sewage is supposed to taste like.

Where does it come from? Not a cow, that's for damn certain. Unless it's a mutant cow, which has been doing lots of illegal drugs and swimming daily in a lake filled with nuclear waste. Not a goat, because I've heard that goat milk does not taste like rotten throw-up. Whereas, this milk does.

Which brings me to my question -- how SAD is it that I have nothing better to talk about than assy milk?

Very sad. But true. So, here are a few pictures from my trip back from vacation the other day.

"DO NOT PASS MILITARY CONVOY," huh? Sounds good to me, Mr. Gunner!

I just get a kick out the fact that the direction to "Airport" is the same as to "Jihad."

The road to "home" looks so welcoming, doesn't it?

Oh! and I must share with you a conversation in which I blurted out what is probably the most politically-incorrect statement I have ever made:

Somebody: "This one time, I saw a family of Haji midgets at the prison, all standing in a line up against the wall."
Me: "You know what you could call Haji midgets?"
Somebody: "What?"
Me: "Hajits! You get it? Like hobbits? Short people? Only, the Iraqi kind!"
Somebody: "You need help."

Anyway, I'm off to do some research on the effects of Milk Of Mystery Mammal on the human stomach. Wish me luck!

[vomits]

The fun, it never stops

2005-09-21T00:55:00.000+04:00

Before I can fully and finally say goodbye to the madness and NON-DRUNKEN revelry which was my vacation from monotonous dronedom, I just have to show you guys one more thing:

He picked me up like that FROM THE GROUND.

Are there an openings in the "He-Man" career field? Because, LOOK AT THAT. Good GOD.

In other news, my legs are looking like giant eggplants as a result of the Plunge of Idiocy I took off of the 35-foot high jump.

I can totally see myself going nuts like that dude in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and covering an entire room with the words "FEET POINTED DOWN."

You know, just in case that idea isn't already branded into my soul due to the fact that whenever I try to sit down, it feels like somebody has been beating the backs of my legs with a shovel.

I am so smart. Please remind me not to reproduce.

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I got some news today that is so good, it doesn't even need a proper segue.

In fact, it is SO GOOD, I think the only way I can properly proclaim it is via the Voice of God.

"Thou shalt never ever be required to guard the sidewalk AGAIN, thus sayeth the LORD. For I have finally convinced thy superiors that the guarding of the sidewalk is RETARDED, and thy superiors have widened their eyes, and woken up, and smelt the proverbial coffee. Thus sayeth the LORD."

And I believe that says it all, except maybe, YAY!

:::::

After being gone for four days, I returned to find so many PACKAGES from YOU GUYS that I thought maybe Christmas had come early, and I was the only one who benefited from it.

I still think that, actually. I mean, wouldn't you, if you got stuff from you in the mail??

OBSERVE!

Violet apparently knew -- without me even TELLING HER -- that the only thing my uniform needed to be complete was some blue foam hair. She must be psychic!

You would be even more convinced of this if my camera had not died (possibly of fright) after the foam hair had been documented, but suffice it to say -- FOAM HAIR, people! Do you not SEE the foam hair?? This is a woman after MY OWN HEART.

No Good Daddy hooked me up with a totally pornish-yet-not-actually-porn book full of fantasy fodder for my eventual reunion with Husband. He also contributed a CD filled with enough '80s classics to keep me dancing if I wannoo until I am no longer physically able to do so.

Halo Askew sent so much of my favorite junk food that I will probably go into sugar shock before I get the chance to take a Pringles duck-lips picture. For this I (and my ever-rotting teeth) are eternally grateful. I mean, you just can't get a Nerds Rope in Baghdad!

I received from Poola my long-awaited HMS Pie Rat hat, which, as soon as the stupid camera gets charged, will be set atop my new foam hair (FOAM HAIR!), captured on digital film, and treasured forever. Gar!

Also, I got a bunch of the CDs which I ordered for nostalgic reasons a couple of weeks ago, namely, MTV Party To Go Vols. 8 and 9, the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack, and The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill -- time to get gangsta/rock 'n' roll/R&B!

Oh! I also got a CD I ordered on the recommendation of the lovely Wench, that of the groovalicious Nedra Johnson (whose site, by the way, is blocked from my viewing by the DoD's filter of "Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual Interests." Don't ask, don't tell!).

Anyway, this chick can SING, yo! Go buy her stuff! Now! It's on Amazon!

While you're off doing that, I will be right here, playing with my foam hair (FOAM HAIR!) and contemplating whether or not I'll be able to accomplish the feats depicted on page 69 of my new book.

Which, really, should be a good time.

It's a vacation, bitches!

2005-09-20T01:38:00.000+04:00

I am going to run out of stupid ways to injure myself sooner or later.

This is one of many VERY TRUE statements which I could make regarding my past three days of vacay-shun, with a few others being:

I absolutely HATE spending my days just laying in, next to, and/or in the vicinity of a beautiful, temperate, clear, refreshing pool.

Sleeping in is stupid and should be outlawed.

I most certainly DID NOT DRINK ANY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. AT ALL. BECAUSE THAT IS ILLEGAL AND WRONG ALTHOUGH NOT QUITE SO BAD AS STARTING A GIANT WAR.

Ahem.

Now that we've got that out of the way, I'd like to call your attention back to the first point. That point being, my score on the Gracefulness-o-Meter for this weekend would have been right around that of a coked-up mastodon. I have spent most of today poking and prodding various areas of my body to see if they do not hurt, but sadly, this process has mainly just resulted in the discovery that my own involuntary yelps of pain are more entertaining than I would have expected.

It's a good thing, too, seeing as how I failed to make the discovery, in a timely manner, that jumping off of the high dive ("All 35 Feet Currently Under Construction! Keep Off! Yes, Even You, Girl Who Has Definitely Not Been Consuming Alcoholic Beverages!") in the middle of the night without following the proper jumping procedure (namely, feet pointed down) would probably not be too dandy of an idea.

Also, the discovery that if you must fall down, it is best not to do it near spiky bushes. This goes along with the discovery that spiky bushes want to make you cry.

May I again mention that I WAS NOT CONSUMING ANY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES AT THE TIME OF THESE EPIPHANIES. Hello, Big Brother! No drinky-drinks for me, no sir! I Love The Army!

Anyway. I obviously took several metric fucktons of pictures, so rather than just telling you all kinds of stories and then showing you said pictures, I will do for you, my devoted ducklings, a little-bitty Pictorial Tale O'Fun And Much-Needed Vacation In Baghdad.

(By the way, if anyone can help me figure out how to make these pictures look like they are not pixelated in a Going Through A Time Warp In A Bad '70s Science Fiction Movie sort of way, I would be very grateful to you. Although I would not necessarily give you head.)

I walked into the ex-presidential hotel which now serves as an Army resort, and the first things I saw were the largest chandeliers I had ever been that close to without having to pay anybody large amounts of money to walk into the room containing them. They took my breath away, and HA HA if you now have that song in your head, because I totally do, too.

Then there was the Pool Area, which we will just call AaaaahLand, or Heaven, whichever you prefer. Either way, Saddam evidently knew that being an evil dictator necessitated keeping his visitors nice and cool and happy in the sun's heat if he ever wanted them to trust him long enough for him to turn on them.

The reallyreallyreallyreally tall high-dive there -- the one which is visibly taller than the sun? -- that is the one which turned me into The Walking Welt. At least, I am just going to go ahead and blame it on the board. It's not like I can blame it on the ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES WHICH I DID NOT DRINK.

And that last room, there? That was my Sleep Room, wherein I did NOT pass out in a drunken stupor, EVER.

Now. Just in case you are feeling the urge to writhe with vacation-related envy due to the total pimpness of my weekend paradise, I'd like to present a few of my favorite "I am SO still in Baghdad and how much does that SUCK" moments:

Please observe -- random bombed-out building behind pool, military helicopter jauntily zipping overhead, and fabulous balcony view consisting of none other than the Army's favorite non-weapon-related deterrent ... rusty concertina wire!

I spent most of my time with these three fine, upstanding individuals, whom we shall just call Hannah, Todd and Mark, for those are their names. And if they hate me for posting these pictures of them, well, that's too bad, but they'll never know 'cause they don't read this. Which settles that.

Have you noticed AaaaahLand in the background and/or foreground of most of these pictures, by the by? We figured that it was the best place to be, since indoors is not known as an ideal place to work on a tan, unless you are doing it the cheating way. Which I know none of you do -- RIGHT?

Hannah and I also participated in Sumo Wrestling, which could more accurately be called Getting Into A Large, Heavy Suit And Waddling Around In Front Of A Bunch Of People Who Will Not Help You Up When You Fall on your Back Because They Are Too Busy Helplessly Peeing Their Pants With Laughter.

But we got our revenge -- we judged their "big splash" contest. I of course, was the Pain Judge, which meant that I gave more points when the contestant emerged from the water hollering, "Fuuuuuuck!!" preferably while bleeding. As you can see by the "8.5" I am about to give out in the above photo, the corresponding jump probably went something like this:

or this:

And there was much rejoicing.

NOW! Now we see several instances where NONE OF US HAD BEEN DRINKING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES.

We learned how to hold cigars in or near our mouths without feeling the need to vomit heartily ...

And then I learned what happens when you are gullible, and respond to "Just take a big pull on it" with "Okay! I will do that!": you experience the desire to put said cigar out on your instructor's eye or other highly sensitive body parts rhyming with SHMESTICLES.

They remained blissfully ignorant of my evil schemes, though, since I've learned a lot from not ever actually attending the Anger Management classes which my commander deemed necessary.

And now, my crowning achievement ...

"Sing us a SONG, you're the Piano Man! Sing us a SONG, toNIGHT!"

I ADORE the karaoke, folks. Especially when I am NOT CONSUMING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. As one can plainly see I am NOT DOING, by my tendency to NOT BREAK FORTH INTO DANCE.

So all righty, then! That's enough of the NOT ALCOHOL-INDUCED madness for now, I should say! If you absolutely insist on seeing more pictures, I invite you to visit my special flickr page which contains a couple more, a couple different, a couple of the same.

But most of all, it DOES NOT INCLUDE ALCOHOL.

"Which are we saying, hello or goodbye?"
"I think it depends on the context. Just keep smiling ..."

:::::

I must add that the stupendous War Cry Girl informed me of my keychain victory, and how fucking cool is that?? That means that you all gave me all kinds of vote-tacular loooove, and it makes me want to shower you with gifts of the invisible and free variety.

Also! Ploppy has bestowed upon me one of the greatest DiaryLand honors ever -- I am on Quoted.

For real! Right now! I so very am! And that just makes me happier than Britney in a Cheetos factory. Which is kind of sad, because I bet you anything that Britney's weekend DID INDEED INCLUDE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES.

Congrats, Britney, you total lush. Here's hoping your kid's meals don't all taste like Nacho Cheeze.

:::::

And there you have it, folks -- my vacation, and how it ultimately boiled down to NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES CONSUMED.

Laundry stinks (in this case, literally)

2005-09-15T01:35:00.000+04:00

So, I was sitting in my nice, quiet, very own room today, reading the April issue of Maxim (Featured This Month: Boobies! And Jokes! And Boobies! And People Who Got Hurt And Want To Show You Their Scars! And Boobies!) and chewing on a Freeze Pop through the plastic so I wouldn't get Freeze Teeth, when I realized that I have no clean clothes left. And I became annoyed.

My own fault. Yes, it is, I know. Whatever. I am waiting for my clothes to evolve, and become smart clothes which sort and launder themselves. We do not want to hinder the process, do we? No, we do not. So we do not wash the clothes, for the sake of Science.

Except that now we are almost out of underwear and black socks and brown t-shirts, and this is a little bit of a problem. Because the staples of our daily outfit are underwear (unless we are feeling saucy), black socks (unless we are feeling deviant and mischievous and wear white socks instead) and brown t-shirts (which we really can't go without no matter how we are feeling, because people who have functioning eyes would notice and that would be bad).

If we were at home, we could simply throw the clothes we need in the washing machine, and then in the dryer after that, and then we would have clean clothes, which we would eventually pull out of the dryer as needed because we hate to fold clothes oh so very much.

(By the way, what is this? Why have I assumed the royal "we"? Let us stop that right now.) (D'oh!)

Anyway, I can't do that here. Here, there is a Convenient and Free Laundry Service, which is only Convenient because it is Free, seeing as how it takes three entire days which I do not have for them to wash my clothes (since I've decided, fuck that evolution thing) before I can pick them up and get them all worn again.

Also, when you drop off your laundry with these people? You must remove EVERY SINGLE GARMENT (yes, even those) from your laundry bag and COUNT IT so they can mark it down. This is anti-fun even if you are the only person turning in laundry at that time. If there happens to be several other people crammed into the tiny little room all at once, and your heaping pile of smelly clothes is getting dangerously close to touching somebody else's heaping pile of smelly clothes, you may as well go ahead and let out that fart you've been holding in, because you are now standing in front of a pile of your dirty dainties. You are saying, "Look! I have lots and lots of underpants! And socks! And I am waiting for them to evolve! Obviously!" when you dump out your bag. And there is no nervous explaining about why you have thirty-seven pairs of socks and ten t-shirts, or no bras (you are a FREE WOMAN, DAMMIT), or whatever, because the employees do not speak any of the languages you speak (English) and frankly they look as though they are just bursting with hilarious foreign commentary, common theme: You Are A Nasty Ho.

So I put it off, the joyous laundry experience. And put it off, and put it off, and maybe then put it off some more.

And then I say, "Oh, fuck." For I am leaving for the Baghdad Hilton in two days, and it now looks as though I will be going without clothes. Which would be fun, although not legal, and really not very safe, considering the male-to-female ratio around here is something like 398249324401274363 to 1.

Now I have to go and hunt down some Tide, and a bucket, and some motivation, so I can wash enough bare (har!) essentials to get me through four days.

Or maybe I'll just wash my bathing suit.

:::::

But first! I must be giving props! To my mom! For she sent me these:

And they are all gone now, washed down with Red Bull, which gives me wiiiings to fly straight to the bathroom as it goes through me like water.
Yum! Thanks, Mom!

Also many thank yous and smooches must go out to War Cry Girl (of keychain fame) and Misty, who have sent me some wonderful items recently, from which my face and my brain will greatly benefit. Thank you thank you thank you!

You guys all rock. Thanks to you, my birthday is EVERY day. And when I write my best-selling book about how much Iraq sucks whale dong, I will thank each of you individually on the FIRST PAGE.

Word, g. Peace outside.

Adventures in NonsuckyBirthdayLand

2005-09-14T00:02:00.000+04:00

One certain, unedited sign that Husband and I, despite all our troubles, are truly meant to be together:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!! Also, I would like to say that I hope you have a greatday. Your bitrthday is a apecial time of year. When you sit back and reflecton all the wonderful times youve shared. A time of happiness and fond memories.

---OK Enough of that crap. We all know that bogus lines like that are for theunrealistic hopeless souls who will eventually die and rot, and thats it justrot. Nothing else, other than to become muddy entrails that course their waythrough a worms digestive tract.

And that, my friends, is true love. Only an excerpt of true love, yes, but true love, nonetheless. Isn't it beautiful?

:::::

I actually had a fan-damn-tastic birthday, considering the circumstances.

Nonsucky Birthday Event #1: I met up with a buddy of mine from another camp who happened to be in the area, and we had a grand ol' time bitching about Iraq and comparing the way our two camps differ in smell -- his is a musky variation of "burning, excrement-coated rubber" and mine is a more pungent "rotted asshole" -- which was, overall, just a welcome break from my normal routine of "Work, eat, passthefuckout, repeat."

Nonsucky Birthday Event #2: I received several truly house-rockin' goodie packages in the mail, containing the following items ...

From Andria!

From Husband! (!!!!)

Nonsucky Birthday Event #3: My trip to the Baghdad Hilton is BACK the fuck ON! Ye Olde Supervisore apologized for "dropping the ball" on that, and said I'm going to be able to go ahead with my mini-vacay as previously scheduled. So, hellz yeah, g! No guard duty on the 17th -- instead, I shall be enjoying my little self beside the pooooooool, and not having to worry about a stupid alaaaaarm clock, and whyyyyy am I dragging these wooooords out? Maybe it's just fun.

Nonsucky Birthday Event #4: All these birthday greetings pouring in from YOU GUYS. I mean, holy expanding comments section, Batman! I feel so very, very belov-ed. And that is just very, very, nice. Thank you, you awesome motherfuckers. [tear]

Nonsucky Birthday Event #5: Good LORD, I'm already up to number five?! I think maybe that karma you all were talking about could be totally kicking in right now, because FIVE NONSUCKY THINGS, you guys. I don't even remember the last time there were FIVE NONSUCKY THINGS. It be, I say, it be a miracle! Anyway, number FIVE is the beautiful, wonderful, sweet, make-me-grin-for-days letter I received from Husband -- who is really not all so bad as he was being before. (Shut up. You haven't seen the Letter O' Happy.) And so, yay!

So, that's it for the birthday events. I'm actually pretty shocked that I've managed to go this entire day without somehow getting on our camp's loudspeaker system and announcing to anyone within a three-mile radius that TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY BE NICE TO ME AND GIVE ME STUFF AND FEED ME CAKE IF YOU ARE A HOT MAN.

Because I am that type of birthday-haver. Back in the day coughlastyearcough I pretty much advertised the fact that today, or tomorrow, or next week, or last week, is/was my birthday, and therefore I am/was royalty (officially) at least until I got tired of the attention coughnevercough.

As of right now, I've done well -- only every other person I've spoken to has heard the news, rather than the usual every person. Self-discipline, here I come!

And now, it's over. But it's a beautiful thing for me to be able to say sincerely -- it's been fun.

Today is my birthday! ("We're gonna have a good time!")

2005-09-13T00:55:00.000+04:00

You know, I try to avoid discussing the news, but this just struck me as too ridiculous to ignore:

Al Qaeda leader in Iraq accuses US of using poison gas in fight ...

Dear Al Qaeda,

In order to clear up any confusion, maybe we should just go ahead and blow up a bunch of random people with no clear objective for doing so, since that's obviously a much more acceptable alternative.

All our best,
USA

P.S. We are currently listening to Britney Spears' "Toxic," and dedicating it to you. Smooches!

:::::

Thank you lots and lots to all of you who left the loving comments yesterday. They made me all happy and stuff.

Know what else makes me happy?

No, no -- other than wild, uninhibited, sometimes-experimental, marathon monkey sex.

Having my OWN ROOM again!

Don't get me wrong, Roommate and I were totally perfect as living partners -- not only did we have all the essentials in common, but we also worked opposite shifts, so didn't have time to get sick of each other -- but I am a huge fan of privacy. "Privacy" meaning "nudity." Meaning, "all the time."

I know there are some who are completely with me on this. There is nothing better than being able to wander around your own personal space, entirely clothes-free and aerated. Sometimes it's even nice to wander around other people's personal space in the same manner. You know, just for fun.

But since that second option is not available to me at the moment, I'd like to take all possible opportunities to revel in the first.

So long, Roommate! Have fun back in the States!

I'll just be sitting here ... naked ... for a few more months.

Hate and Remembrance

2005-09-12T01:18:00.000+04:00

Observe -- my very first hate-comment!

At 11:42 PM, She Devil In High Heels said…
Your eloquence is astounding as is you social conscience.Although I cant expect more from a broad who can balance a spoon on her “nose” and kill innocent people. Dont ask ? Dont Tell? Doubt there is any need in your case...

I feel so special.

Oh, and her (his? its?) site (real? fake?)is called Swastika Eyes, if you feel inclined to pop over and check out her/his/its social conscience -- which, I'm sure, is much more astounding than this broad's.

:::::

Speaking of social conscience ...

I know it's September 12th here, but for most of you it's still the 11th, and I started this entry on the 11th, so I'm-a write a little bit about that shit that went down in The City four years ago.

If you had told me that morning, as I was on my way to my community college for American History class (let's hear it for irony!) that the following events were going to occur, I probably would have looked at you as though you had just regurgitated your breakfast and offered to feed it to me from your mouth:

1) "When you get to class, you will be informed that a couple of planes just knocked the fuck out of the World Trade Center."

2) "As a result of the World Trade Center having the fuck knocked out of it, America will start a war in Iraq, which will still be going on four years from now."

3) "Oh, and Iraq? Four years from now? You're gonna be there."

Yet, it happened.

And it sucked.

And here I am.

Which just goes to show us all ...

Anything's possible.

Take that however you will, and by all means -- discuss.

I was obviously meant to be a pessimist

2005-09-11T00:10:00.000+04:00

[EDIT] If you are one of the kind and generous people who has sent me wonderful stuff in the mail, PLEASE e-mail me with your real name and diary/journal/blog name, so I know who it is that I'm getting packages from when they arrive! I want to be able to thank you properly, but I can't do that if I don't know which diarists/bloggers/what-have-you to associate the names with. Ya got me? And once again -- THANK YOU! You rock my socks. [/EDIT]

:::::

I noticed in my little comments section that most of you think Karma is on my side, due to my giving that snooty assbite his money back.

Well, maybe it's Opposite Day for Karma, because yet another chunk of idiocy has now been flung at me, in the form of "Oh, do you need some time off? Aww ... TOO FUCKING BAD."

About a month ago, I received an e-mail from my first-line supervisor, forwarded to me from our company's personnel office, stating that I was slotted to go on a little four-day vacation to a nice hotel-ish area set up in Baghdad's green zone. Just about everyone here is supposed to have a chance to go there at least once, as a way to unwind and release any tension which could possibly blossom into fratricide.

The e-mail said I was scheduled to go to this place -- which we shall call the Baghdad Hilton, because, why not? -- on the 16th of September. Which made me say, Hooray! because that's right after my birthday, and I could pretend that I was going on an Exotic Celebratory Birthday Jaunt to the cradle of civilization. Also, Holy SHIT I Need A Break.

So I've been kind of looking forward to this nice long-weekend-type thingy for the past couple weeks now. I've been all, "Well, I feel like going absolutely nuts and possibly elbow-dropping a few of my colleagues, but I suppose I'll hold back ... because I can just disappear and forget about them (for ninety-six fantastic hours!) in a few days."

But now my sunshine has been stolen. My bubble has been burst. My porridge has been eaten, and the clouds have been brought around to rain on my FUCKING parade.

For today, I received a guard-duty roster. Before I opened it, I thought, "Ha! This must be a mistake, for I am off to the Baghdad Hilton very soon, and am surely not on this duty roster!"

But, alas, I was on the roster, scheduled to pull guard duty (whee!) on the 17th.

"Never mind!" I thought. "I'll just point out this grievous error to my supervisor, and he will fix it, as his job is to take care of his soldiers."

As it turned out, I could have believed more accurately, "I can just bribe the government to get me out of here, using millions and millions of dollars in Monopoly money to 'get my point across.'"

I called my supervisor over, and told him, "Hey, Supervisor, I think there's a mistake on this duty roster, as I am supposed to be at the Baghdad Hilton on the 17th."

He reacted as though I had just said, "My computer has just come to life and asked me to be its mother."

"The Baghdad Hilton?" he asked, perplexed. "When are you going there?"

Of course, at that point, I knew what the outcome of this conversation would be.

"On the 16th," I sighed, "according to the e-mail you sent me a few weeks ago."

Continuing perplexed look from Supervisor.

"You know," I prodded, "the one wherein you also had requested a date for yourself to go to Qatar for your mini-vacation? The one YOU SENT ME. That e-mail."

Supervisor frazzledly shook his head. "Why didn't you remind me?" he asked.

Well, gee, Boss, I must have stupidly assumed that you were, you know, keeping track of your two soldiers. I'm sorry I didn't think ahead and read your mind, do your job for you, etc. I was So Wrong.

"Well, I figured that since you had notified me of the dates, that you were tracking them ..."

"Have you done any of the paperwork? Have you turned in the leave form for it?"

"Um, noooo ... I didn't know that was something I needed to do."

In my head: Yeah, usually that would be something my SUPERVISOR would inform me of. But whatever.

He just shook his head again.

"I don't know. You should have reminded me."

I sigh.

"Worst case scenario," he said, "you'll just have to do the guard duty, and go to the Baghdad Hilton another time."

Great! That's AWESOME. I am TOTALLY FINE with that. Doesn't bother me AT ALL. In fact, I really WANT to stay here and pull guard all night instead of relaxing poolside, with no thoughts of an alarm clock or people telling me what to do. This is FANTASTIC. For real!

Because judging from the way things usually work out for me, I have obviously taken Supervisor's "worst case scenario" to mean "what is most likely going to happen and you can't do anything about it muahahaha!"

Which is just dandy.

:::::

In other happy news, I've decided that Blogger eats dingleberries for breakfast, and I will be moving back to DiaryLand as soon as I can find a template that kicks major booty. I hate losing all my comments to all my entries every time, but fuck, I am so not down with this stupid strange entry-box and weird-ass photo-placement method and such.

It just ain't coo, g.

:::::

HOWEVER! There is a ray of sunshine which has poked itself through the dreary gray clouds which are my recent pissy mood.

And that ray of sunshine would be ...

MASKS!! To make my face un-yucky! And to make Roommate's face even more un-yucky than it previously was! (That lucky bitch) WOO HOO!!

So, yeah.

We shall now work together toward our ultimate goals of clear skin, and time off, and eventually getting the FUCK out of the Army.

Ya see? That, my friends, is good leadership.

Take the money and ... give it back

2005-09-10T01:24:00.000+04:00

Turns out that the $2,150 which PayPal told me had been posted to my account yesterday ... had actually been posted to my account.

I almost stood up on top of my desk and did Dave Chappelle's little "I'm rich, beyatch!" cackle, but then I realized that whenever I stand up on top of tall, unstable, furniture-type items, I tend to fall off of them very comically and painfully, so that idea was nixed.

Instead, I double-checked Ye Olde PayePale Accounte to see if no shit, the money was still there, and -- whaddya know! -- no shit, the money was still there!

At that point, I was pretty stoked, because with $2,150, just think of all the porn you can buy -- I mean, all the hurricane victims you can help!

Except that at that very moment, my conscience attacked.

"Hey, you!" it said, because it can never remember my name, due to it being an old stoner's conscience which I acquired (used) from eBay a couple years ago. "You better give that poor dumbass his money back!"

"Nuh-uh!" I replied, because you can talk back to used stoner consciences. "Not gonna do it. Not at this juncture."

But ultimately, after my conscience went ahead and passed me a tiny bowl and we hung out for a while and giggled and ate some Cheetos, I decided I might as well Do The Right Thing.

Ya hear that, all you finger-pointing tsk-ers? I e-mailed the dude back and told him I had his money, all right? Because since he was apparently of the Dumber Than A Single Jelly Bean category of human, he was probably still sitting around waiting for me to send him his antique bed and table.

A few hours later, I received this e-mail:

Hi,

I am very sorry but I made a payment to the wrong person - I used your email instead of the correct one given to me by the seller of the antique bed and table I bought. Could you please refund me the $2150.00?

My email address is: totaldumbass@sendsmoneytostrangers.com

Thanks very much!! Sorry for the trouble.

El 'Tardo

I responded,

Yes, of course! I had a feeling that that was probably a mistake.

Good thing I wasn't in dire need of $2,150 ... (ha ha)

Have a good day!

Because I am always looking to make friends with stupid people, and stuff.

So I tried to get on PayPal and refund the guy's cash.

Whoops! No can do! This is the Government, and the Government's internet doesn't really like PayPal too much. Sorry, you'll have to try to access your account via the regular Iraqi internet! [snort]

Frustration sets in. After hours of attempting to refund this money, I said, "Hey, I have an idea! Fuck it!" and went to sleep.

I arrived back at work tonight at 10 p.m. (no, I wasn't late, they told me to come in at ten), and saw this e-mail:

Hi,

Sorry to bother you again but I checked PayPal this morning and the $ isn't back yet. I don't mean to rush you but the people selling the antique bed and table put it back on the web as "for sale" and if I can't wire them the money soon, someone else might buy them.

Again, I am very sorry for all this trouble.

Thanks again,

Stupidity Personified
[S.P.'s phone number]

No problem! I understand the rush! This bed and table must be very, very important to him. I replied:

Dear Careless Money Thrower Around-er,

I'm sorry! I'm trying to get the money refunded, but the thing is, I'm in Iraq, and the internet here is kind of shady (up, then down, then up, then down, lather, rinse, repeat, etc.), plus PayPal's website is going up and down as well, so I've been having a hard time logging in. I'm trying, trust me!

If it makes you feel any better, the people who read my blog think you're trying to scam me out of my SSN and identity and such, and now I can reassure them that my identity is safe. So you can rest easy knowing that, right? Even if it's not a bed and table?

Again, I'm sorry; I'm really trying. I'll get it to you as soon as
possible.

[Me]

In other words, "We cool, G. I'm on it. Just chiiill."

And I get back on PayPal, which I am now cursing with all my might, to the point where if PayPal had a firstborn child, said child would be hideously ugly and possibly leprous.

Not even five minutes later, I receive this:

Dear [Totally Awesome And Understanding And Honest Woman Of Great Beauty],

Thanks! I can assure you that this is just an honest mistake. I really am trying to buy an antique bed and table. The phone number of the people selling the bed is: [numbersnumbersnumbers] and the name of the person to talk to is [somebody whose name resembles mine].

BTW, I've been on PayPal site many times this morning and I've had no problems.[emphasis mine]

Thanks again,

Now Graduated From Idiot To Snide Asshole
[NGFITSA's phone number]

Notice how he just had to throw that last line in there? Did you SEE THAT? That line which I read beTWEEN, which pretty much said, "Bitch, I don't believe you. Gimme my money before I pop a cap in yo' ass"??

Well, I noticed it. And since I was too annoyed to remember to click the "Copy To Sent Folder" box, I don't have my response saved, but it was basically something like:

Dear You Pushy Moron,

Did I not mention that I am in a third-world country? A place where the internet is not always dependable? A place where I strongly doubt YOU are, because if so, you would not be as desperate to buy fancy antiques as you would be to buy body armor? Yes, I thought I did mention that.

I am doing my best to get you your money, you superficial mean-comment-writer, but I'd like to mention that this whole thing is your fault, and you are lucky I have the means, not to mention, the desire, to refund your money. So I am doing it as quickly as I can, and you will get it eventually.

Enjoy your frivolous purchases, and I will get back to my job now.

[Me]

Shortly after I clicked "Send," I managed to keep PayPal running long enough to refund his money. I haven't gotten a response back yet.

Why do I have to be such a kind, honest person? I totally should have just donated his stupid money to charity and been done with it.

Grrr! People so suck.

Except you guys, of course. You rule. Because you have been voting for me in the keychain contest. I looooove you!

I am so bored it actually hurts

2005-09-09T01:13:00.000+04:00

I got an e-mail tonight telling me that somebody PayPal'd me $2,500 for an antique bed and table.

I would be all, "Yay! Somebody bought my bed and table! SUCKER!" except, I'm not selling one. Or the other.

So now I have to contemplate ... is this spam? Or did somebody actually send me some cash, and expects me to send him furniture? I guess if it's the latter, I could send him my Army-issued two-drawer nightstand, and tell him that it's a Transformer nightstand, and if he can't make it look like a bed and a table, he's obviously doing something wrong and that's not my fault.

But that really wouldn't be right. I mean, any idiot knows that only the THREE-drawer nightstands are the Transformer kind. Duh.

Anyway, has anybody else had this happen before, with the PayPal saying Mr. Phil Careless Dumbass has just sent you a buncha money? Because if not, holy shit this guy is retarded. Almost as retarded as that horrible NCO to whom we are trying to do mean and vengeful things.

:::::

Speaking of that horrible NCO to whom we are trying to do mean and vengeful things (you know you love that segue -- you would totally stalk that segue, due to the fact that you love it soooo much) ... man, some of you guys are pure evil! I can tell you have just been waiting on pins and needles for an excuse to give a random stranger the uncontrollable shits. That is a little bit sad, I have to tell you.

Also -- thanks! I'll keep those in mind!

:::::

I'm kind of bored today. I keep just zoning out in front of my computer, snapping back to consciousness every few minutes to see another body lying on the floor.

KIDDING.

Sheesh, what do you think I am?

I never leave the bodies laying on the floor. That's just lazy.

:::::

Okay, then. Here's a picture to brighten your day:

The message this sign is trying to convey ("The terrorists want your used tissues!") is what keeps everybody (read: everybody in charge of me) super-duper paranoid about every single piece of paper in our office.

Like, if I write down "[Incompetent Co-worker's real name] is almost as attractive as a rock" on a scrap of paper, I am not allowed to throw that piece of paper in the trash can. Why? Because the terrorists might be rooting through the trash can, of course! If they were to actually GET THEIR HANDS ON a piece of paper which bears the name of somebody who works in our office, they could wreak havoc, dontcha know? So I have to throw it into the Burn Box, and then every couple of days I have to burn it, it's a witch, burrrn it!

Ahem. Sorry.

Now, here's where Army Logic kicks in:

Every two weeks, our office puts out a newspaper. Every two weeks, one can open up a brand new paper and see not only Incompetent Co-worker's name, but also the name of every single person who works in our section, and their job title, and their contact information.

And where do the newspapers go when they've been read? Why, in the trash can, of course! The Pit Of Perusal! The Terrorists' Treasure Trove! The -- never mind.

I'm sure I wouldn't care about this issue so much if I wasn't the one who had to stand there next to the Burn Barrel's leaping flames, deftly maneuvering my fragile hand-skin so as not to get burned when I toss several hundred shredded Post-It notes into it and then have to chase after them as they fly through the air because the wind apparently likes to take Post-It notes and spirit them away from their fiery death.

Yeah, I guess that picture didn't really do anybody any good after all, did it?

Ah well. That's what ya get, when I'm bored.

:::::

Thanks to all of you who have been scurrying over to vote for me in War Cry Girl's keychain contest!

To those of you who haven't voted yet ... GO, already! What are you waiting for, me to drag you there via web telekinesis? FLY, my pretties!

What have I ever done to them?

2005-09-08T01:06:00.000+04:00

I've been wondering lately ... is there an Insufferable Prick gene?

I'm serious, I want to know! Is it a nature/nurture thing? Is it a conscious decision? Do certain individuals just wake up one day and decide, "I think that I am going to be a mean, intolerable, irritable, pretentious, overbearing dickhead for the rest of my life"?

Because, I am truly baffled. I mean, I can understand acting this way at certain times, under certain circumstances -- like, if somebody just came up behind you and jammed their elbow into your kidney, then I would expect some kind of retaliatory 'tude. But what I'm trying to figure out is what would make a person jam an elbow into somebody else's kidney in the first place.

Not that this happened to me. Hell, if it did, you probably would be able to hear me whining and moaning about it from here. No, my latest brush with inexplicable asshole-ness was a bit less tactile.

Many of you are well aware of my recent non-judicial smackdown due to the fact that when somebody lies about me, I tend to call them a fucking liar, no matter what rank they are wearing. (Note to new readers: this, apparently, was the Wrong Thing To Do. Go figure.)

Well, I happened to relate this incident to another noncommissioned officer with whom I'm acquainted. He seemed sympathetic to my cause, but after the conversation ended, nothing else was said about it. Fine with me, let it die.

(Speaking of which: nothing at ALL has been said of my supposedly-obligatory Anger Management Classes. Maybe they ... forgot? NOOO, not in the Army! They never forget things like this! No way!)

Anyway. A few days ago, the aforementioned NCO happened to pass by My Sidewalk (accompanied by one of my bosses) while I was on guard duty. Now, this is where the "Why? How?" question comes into play, because this outstanding Sergeant First Class, knowing my previous situation, decided to stride on by my guard post as I was momentarily distracted.

I thought, "Um, hi? Does he not realize that he could potentially be a terrorist, and therefore needs to present identification to me, the Supreme Sidewalk Guardian? He ought to know this. It appears that he may be just fucking with me. I shall call out to him in a 'Get your fat ass back to my checkpoint' manner." Which I proceeded to do. Except for without the "fat ass" part.

He turned around, walked back, and began to berate me on my lack of attentiveness (oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that checking the IDs of the two people you were walking with was considered "lack of attentiveness," but hey, no biggie!), get in my face, and yell at me as though I had just said his face resembled a poo stain (which it kind of does).

And people, I am here to tell you right now -- I DID NOT GET ANGRY. On the outside. I did not get angry on the outside. I totally wanted to punch him in my head, but I did not even do that. I took his verbal beating like a little bitch (as we lowly specialists are expected to do, of course), and as he walked away, I made nasty faces at his receding hairline and thought this would be the last of it.

Oh ho HO, that was not the last of it! No sirree!

Yesterday he was at my PT test. I tried to just stay out of his way, as I tend to do with people I despise yet cannot physically hurt, but he managed to plant himself directly behind me in line.
Why would he do this? Heh. To more conveniently be an asshole, of course!

But he had to be discreet about it -- after all, picking on somebody who hasn't done anything wrong might be an approved course of action when nobody else is around, but in a crowd of people, it seems the key is to try and prod that person until she says something remotely worth pouncing upon.

So he tried to joke around with me, be all buddy-buddy and such. This was annoying. As in, if we were in a bar, and he tried to do this, I would cause cheap lager to cover his face. That kind of annoying. So I ignored him.

His response to me ignoring him was to demand my attention, then make me answer him with "Yes, sergeant," "Roger, sergeant," and variations thereof (because I was being so extremely disrespectful when I told him I was not strong enough to hold his feet down while he did his sit-ups) and pretty much attempt to embarrass me in front of my peers by talking down to me.

Knowing me as I believe you do, you'll all agree that it is impossible for me to be embarrassed by brain-damaged people. Angered, maybe, but never embarrassed. Still, the whole ordeal got me thinking about just why anyone would purposefully try to make life just a little bit worse for others, specifically others who don't deserve it.

And I also kind of wanted to know if any of you have any creative revenge ideas, for I am sure if we collaborate on this, he will soon be wishing that he had paid more attention in school -- namely, the class on How To Kiss Your Subordinates' Asses So They Don't Collaborate With Their Internet Friends To Plot Your Reputational Demise.

So -- suggestions, anyone?

:::::

Oh and while you're mindlessly web-surfing, go cast a vote for me in War Cry Girl's keychain contest! You know you want to.

For shizzle.

"Push-ups, sit-ups, two-mile run; we do PT just for fun ..."

2005-09-07T00:10:00.000+04:00

Although it feels like my body has been crushed by a truck, I am not going to complain any further about it.

No, no, I understand -- go ahead and take a minute to recover from the impact of that statement.

So why am I not complaining? Um, derr, it should be totally OBVIOUS.

I FINALLY PASSED MY FUCKING PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST!

I am now deemed Physically Fit, due to my 37 push-ups, 53 sit-ups, and 16:27 two-mile run; and am just aching to resume my Regular Fitness Routine of rapidly morphing into a sluggish lard-ass for the next six months, until I am re-tested.

If I had eaten last night before passing out for twelve straight hours, I might have done better, but the thing is, sleep is totally more important than food in cases where getting food requires getting dressed and walking somewhere. Getting dressed and walking somewhere (outside! ew!) is a definite no-no when the alternative is snoring like a congested lumberjack and possibly holding sleep-conversations with Roommate.

Me (asleep): "What are you doing?"
Her (awake): "Packing. I'm almost done."
Me (asleep): "Potatoes ... is there gravy?"
Her (awake): "Are you asleep?"
Me (asleep): "Funyons! ... [snore]"

These are the fun stories I get to hear upon awaking. Why miss out on them, just to lose valuable sleep-time shoveling nutrients down my throat?

Exactly.

:::::

Speaking of Roommate, I realize some of you may be wondering why I, too, did not get swiftly pregnant so as to disentangle myself from the sticky web which is the Army. The reasons are mainly that 1) Hi, can you see me with kids? SCARY, and 2) Husband would totally not go for it.

She is not going to receive any sort of Army discipline, seeing as how she appears to have gotten pregnant while on leave (good timing!) and is on birth control (no, I don't know which kind, but it obviously DOES NOT WORK).

So there's that ... the lucky fucker. Literally.

:::::

Here is some real shock and awe for you guys -- today, when I walked outside? I was chilly.

It was only SEVENTY DEGREES by 8 a.m. This is out-fucking-standing.

Fall is here!

:::::

Incompetent Co-worker returned from his two-week leave a couple days ago. He was telling Ex-Neighbor and me about his adventures, and although I cannot possibly relate them in their entirety (as I would continuously burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter which would thwart the attempt), here are a few choice phrases gleaned from Incompetent Co-worker's Wild 'N' Crazy Vacation:

"I spent about $900 for the rental car ... it was a 2006 Ford Taurus."
[He is 23 years old, people! And he was in SOUTH BEACH for the VMAs. In a FORD TAURUS.]
"So then these hot Cuban chicks were hitting on me, but I think they were prostitutes, and I told them they couldn't handle my Latino style."
[He is half ... some kind of Hispanic ... and immensely unattractive. Plus he speaks more German than Spanish, as he was raised in Germany. Heil, Latino style!]
"I got laid!" [shocked expressions from listeners] "Well, the girl at the strip club told me that if I paid off the bouncer, what happened in the VIP room would stay in the VIP room."
[Is an explanation really necessary?]

And finally, as he was finishing up his breakfast/story ...

"Aw, man. I think I just ate some fork."

Could. Not. Make. This. Up.

:::::

Hey now! It's time for fun pictures!

As I mentioned, Ex-Neighbor and I went on an excursion to the pool the other day, because she had just gotten back from a four-week jaunt up to a different camp, where she did all kinds of adventurous broadcast-journalisty things.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. But she is my friend, so, not so much jealousy. I am totally happy for her. As I am totally happy for Roommate.

Anyway. Here is the result of her playing a little game with me called "You So Wish You Could Hate Me Right Now, Since I Just Got Three Large Male People To Jump Into The Pool And Make A Gigantous Splash Which Practically Drowned You As You Laid There Harmlessly Sun-Bathing":

I become drenched.

Observe: Large Male People laughing unabashedly at my expense. Ha, ha, ha. Sooooo funny.
Also observe: I have a weird red mark on my ribcage. I know not from whence it came. Possibly it is some leftover EVIL from Ex-Neighbor's devious plan.

Here you will see what is commonly known as a Total Moron, who has jumped into the nasty lake in pursuit of his crappy rubber volleyball. Since all Total Morons deserve to be mocked in every possible forum, I present him to you here:

"Look at me! I will probably get some sort of nasty lake disease which makes me look like the Swamp Thing! But at least I have my shitty rubber ball!"

And last but not least, a shout out to the British Block:

Those silly, homesick Brits! They don't want to forget what their flag looks like, during their four- to six-month deployments. The words are a nice touch, too -- God forbid we should mistake this building for American House.

Sorry I don't have any pictures of me doing push-ups or sit-ups or anything, but the thing is, I would look really gross and sweaty and ucky in those. So we don't bring the camera to the Physical Fitness Test.

Okay -- time to get to work on the ass of lard!

Physical Fitness is hazardous to my health

2005-09-05T13:50:00.000+04:00

People. I have to take a Physical Fitness Test in the morning.

Shall we all commence the weeping and gnashing of teeth? We shall, if we are compassionate individuals, rather than cold-hearted, stone-souled, impassionate excuses for actual human beings.

The thing is, although I don't have the energy or the desire to link my past [shudder] Physical Fitness Test experiences for your catching-up pleasure, I am not exactly what we would call At One With the concept of "in shape." I actually, honestly, despise "in shape." If "in shape" were an icky spider, I would crush it mercilessly and repeatedly with a muddy, smelly, treaded boot.

That said, I am so very much looking forward to this Test of my Physical Fitness, in a similar way as one would be so very much look forward to being shot continuously in the nipples with a nailgun while being punched in the crotch and taunted.

Bearing in mind that, should I do well, I will most likely never shut up about it.

:::::

Guard duty last night was absolutely craptacular, as always. The difference, though, was that due to it now being SEPTEMBER (yay!), my uniform was only mostly soaked with sweat by morning, rather than unrecognizably soaked with sweat as has been the routine since the beginning of the summer.

I did battle halfheartedly with the whole "I am so desperately tired due to having deprived myself of sleep to go to the pool which was so nice and relaxing plus I have a sweet tan but now I am sooooo tired" issue. But after giving in a few times to little mini-snoozes (shhh! don't tell!), I recovered from that sufficiently and was not a zombie for at least half of my shift.

By the way, whoever decided that these unnecessary guard shifts needed to last TEN HOURS needs to be tarred and feathered and poked with pointy things, because unnnnh I am so tired. I would be sleeping right this very second if it weren't for the fact that, oh, yes, I have a Physical Fitness Test to take sometime in the morning before God wakes up, and I have to sleep tonight to rest up for that, and can't sleep during the day as I am normally accustomed to doing, and probably this is all the fault of Calories, which are also Evil.

Grrr.

:::::

Roommate is in the midst of packing up her side of our room, since she'll be leaving Iraq forever within a week, due to the fact that she very unfairly got pregnant and is going home to wonderful America to get all glowy and round and have a gorgeous tiny human pop out of her sometime in April.

Whereas I am going to stew here (almost literally) for the next four months, pulling guard duty and doing a job completely unrelated to journalism, whilst battling overworked, stressed-out, stretched-thin co-workers in the race to see Who Can Remain Most Mentally Sound Without Doing Away With The Others First by the time we gleefully skip aboard a home-bound aircraft.

Aren't you glad you came to this party?

We're ALL cracking up

2005-09-04T01:08:00.000+04:00

I have approximately six kahillion bosses at any given time.

Some of them are fun to work with, some are non-fun, some are a total pain in the crack, and some just ... are.

Let me see if I can properly describe the boss who is currently filling in for Alterna-Boss (FUN!) and Night Boss (STRANGE! and possibly SEDATED!) while Night Boss is on leave.

You know that saying, "So-and-so woke up on the wrong side of the bed"?

Yeah, this guy? Not only woke up on the wrong side, but he also seems to have fallen off the wrong side, banged his head on the wrong side, and stubbed his toe on the base of the wrong side.

I kind of understand, though.

The thing is, one of his jobs is to record the news at various times of night, and take notes on ... I don't know, whatever it is he takes notes on. So he has to actually watch the news three times per night, rather than just pushing "record" and walking away.

Have you watched the news lately? It's not exactly sunshine and happy puppies. Meaning, somebody who's forced to sit in front of it as often as he does is bound to get a little bit, oh ... how do you say "if he were a woman he could blame it on PMS" without it sounding wrong?

Oh well. The only time this really affects me is when he's all, "Turn that music down! I know I'm only in my 30s, but I'm going to harass you about loud music as if I were 80! I don't care if it's only three decibels -- turn it down lower, rapscallion!"

(By the by, the loud music in question happened to have been graciously provided by Maven the Rump Shaker, who made this evening's booty-wiggling possible.)

The rest of the night, the benefit is mine, as I get to sit peacefully at my desk and listen to him making snide remarks to the television.

Now, I talk to the TV at times. I think we all do. During Jeopardy? When that brain-dead idjit just can't muster a "What is the Spanish Inquisition?" ("Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!!") You know you're threatening to beat the contestant with a two-by-four. Or maybe you're watching a movie in which the protagonist is in grave danger and still insists on going into the deserted house wearing four-inch heels and a negligee -- tell me you're not yelling, "You fucktard! Call the cops! Run AWAY! Not TOWARD! Don't -- GAHHH!"

But the thing is, Irrita-Boss (as we are now apparently calling him) just talks to the news. Has a little chat with it, if you will.

"Oh, so that's what you think? That's pretty stupid."
"Why don't you just shut up? You sound like an idiot."
"Yeah, great idea, dude."
"Lady, what is wrong with you?"

I think this could also be another thing which keeps me from going completely over the edge. When I start having conversations with your journals ("Come on! It can't be that bad. Stupid whiner"), then it'll be time to call the men in white coats.

Not -- as some of you may have suspected -- yesterday.

I've got guard duty tomorrow night, so ... have a lovely Labor Day. Set a grill on fire for me!

And donate to the danged Red Cross, already!

A list! And a story!

2005-09-03T02:44:00.000+04:00

If you don't feel like reading a list which is not all that boring (if you are at all interested in me as a person and not just as some floozy you use for cheap words), then scroll down a bit, and you just might find a short pictorial adventure I'd like to call "Fun Things I Do With The Stuff That You Send Me."

But first: some guy who drinks mouse milk (or something wacky like that) told me I hadda do this whole Me! Me! thing, so I'm-a doin' it, but only because I'm afraid he'll come and paint all of my prized possessions black if I don't.

10 years ago I was: Almost 13 years old. I was living at a Children's Home in Missouri, which my parents worked at because they are good people. That was the year I got my first kiss, snuck out of my house for the first time, and first realized that being homeschooled most of my life had made me a Total Dork. I was not a good person -- in fact, I was a tremendous bitch -- but that didn't make much of a difference till about ...

5 years ago: I had been at my Boarding School For Bad Kids for about eleven months. I was still not really that good of a person -- nope, still more or less a tremendous bitch -- but my English teacher at the time encouraged me to write for the school's newsletter. I then decided I wanted to be a journalist when I grew up, which ultimately brought me to where I was

1 year ago: I was stationed in Georgia, having joined the Army two years prior as a Print Journalist/Public Affairs Specialist, and was working as a staff writer/photographer on the post newspaper. I had just married Husband, and we were on our way to his hometown in Missouri, so I could meet his family for the first time. I was preparing to possibly deploy in January, which I obviously did, because

Yesterday: I was sitting in the same chair I am now, snug as a bug on a military camp in Baghdad, wondering about the possibility of ever get to do anything vaguely journalistic during the rest of this deployment, and counting down the days till I get to go home.

5 snacks I enjoy the most:
-- Anything containing chocolate or peanut butter, preferably both
-- Marshmallow Fluff
-- Pringles
-- Pistachios (to the point of take them away from me PLEASE so I don't become large and have to be pulled out of my chair with a CRANE)
-- Fruit (yes, ALL fruit)

5 songs I know all the words to:
-- "Subterranean Homesick Blues" - Bob Dylan
-- "In My Life" - The Beatles
-- "The Worst Thing I Could Do" - from Grease
-- "Why Don't We Get Drunk" - Jimmy Buffett
-- "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" - David Allen Coe

5 places ideal for running away to: They asked me this on my other blog site and I had to say ...
-- Aruba
-- Jamaica (Sing along! You know you want to!) ooh, I wanna take ya to
-- Bermuda
-- Bahama coooome on pretty mama to
-- Key Largo
-- Montego bayyyby why don't we go down to
-- Kokomo
Which is more than five, but how could I not finish the song?! Come on, now!

5 items you will never see me wear:
-- A size-zero anything
-- Pink corduroys
-- A skirted bathing suit
-- One of those weird sweaters which looks like a poncho yet, for some reason, is not a poncho
-- A trucker hat

5 biggest joys in life:
-- The fam
-- Husband, on his good days
-- Writing for you lovely peoples
-- Adventuring to places yet unseen
-- Returning home from said places

5 favorite toys:
-- Do I really
-- need to
-- go into
-- detail here?
-- Oh, and my camera

Shall I tag? I shall not tag. Do it if you wanna.

:::::

And now! The much-anticipated ...

"Fun Things I Do With The Stuff That You Send Me"

Today I received a package in the mail from skibigsky containing this:

Its package said its name was Mr. Mouthy Mouth. (The brain child of Mr. Marky Mark? Hmmm ... could be. We'll see if it finds a way to drop its invisible pants). It looked friendly enough, even if it did have a face only a mother could love -- although she would have to be a nearly blind mother.

But then it got MEAN!

It wanted to eat Mr. Dinosaury Dinosaur, its friend and traveling companion. (Which I totally understand, as it had gone quite a while without a meal in that box.)

"Noooo! Don't eat me, Mr. Mouthy Mouth!"
"I am SO going to eat you, Mr. Dinosaury Dinosaur!"

"First I am going to lick your bottom, though, because I have a bottom-licking fetish."
"Oh, Mr. Mouthy Mouth, I think I like you after all!"

"AAAAAHHH!! I don't like you anymore!"
"Mmmm ... but I like you. Hey, watch that tail!"

The End

Thank you, thank you. Tune in some other time to see what happens when Mr. Mouthy Mouth meets Lars the Space Monkey! It's sure to be a great time, kids. Because what happens in Baghdad?

That's right -- people go mental! Whee!

Randomness is the DEBBIL!

2005-09-02T00:52:00.000+04:00

RENT! Is going to be a MOVIE! Eeee!

That is what I said to Husband last night on the phone. Because, you know, I figured he'd care.

Or, like, not.

"That's really gay," is more like what he said. Exactly what he said, in fact.

"Musicals are gay. It's just a bunch of gay people dancing and singing. It's gay, gay, gay. Gay. And that's it."

Heh heh. Yeeeeeah. Let's hear it for culture!

No, huh? Right. Hm.

In his narrow-minded defense, he's, um, terrific in bed. And he writes me e-mails containing porn movie scripts. And ... and he cooks a great Hamburger Helper!

I know, I know.

[Sigh]

:::::

Yesterday's Mandatory Physical Fitness Session Of Gayness (do we sense a theme, here? One of political-correctness having flown freely out the window?) has left me wishing that there was some kind of local anesthetic that I could administer to my abdominal area, which is currently under attack by a raging herd of belly demons.

This is because we did some Mandatory Gay Sit-ups, which were not all that bad at the time, due to some good buddies doing their best Spartan Cheerleaders impressions beside me:

"Who's that Spartan in my tepee?"
"It's me! It's me! "
"Who's that Spartan in my tepee?"
"It's me! It's me!"
"Uh-huh, uh-uh. Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh!"

(Only, we tried to work the general theme of "sit-ups" into the cheer every now and then, like, "Who's sitting up repeatedly?" "It's me! It's me!" etc.)

But now I'm not sure if the pain was caused by the exercising or by the trying not to fall off the sit-up bench due to the effect heaving guffaws will have on one's equilibrium. Still, the fact is -- the belly demons, they live.

And I'm a Spartan! So check me out!

:::::

You know what else I am? A desk monkey.

Yep, for real! I am in a combat zone, and I work in a cubicle.

Hi, nice to meet you! My name is Lamey McLoser! I have a callus on my scrolling finger!

(For real, I totally do. And how sad is that?)

The reason this is becoming so very frustrating to me is that I did not sign up to be an office wench. I signed up to be a military journalist. I.e., cover stories, take pictures, work on the newspaper, get out of the office every once in a while.

Not, like, the opposite of that.

I am what many soldiers are now calling a "fobbit" -- one who spends more time on the Forward Operating Base (FOB) than off of it. One who never sees shit outside of her own little space.

And it's pissing me off. It's showing me that, sure, the Army will train you for a specific job, but will you necessarily do that job? Eh ... depends on if the general saw his shadow that week.

:::::

Okay. I am done with the pissy. Now it's time for the thank-y.

All of you who have sent or are sending me some truly awesome goodie packages, and who haven't received anything in return from me, please e-mail me NOW with your address so that I can send you small-yet-appreciative presents.

Put "PRESENTS" in the subject line, too, so I can keep 'em together. And I don't care if you don't want anything, you're totally getting whatever it is I send. So THERE. Because I love you. But not like that.

:::::

Now please go give some love to Michael, because that nasty slut, Katrina, is fucking with his family.

Of all the times to see the glass as half-full ...

2005-09-01T01:39:00.000+04:00

In light of all this horrible shit that's been going down, I'm almost ashamed to say that I had a fairly decent day today.

I know, right? Great timing, Meany! Way to have a good day while thousands of people suffer!

Here's how I'm thinking of it:

Thousands of people suffer every day. Millions of people, in fact. And I know I wouldn't feel bad about sharing some happiness with you the rest of the time.

So, since God knows I mean no indifference to the ugliness of these awful events, and since I have already shared my feelings about them right down there [pointing downward to previous post], I would like to tell you what made me smile today.

It's SEPTEMBER!

September First! Do you know what that means?

It means that the summer is almost over!

And why are we happy that the summer is almost over? Other than the fact that we won't be yearning for the "cool Georgia weather" much longer?

We are happy the summer is almost over because a little more than eight months ago, "summer" was what we were dreading most about this deployment. "August," in particular.

The division we replaced patted us on the back as we arrived, saying, "Have fun in August! HA HA HA," and "You think the weather is bad in January? Wait till it gets hot; you'll be begging to die in August!" and "See ya later, suckers!"

Well, that last one has nothing to do with my point, but they did say it a lot.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is AUGUST IS DONE. The WORST PART. The DREADED MONTH. Is DONE.

And it's all downhill from here. In July, when we hit the six-month mark, I thought that was the beginning of downhill, but no! No, we still had to get through another entire month of sandstorms, 130-degree temperatures, sweating all the time.

But now ... now ...

It'll be fall soon. The heat is still hot, but not haaaahhhhht so haaaahht I need waaaaahhhter. Some of our replacements are trickling in. And there are only sixteen weeks left, give or take a few days, until the New Year.

And then, home.

Not to sound all cliche and stuff, but to everything there is a season.

And summer in Baghdad is one season I will NOT MISS AT ALL.

FUCK!

2005-09-01T00:36:00.000+04:00

How much fucking ASS does Nature suck right now?? Holy SHIT!

There is a Louisiana National Guard brigade on our camp. I've just been told that something like thirty percent of those soldiers now have no homes to return to.

FUCK!

Please allow me to offer my sympathies:

Dear N'Awlins,

I'm sorry Nature has made you its bitch. You are way too cool for that. If you need a place to hang out for a while, we've got plenty of space over here in beautiful Baghdad (where it rains ... sometimes). But you'll have to bring the beer.

In the meantime, I believe someone's planning a tribute.

Love,

Meany

:::::

And of course, while we're still on the topic of WHY??, I really think that this deserves some attention, as well.

Man oh man. Oh man. Oh man.

More later. I gotta take a minute, here.

Back In The Day ...

2005-08-31T00:31:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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.

:::::

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'?

2005-08-30T00:01:00.000+04:00

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!

:::::

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!

:::::

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

:::::

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.

:::::

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.

:::::

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 ...

:::::

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

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

2005-08-29T00:55:00.000+04:00

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!

:::::

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

2005-08-28T02:05:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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!

:::::

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

2005-08-27T02:18:00.000+04:00

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?

:::::

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

2005-08-26T00:20:00.001+04:00

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?

:::::

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.

:::::

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.

:::::

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!

2005-08-24T01:40:00.000+04:00

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!

:::::

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.

:::::

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!

:::::

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.

:::::

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?

2005-08-23T01:54:00.000+04:00

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!

:::::

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!

:::::

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

2005-08-22T00:52:00.000+04:00

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!

2005-08-21T23:51:00.000+04:00

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.

2005-08-21T23:46:00.000+04:00

I will explode you.

Another #%!$@ weekend

2005-08-21T00:02:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-20T01:02:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-19T01:13:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-17T23:17:00.000+04:00

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.

2005-08-17T01:41:00.000+04:00

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!

2005-08-14T00:57:00.000+04:00

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?

2005-08-13T00:04:00.000+04:00

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!

2005-08-12T01:39:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-11T00:35:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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.)

:::::

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

2005-08-09T10:42:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-09T01:54:00.000+04:00

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

2005-08-08T00:26:00.000+04:00

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"?

:::::

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'!

:::::

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

2005-08-06T00:38:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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.

:::::

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?

2005-08-04T23:38:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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

2005-08-03T22:50:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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

:::::

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.

:::::

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

2005-08-01T23:34:00.000+04:00

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.

:::::

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."

:::::

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

I'll be damned.

Oh, were things not complicated enough? Let's fix that right now.

2005-07-31T23:20:00.000+04:00

Prepare to hate me.

I had a little chat with Husband a couple hours ago, and he may be worthy of a second chance.

AAAAAAAGH! Put those torches and knives down! I'm not done yet!

From what I was able to wrassle out of his crazy man-mind, this whole thing came about because he is lonely.

Yes, you heard me correctly. The dude needs a woman to cuddle.

My response?

"Um, hello? Where am I? That's right, in the desert. Am I going to sleep alone every night? Why, yes I am. Am I dealing with it? Yes, yes I am. Is it a pain in the ass? Damn skippy, it is! But how much harder is it when I have to go to sleep feeling abandoned by my husband? Yes, that's right, it's a whole fucking HELL of a lot harder. Fucker."

He swears he hasn't cheated on me. His exact words were, "I've talked to girls, but I haven't slept with anyone. Besides, you probably talk to guys all the time."

Yes, honey, in between working 12 hours a day, seven days a week, sleeping, and eating, I am entertaining gentleman callers like nobody's business. I am the talk of the camp, what with my avoiding men like the plague and trying not to melt. My smelling like burnt asshole helps, as well as this formless, tan clothing and peeling sunburn. I am irrestistible, and I never turn down a nasty desert fuck.

Or, you know, the opposite of that.

So.

He seems to think he can't do this. It's just too hard for him.

I called him a pussy.

I said, "You're the one who's always telling me to 'suck it up and drive on.' If there's one thing I've learned how to do out here, it's that. We are no different from any married couple involuntarily separated by the Army; are you telling me you're the only one who can't handle this shit? You think you're so strong -- grow the fuck up."

I think he might be starting to understand me. I told him to call back in a few hours, when things had quieted down around here, and we would figure out what to do.

The options I gave him were:

1) Grow up and handle this deployment like a man; if you actually take the time to be an attentive husband, maybe you won't feel so alone

2) Be a selfish little boy who gives up when anything tough comes around, and get used to being alone and unhappy, because no real woman wants a man who will flee at the first sign of discomfort

Now, if he shocks the shit out of me and chooses the first option, should I give him another go?

I'm torn.

I love the total stupid asswipe fuckhead bastard dicko supremo f'in asswipe dick jerk fucking man sorry excuse of flesh stupid smelly assclown rat shithead cock smoking rat fuck whose mom should have digested him as part of a sex act.

(I know, I know -- I had to! If I forgive him, I might not ever get the chance to use it again.)

I love him. I married him, for better or for worse. To me, it's an obligation to do anything possible to work things out and honor my vows.

On the other hand, he is a dickweed. I have suffered more over the past few days than I have in the past six months.

I have to decide: will I be stronger if I let him go, or if I keep him and do what I can to get us through this mess together?

What a fucking quandary.

Help?

20 Lessons I Have Learned

2005-07-30T21:25:00.000+04:00

You guys ... damn, you're awesome.

I mean, you're fucking awesome.

Like, do you want me to bear your children? Because, um, a vacancy just opened up in that department.

From what I've gathered in my own research, plus what you've given me, I have drawn the following conclusions:

1) Husband is a total stupid asswipe fuckhead bastard dicko supremo f'in asswipe dick jerk fucking man sorry excuse of flesh stupid smelly assclown rat shithead cock smoking rat fuck whose mom should have digested him as part of a sex act -- which I will always remember as the best stream of derogatory words I have ever heard

2) He is also a dick of the variety that you would never, ever, ever want to insert in any part of you, even with a gun to your head and a million gadrillion dollars available to you at the time of skeet skeet (haha! I SO just said that!)

3) I can do much better than him

4) Especially because, right now, anyone is better than him

5) But that does not mean I will be looking for anyone anytime soon

6) Except if I need to be sexually sated, in which case Michael has offered to wrangle me up many a studly volunteer, plus a nice little jaunt in Paris/Rome (an offer which he will certainly be taken up on eventually)

7) Yes, Cooter, I will definitely consider becoming your wife and moving to Spain to drink lesbian sangria with you

8) Except that I will need to be getting regular dick, but I'm sure you understand

9) Husband picked possibly the worst time ever to make this decision

10) But I'm guessing it's because his new girfriend is forcing him to do it

11) Um, hell YES I believe he has a girlfriend! What man gives up pussy when there is no reserve pussy?

12) Yeah, that's what I thought

13) We would all enjoy fucking up Husband's car

14) However, we can't do that until Husband's car is no longer covered by MY insurance

15) The paperwork needed to cancel the insurance is in the apartment in Georgia

16) Which sucks

17) In which case, CDs of angry/fuck-that-asshole-dick-muncher-shitrag music would definitely be appreciated

18) Because Sheryl Crow really just isn't pissed off enough for me right now

19) I am extremely pissed off

20) But I still love the bastard ... so, fuck love
_____________________________________________________________________

I have cried and cursed and cried.

I have asked God "Why?" and I have asked myself "What the fuck?" and I have asked Husband if he has considered getting mental help.

I have revoked Husband's power of attorney and I have removed all of the money from my checking account.

I have allowed myself to be consoled by a man who used to do much more than that, if ya know what I mean.

I have forced myself to eat/drink/stay healthy.

I have accepted the fact that this is my only option until I get home in six months.

I have decided that until then, I will do all I can to be the woman I am, rather than the woman he wanted me to be.

Because, as I think we've mentioned, he is a total stupid asswipe fuckhead bastard dicko supremo f'in asswipe dick jerk fucking man sorry excuse of flesh stupid smelly assclown rat shithead cock smoking rat fuck whose mom should have digested him as part of a sex act -- which I really just had to say more than once.

I love you all. When I get back, how about let's get drunk?

What next?

2005-07-28T23:18:00.000+04:00

My husband wants to be my ex-husband.

I could write a long, flowing, poetic entry about how much we've loved each other and how all our plans were perfect and how we were meant to be together until our hair turned white and we had to help each other fasten Depends and remember to take our Centrum Silver.

I could close myself off altogether, refusing to let anybody see me shake as I sob uncontrollably into no one's arms.

I could turn into a raging defendant, claiming that he abused me and used me and took my love for granted.

I could sit here and fume and analyze and ask myself over and over again where the fuck I went wrong, and how I could be such a fool.

I could do that, and I don't really think I'd be wrong. He did, after all, tell me he'd be happier holding the steering wheel of his Mustang than holding me in his arms.

And no, I'm not speaking figuratively.

I could cry some more. I could hurt and I could grieve for my failed marriage, and I could let myself break, shattered into a million pieces by a man who wouldn't even bother to sweep up the mess.

But I'm an asshole.

And we assholes -- well, we move on with our lives.

So we shall do just that ...

... tomorrow.

Let's talk about inanimate objects!

2005-07-28T01:13:00.000+04:00

Before I say a single damn thing else, I have to offer up some cool points via linkage to mnvnjnsn for sending me a groovy box o'love containing my two new friends:

Meet Lars the Space Monkey, Keeper Of The Dell ...

... and Frank, Fish.

I also have to welcome my dear and drunken pal Emma back to Diaryland after an agonizing absence due to people being assholes. Now, hopefully, she will continue to rock beyond all previous conceptions of rockingness. Because that's what she does.
_____________________________________________________________________

I've noticed that although most of my body has kicked into Cough Wheeze Suffer Oh Fuck It Everything Just Stop Working mode, my hands, specifically my fingernails, seem to be thriving. I hardly pay any attention to them over here, at least not in a pretty-fying way, but it's like they just decided to take it upon themselves to get all lengthy and strengthy and stuff.

I'm serious, check it out:

Okay, so you can't see how strong they are. Whatever. But look at how long my pinky nails have gotten! I could break someone's face with a mere tap from these babies. It makes me have to type with the SIDE of my fingertip. That is fucking long.

Oh, I feel so girly! If I could wear my hair down, I would SO toss it right now.
_____________________________________________________________________

I got this PIMPIN' new chair for my desk the other day. The previous chair was all old and wobbly, like the corner crack whore of office chairs. When you'd sit in it, it would maybe stay at the height you put it at, or maybe its little chair hydraulics would fail, sending you plummeting to the ground as your co-workers looked on and chortled with glee at the funny WHOMP you made as your tailbone was crushed into powder by the hard floor.

Good times with that chair, good times.

But NOW ... now I have the Mac Daddy, Gimme Your Money, Bitches chair, which will pound the SHIT out of anyone who even cracks a smile at it.

It's also got a nice high back, so if I turn it at a certain angle and scrunch myself in it a little, I can take a little nap without anyone seeing me slobber.

My chair will kick your ass if you make fun of my slobber, by the way. It is a very devoted chair, and it knows the slobber is not my fault -- the dentist diagnosed me with drooly-mouth. This is also what causes me to make that weird little sucking noise when I laugh that Husband always feels the need to point out.

Fine! Go ahead and mock me!

Hrmph. At least I have pretty hands.
_____________________________________________________________________

Welp, that's it. I have to get cracking on my nightly ritual of staring into space.

Mississippi gaba!

Night of the Living Barely-Awake

2005-07-27T01:09:00.000+04:00

Nnnngbflrg.

Say that with as little energy as you can possibly summon, while shuffling around at the speed of a crippled tree sloth and with all the finesse of a drunken redneck on two-fer-one-PBR night.

Now you may be able to envision the Awe and Wonder that is Meany, the Idiot Who Chose To Go To The Pool Today Instead of Sleeping. Again.

If you're still having trouble grasping this concept, I ask you to consider the fact that it took me close to a full hour to construct the previous three sentences, as my mind is now only working in three-minute increments.

So, since my brain is currently about as useless as a menu at Hooters, I'm going to forego any attempt to string coherent words together, and instead show you what I did today, via a metric assload of photos with the theme, "Hey, we have a camera! Let's take some pictures!"

We (Next-Room-Neighbor, Some Other Dude I Know, and I) walked to the pool, making sure to take in all the sights along the way. We placed a special emphasis on any structures which looked as if a horny eighth-grade boy had designed them (or are we the only ones who thought this palace had a giant breast atop it?):

Neighbor and I, having missed out on getting traditional senior portraits done in high school, decided to make up for it by sitting behind this white, wrought-iron gate looking like Youth with a Future:

In spite of our inability to just turn off the fucking camera, we eventually reached the pool, which is nicknamed the "Aussie Pool," because the Australian soldiers are the ones who live closest to it. They chose this threatening yet endearing sign to mark their territory:

I've interpreted it to mean, "We are Australians. We've seen kangaroos up close and you haven't, so you can't tell us that they'd never put on boxing gloves and beat the dinner out of you. Oh, and here's our flag."

(Hiss, I must say, your countrymen really know how to get a point across.)

No sooner had we located three spastic pool chairs and carefully prepared our bodies for roasting, than we were befriended by an adorable little ladybug which we named "Spot."

Spot took up brief residence on Neighbor and Other Dude, disappearing around 11 a.m., apparently to resume its normal ladybug activities, and possibly catch a few minutes of "The Price Is Right." We'll miss you, Spot!

The place wasn't quite as crowded with bold, sexually-frustrated males as it usually is, so Neighbor and I felt free to venture beyond the confines of our chair fortress (a.k.a. "the estrogen zone") and have a friendly little diving competition:

The above dive was one she took great pride in, especially the part where "My butt is in the air. I'm like a diving butt."

Then, it was my turn:

I -- ha ha! -- can't dive. Clearly. Next!

Aaaand here we have Neighbor and Other Dude pointing out that the holes under the bridge look like Mickey Mouse. This is one of those times when you should realize you've been out in the sun for far too long, and your brains might actually be sticking to the inside of your skull, and it's time to go pass out somewhere.

Well! I hope you enjoyed this completely non-educational experience. Now I'm going to go ahead and submit this before I faint from exhaustion and/or continue to ramble on and on like a bag lady on speed.

Nnnngbflrg.

Where was I going with this?

2005-07-26T01:46:00.000+04:00

Last night, while I was performing my soldierly tasking as Supreme Goddess ID-Checker Guardian Of The Secure Sidewalk, I was caught unawares by what can only be described as a hefty chunk of bitchery.

I was sitting, ever-vigilant, at my post, dutifully making sure that my fellow troops were not actually evil terrorists disguised as disgruntled military folk, when I was approached by an individual who had obviously joined the Army immediately following an apprenticeship under Screwtape, personal secretary to the Lord Of Darkness.

I politely asked to see her ID card as I leaned forward in my chair and shined my special Supreme Goddess Guardian flashlight in her general direction.

This was a simple request. As we were only about two feet away from each other, all I needed was for her to hold her identification out at approximately arm's length so I could make sure she had it and that it was hers -- thus validating my existence.

What I didn't know was that in her specific dialect of Vicious Cunt Rag, the translation of "May I see your ID?" is "I would like you to be inexplicably rude to me now, preferably to the point where I would be delighted to slap you with a flaming javelin."

Had I known this, I may have been more prepared for her response.

"Well, you'd be able to see it if you were standing up."

What I would have said if I was in a movie: "Listen, you intolerable ass vacuum, I'm sitting out here all night so that you can feel all safe and secure over there in Large Boring Building. If you'd like to park your junkeous arse next to this sidewalk till 6 a.m. -- making sure to STAND UP the entire time -- be my guest! Plus, your mother has body odor, your husband is gay, and your children are probably growing up to be homicidal, misogynistic schizophrenics while you're over here doing your damndest to make my already superb night even more shit-errific."

What I actually said, due to not being in a movie: "Roger, sergeant [COUGHjizzlickingCOUGHskankCOUGH]."

I sure told her that I was a pussy, in not so many words!

Eh, well, whatever. She's the one with the smelly mother, gay spouse and prison-bound offspring -- all I have to do is guard the sidewalk.

Aaaaand, since I can't think of any moral to this story, or any acceptable way to let you guys know that I did not run after the she-devil and deliver her a graceful-but-deadly elbow-drop, I'm just going to fall back on the ol' Monty Python standard ...
_____________________________________________________________________

And now for something completely different.

I got very little sleep today, due to such pressing matters as the inclination to watch Season Two of Chappelle's Show.

If anybody can take in those 13 episodes (in a ROW) without once feeling the urge to randomly holler, "I'm Rick James, bitch!" please let me know your secret, because I don't think I can hold it in much longer.

I also kind of want to go make fun of some white people.

This now concludes our study of Will Two Hours Of Sleep Make Me Mind-Numbingly Boring And Unable To Complete A Thought.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Weekend? What is this 'weekend' you speak of?

2005-07-23T23:40:00.000+04:00

Apparently, the troops are getting fucked up these days.

Um, why was I not informed of this before now? Why is nobody sharing the love? Strength in numbers, people!

Hrmph. Stupid drugs ... not being anywhere near me.
_____________________________________________________________________

When I was on my way out the door to go to work this evening, my friend informed me that today was Saturday.

I thought, "Saturday! We must celebrate this day being exactly like every other day!"

Which is why I am sitting at my desk in Large Boring Building, eating pistachio nuts (thank you, Michael!), sipping Dr Pepper, and JAMMING OUT to Ace of Base's Greatest Hits.

"I saw the sign! And it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign!"
[hold hand up to mouth as improvised microphone]
"No one's gonna drag you up! To get into the life where YOU belo-ong!"
[nod to beat, lock gaze with person on phone several feet away]
"But where do you belo-ong? Oh-ooh-woh-oh!"

I don't think I'll ever be able to enjoy "clubbin'" again -- not after this.

Especially, you know, because my co-workers are probably going to have me committed after the deployment.

Woo! Rock on with the weekend!

"All that she wants, is another bab-eh ..."

Husband, Logic, and the Dorkness of Me

2005-07-23T00:01:00.000+04:00

I love Husband.

I love the e-mails he sends me. Like this one, which is completely undoctored:

Helo, how ya holdin up over in that great place. Man-o-man it mus be like some kinda vacation. Yur probably havin the time of your life, bringin nuthin back memries and a sack a potatas. All dat nice sunshine streamin down on yur face. Wow i just caint imagine......

But any hoo anuf a that. I just had a min to write ya, but ther aint nuthin new since i talked to ya yesterdee. So i figured id just bullshit fo a min. Well babe I love ya, write back if ya git a chance.

paradatuninusly, [Husband]

PS. haha thats a real word, it was an old old woodin ship used during the civil war!!

I love Husband.
_____________________________________________________________________

My night-shift boss (the one who is blessed to be so retarded that life kind of flows around him, affecting only those who work for him) passed a little slice of Army efficiency down to me this evening when I started my shift.

Boss: "Specialist Meany, the colonel is wondering why you never put any articles about our task force's combat operations in your nightly media review."

Meany: "Well, Sergeant, that's because no news organizations ever write anything about our combat operations. The only articles on the internet about our combat operations are the press releases which we put out ourselves."

Boss: "Well, you should put those into the media review, then."

Meany: "But they're not media. They're our own products. And they are all on the same web sites -- Army web sites -- every day. In order."

Boss: "Yeeeeah, you should just go ahead and put them in the review."

Meany: "So what's the point of a media review if we're reprinting the articles we put out without any media participation at all? Can't I just link the web sites where [the higher-ups] can find the press releases?"

Boss: "No ... just go ahead and copy the articles and put them in the media review."

Meany: "But that's a lot of unnecessary busywork, and it isn't even 'media.' The review we get from the office back in the States already includes the press releases. Why don't we just include their review as an attachment to ours?"

Boss: "Theirs is too in-depth. The general would have to go through all of the other links, instead of just clicking on the ones he wants."

Meany: "God forbid the general do any more scrolling than he has to."

Boss [seriously]: "Right."

Meany: "Can you maybe explain the situation, and let them know that usually the only places our press releases go are these three web sites, and it would be pointless to copy them, every day, in their entirety, from those sites?"

Boss: "Well, let's just do it this way for now ['for now' meaning 'forever']."

Meany: "My brain hurts."

People. Do you see why I smoke?

They should make an Idiot pill that I could take before going to work. Maybe I'd be able to fit in a little better.
_____________________________________________________________________

I am totally loving my Proclaimers CD, by the by. I just caught myself doing a little torso-shimmy at my desk.

Oh! Oh! It just graduated to a full-body, arm-swinging, finger-pointing-in-random-directions Honky Dance.

Yes! Embrace the Dorkness! I am Dork! I can do WHATEVER I WANT.

It's so freeing.

To all of you who were sucked in by my Naked Boobies banner: see what you've been missing, while you were wasting all that time hunting down Naked Boobies?

Make yourselves comfortable! Do a little Honky Dance!

You are welcome here.

This is a title. Happy?

2005-07-22T00:25:00.000+04:00

Well, I've done it -- I've officially become the ultimate "That Girl."*

I've been on my way there for a while. I've been That Girl with the gigantic sunglasses, That Girl who pukes next to the trailer, That Girl who falls asleep at her desk ... but those were all small potatoes.

Now I have reached a new level of That Girl-dom.

I have become That Girl who puts one Thin Mint back in the box and replaces the box in the cabinet, purely to see co-workers' faces crumble in disappointment when they open it.

Also known as, "That @#$%!# Girl."

Congratulate me! I am evil!

As are the Overpaid Laundry-Doers, who shrunk my patrol cap. Thanks to them, I feel like a fucking bloated mongoloid whenever I have to go outside and wear my hat.

I can't buy a new one, because for some reason known to God and lobotomy patients, they don't sell summer-weight caps out here. Just winter-weight. (You know, the kind with the ear-flaps we're not allowed to pull down in negative-30-degree weather?)

Mmm, can anyone else taste that sweet, sweet logic?

I would wear my boonie cap (the one which looks like some sort of mutant Army sombrero), except that I don't really want to be That Girl who inspires passersby to shout "Ole!."

(I'm sure I did some kind of culture-contorting with that comparison, but the benefit of being That @#$%!# Girl is, haha, I don't have to care!)

Plus, my patrol cap is much easier to deal with, as it's never too much trouble to figure out if you've got it on straight. The brim is in the front, and usually I can take it from there.

The boonie, though, has a brim around the ENTIRE THING.

Ruh-roh.

I have seen people walking around in boonies who, from the look of it, have not yet developed the hat-putting-on skills needed for this particular piece of headgear.

Instead, they lumber ignorantly through the great outdoors, unaware that when your rank insignia is positioned in the exact center of your hat, everyone (except, apparently, you) can tell that the concept of "center" is one which you've not quite mastered.

As my own "Derr"-ness is already pretty obvious to anyone with eyes and ears (example: "Is that the moon? The sun? What time is it? No shit. Huh."), I'd like to be able to avoid bringing more attention to it via difficult hats.

But seriously, this tightness ... it's like a fucking head wedgie.

"Ole!"

*Not to be confused with That Grrrl. Notice the "traditional" spelling, as opposed to "cool" spelling.
_____________________________________________________________________

My next-room-neighbor has decided to quit smoking.

Heh.

This chick is the primary friend I hang out with during the rare moments which are not occupied with working and/or sleeping, and one of the only friends I have out here with whom I can feel free to talk about just about anything. Usually at some point in the day, we'll end up sitting on the porch, shooting the shit, making fun of people, and smoking.

She told me yesterday that she had gotten some Zyb@n, and was going to quit the 'baccy. I -- the ever-supportive gal-pal -- guffawed.

"Why would you want to try to quit during a deployment??" I asked her, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes. "You come back from work each day stressed out and annoyed as it is; how do you think you'll handle it when you can't have a relaxing suck of cancer when you're finally away from the office? There's nothing else to do."

Apparently, she handles it by giving me moose-eyes until I hand over a Marlboro Light. I'm telling you, this girl could solicit funds from Scrooge for the Society Of Vicious Serial Killers Who Will Stalk You Until You Go Mental. She's that good.

Even so -- starting tomorrow, she's on the drugs, so I have to resist the urge to quell her whimpering, mood-swingy pathetic-ness until she's weaned off of the smokes. I MUST NOT GIVE IN!

Yeah. YOU try living next to someone who's trying to kick a 20-year habit. It's sad, I'm telling you.

But also, entertaining! I can see Tom Cruise-esque emotional extremes whenever I want!

Oh, hello, what's this? My ticket to hell? How expected!
_____________________________________________________________________

Well, today I've managed to mock Mexicans, mongoloids, addiction, Army uniform regulations, Tom Cruise and the afterlife, sooooo ... I'd say my work here is done. Ta!

I wish there were more ways to say "Same old, same old"

2005-07-21T00:12:00.000+04:00

You know, I'm really, really proud of you guys for not making a single "fake pussy" joke about my new friend, "Flash." Rest assured, if I had received a mannequin in the mail and named it "Richard," I would be disappointed if nobody stooped to my juvenile level, but in this case -- well-played, folks.

And honestly, I really was going for more of the "what the fuck?!" angle than the "oooh, that's so dirty!" angle. I knew you'd understand.
_____________________________________________________________________

I figured out why I can never remember what day of the week it is. It's because I go to work on one day, and leave the next, and then I sleep all day. So when I go BACK to work, it feels like the day after THAT. Got me?

No, I didn't think so. Lemme break it down:

Today when I got to work, it was Wednesday. It is now Thursday. When I leave work, I will go to sleep for the "night." Then when I leave for work again, it will feel like it should be Friday -- since the time before you sleep and the time after you sleep are usually two different days.

Still confusing, I know. Let's just call it my justification for being a confused, pathetic weirdo who hasn't quite figured out the concept of "the world doesn't revolve around my schedule" yet, hmm? Thanks.

And you know, it's not like it even matters, since every day is the same. The only reason I even need to know the date is so I show up on time for my guard shifts. Other than that, a clock is all that's really necessary for me to lead a successful life o'deployment. My alarm is always set for the same time, except on "days off," which we all know are extinct.

Not like I'd even know what to do with a day off, these days. My choices are:

1) Sleep
2) Read a book and sleep
3) Watch a movie and sleep
4) Read a book, watch a movie, and sleep
5) Walk to the pool, get a sunburn, nearly pass out from heat, and sleep
6) Go to the PX and sleep

Since venturing out of my room -- thus exposing myself to daytime temperatures (up to 140 this week! Hear that, Ma? It's almost bastin' time!) -- is becoming more and more hazardous to my health, my first four options are the most appealing.

However, once snuggled underneath my hideous KBR-issued comforter, I tend to forget about doing anything semi-useful with this rare and beautiful day of rest. Before long, it has drifted away, carried off on the wings of my congested warthog snores.

Painting a lovely picture, aren't I? Wouldn't you rather imagine me just working like a mindless drone at a worthless job, on the verge of loading my 30-round magazine into my M16 and going all Rambo on my co-workers?

True, it's not really quite so entertaining as all that, but hey -- now we've got a stuffed cat! YEAH!!

Party on, Wayne! Party on, Garth! Sha-winnng!

I am SUCH a loser.

Heeeere, kitty kitty!

2005-07-20T01:46:00.000+04:00

My dad hates cats.

I'm sorry, that was an understatement. Let me try again:

My dad hates cats. HE HATES THEM HE HATES THEM HE HATES THEM! Hates cats.

He's also allergic to them, which doesn't help.

But this aversion goes far beyond a normal, healthy desire to simply avoid our feline friends.

How can I explain? Ah.

You know the "Bring out your dead!" scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where there's a guy in the background beating a cat against the side of a building? And the painful yowlings emphasize the rhythm of the corpse-carting man's shouting?

My father could watch that scene in an endless loop, and nearly burst his innards laughing EVERY TIME.

And that is not an understatement.

I chose to share that disturbing tidbit with you because last night I received a package from him containing this:

If you guessed that this item is a stuffed cat, you could be right -- but it would depend on what you meant by "stuffed."

If you meant "squishy plush toy" stuffed, you are wrong.

However, if you meant "dead animal mounted on the wall in the den" stuffed ... I'll just go ahead and extend my sympathies to you right now, because your sick, sick mind is definitely on the right track.

The fur on this cat feels eerily real. Its body is pet-sized. Its expression is very, very cute. If its nose wasn't just a little too pink, I might have to wonder exactly what my dear old dad has been up to for the last few weeks.

So. Since I am confident that this kitty was manufactured by someone other than God, you should not think me the least bit insensitive when I tell you that it is my office's new mascot. In fact, everyone who walks into our section of Large Boring Building is now required to pet him. He sits on my printer, and -- what?

Because I said so, dammit! I can be a freak if I want to! If you have a problem with it, go cry to Dubya. It's all his fault I'm over here forcing people to fondle dead pets instead of, you know, doing whatever sane people are into back home these days.

The mascot's name? Well, gorsh, it should be obvious.

"Flash."
_________________________________________________________________________________________

I'm glad to know I'm not the only person on the planet who isn't building a backyard bathtub shrine to J.K. Rowling. Thank you, dear deviants, for the affirmation.

To those of you who are determined to suck me into Obsession With Inexplicably Endearing Witch-Boys World, I say: Give it your best shot! The worst that can happen is that I'll actually enjoy the books, and maybe walk around for a while muttering evil spell-type rants in the general direction of people I dislike.

Ya hear that, J.K., you conniving little word-vixen?? BRING IT ON!
_________________________________________________________________________________________

And now, a really cool benefit to holding your cigarette next to the camera while taking a picture of the moon at night:

Ooooo, spooky!

My deep, dark secret. (Which has nothing to do with genitalia, you sickos.)

2005-07-19T01:02:00.000+04:00

Persons who are not down wit' tha HTML skillz should not attempt to fuck wit' tha HTML.

Why, yes! I DID learn this the hard way! Thanks for asking!

If any of you happened to pop on by here yesterday between 5 and 6:30 a.m. Baghdad time (that would be Sunday, between 9 and 10:30 p.m. EST), you probably noticed that my template looked a little spastic.

This is because the template was trying to make me its bitch.

"Yo, FUCK tables, dog!" it raged. "I be puttin' tables whereva the fuck I FEEL like puttin' tables. Don't you be pullin' that 'tr,' 'td' shizz-nat wit' ME! This is MY world you in now. You betta RECKANIZE."

But I wasn't havin' that, yo.

"Listen, you pussy-ass template, you gonna put that table there where I want it, or I'monna show you a jpeg of my NINE. You got that, muthafugga? NOW who's the bitch? Huh? YEAH, 'swhat I thought."

I sure showed it a thing or two. Notice the tidy placement of my tables? Yep, that's what happens when you know how to speak to your template.

I just knew all those gangsta-speak lessons would pay off!
_________________________________________________________________________________________

You wanna know something?

I feel a little bit powerful. Not because of my template smack-down, but for a different reason.

It's because I am immune.

That's right -- immune.

Totally, completely, invariably immune to Harry fucking Potter and that slut, J.K. Rowling.

It's a beautiful feeling, you know.

I was in boarding school when the first Harry Potter installment came out, and since we didn't have access to most new books, I remained blissfully ignorant of its entire over-merchandised existence for about two years.

I found out about the series when certain members of society began calling for the head of "some 'J.K. Rowling' bitch, whoever the fuck that is" on a silver platter, because apparently, she was infecting young minds, or something. Come to think of it, it was actually more like her body tied to a stake, but whatever floats your boat.

Thus, I first became aware of some little shit called Harry Potter who could do Magic.

Keep in mind, I was raised on classic masters of fantasy like Tolkien and Lewis -- I had read all the Narnia books, "The Hobbit," and the Lord of the Rings trilogy several times over before I was twelve. To me, those books were The Standard which all fantasy authors must strive to meet, but would never actually do so.

So when I heard Ms. Rowling's name come up in a conversation and actually be put alongside the names of those two great men, my mind was made up -- Harry Potter was a total rip-off, nothing but a little glasses-wearing puke.

"He's no Bilbo Baggins!" I cried. "He's just a dorky little kid with Special Powers. Woo freaking HOO! There's nothing original about a school for "magic" people -- that's what we have X-Men for!"

(I am a dork, by the way. A pretentious dork, if you can even imagine something so obnoxious.)

I became the biggest Harry Potter-shunner around. I refused to read the books, see the movies, eat the jellybeans, the whole shebang. I was The Anti-Fan.

Until the third movie came out -- the Prisoner of fucking Azkaban.

Husband wanted to see it ... I protested.

He bought the tickets ... I protested.

He drove us to the theater ... I protested.

He bought the Junior Mints ... I ate them.

And as I savored their chocolate-minty goodness, I watched that Damn Movie, which I swore to bitterly hate because That Bitch thinks she's better than Tolkien.

But there was one thing I hadn't counted on: the presence of Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman.

If two of my favorite actors were in this movie, I couldn't fully hate it, right?

That, my friends, was the beginning of the end. Next, I began to pay attention to the plot, going so far as to nudge Husband repeatedly to ask him who the fuck all these people were, and why are they doing that, and what in Bob's name is a quidditch??

I could have turned back even then, but a few months later I made my fatal error -- I watched the first movie.

And the Rowling had won.

I still haven't read any of the series; for some reason, that would be the final straw. I continue to claim immunity because I had no idea when the next book was going to come out, or even how many there are in all.

But it's only a matter of time, folks. It's only a matter of time.
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And now I have a brief confession to make. Maven already (stalkerishly) found me out, so I thought I'd better let you guys know before you blunder into it on your own.

I have an alter-ego.

Actually, since this is an alter-ego, the other one should probably be called something different. But I'm kinda beat from all the template ass-kicking I had to do, so the boring/inaccurate label will have to do.

I created this alter-ego sometime in April. It resides on another blog site (an inferior one, I might add), and its original purpose was to serve as a way for me to keep my brother ("Bruvver") updated on my life. I would have just told him about this journal, but ... well, there's just some things a guy just doesn't want to know about his big sister.

(Hehe ... I say "big sister," but I'm really only a year and a half older. I guess I just say it to make up for him being taller than I am.)

I posted a few entries, and before I knew it, I had friends there! Of course, they could
NEVER replace you guys, but all in all, they's good people. So since I, like, FEED on the mad propz, I decided to continue. Groovy, right?

Well, almost.

Eventually (after two days), I didn't feel like writing two different entries per day, mainly because I really didn't have much more to say after I got done talkin' ta y'all.

Seriously! After one entry, I get sooooo boring. Like, totally braindead. You'd be all Terri Schiavo after two sentences.

What? Too soon?

ANYWAY.

I then had a problem. I couldn't just copy this entry on that site, because, well, that would totally defeat the purpose of having the other one. But I couldn't drop the site altogether, because Bruvver and I are tight, yo, and I couldn't just bounce -- that ain't cool!

So my solution became to write this for you (because I like you better, duh!), and then copy it over there, except with a few slight changes.

Namely, little to no dropping of f-bombs or any other verbal explosives, little to no referencing of "illegal" activities (see Vomit Story of two days ago), rare mention of Husband's shortcomings (or, erm, long-comings?), and DEFINITELY no talk of ass-getting. I want to inform Bruvver, not scar him.

Like I said -- lots of changes.

Also, I take out any mention of Here-specific stuff -- as in, this entry won't be getting posted there. Derr. Except for maybe the Harry Potter stuff. In addition, of course, to the usual bitching and moaning.

So, there you have it! There is another me. A nicer, cleaner, less-horny me. If you really want, for some reason, to read virtually the same entry twice, drop me a line and I'll e-mail you the URL. I'd post it here, but I don't want any freakish Googling or what have you to lead my unsuspecting family members here; that just couldn't lead to anything pleasant.

Hee hee! I feel so devious! I am a Woman Of Mystery.

See? Told you.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Batten, Poola, eBeth, Cooter, Dangerspouse and Thatgrrrl: Your presents are going to be in the mail tomorrow!

Everyone else, yours are going to be in the second batch. I still have to go get them, so, um ... just remember I'm a bit of a procrastinator. Like, you will get them eventually, but if you hold your breath waiting, you will certainly die.

Good night!

My mind can wander with the best of 'em

2005-07-18T01:50:00.000+04:00

I am addicted to Dr Pepper.

Which is better than being addicted to, like, crank, I guess -- except for one small thing.

Dr Pepper makes me burp. Not like those shy, accidental "Oh, excuse me, teehee!" burps. Oh, no no NO. I'm talkin' about those belly-gurgling, window-rattling, baby-waking, earthquake-causing, flame-lighting, ozone-depleting, frat-boy BELCHES.

You know, the kind you MUST RELEASE NOW because your gut will implode if you hold them in?

All I can say is, it's a good thing I work in the organization I do. Grossness is almost like a status symbol. I have actually earned many of my fellow soldiers' respect because I possess the ability to be a nasty motherfucker if the situation calls for it.

I don't even want to think about what would happen if I worked at a real job, in a real office.

Boss: "How's it going, Meany?"

Me: "Pretty fucking great! Haven't gotten any ass in a while, and this hangover's kinda sucking balls, but other than that, shit's shit."

Boss: "Yeeeeeah ... um, did I mention we never really hired you?"

As much as I bitch about the Army, it really does have its bonuses. I used to compare barracks life to what I've seen of college-dorm life, except you drink more, you get paid, you don't have to take classes, and you can't get kicked out.

Even though my stateside barracks had been built during World War II (when Asbestos was Our Friend!) and housed cockroaches belonging to the Giganticus grossicus ewwwwkillit genus, my life there was pretty enjoyable. I had my TV, my liquor-and-pudding-stocked fridge, my steady paycheck (whoever first came up with the idea of putting hundreds of dollars directly into a young soldier's bank account on a Friday was obviously not the sharpest knife in the drawer), and my Fuck-Buddy-who-eventually-became-Husband right down the hall. Plus, free medical insurance!

That's right, all you college students. Drop out right now and join the Army, and your alcoholism will be funded for YEARS! Who needs an education? Not you! The government will pay you to be stupid! You won't have to have a single independent thought until you retire. Wheee! I Heart the Army!

I really love how I started out writing about my Dr Pepper addiction, and somehow segued into my own little recruiting campaign. I really am a total freak. Let's see if I can wrap this insanity up ... um ...

Dr Pepper is tasty; burping is fun; the Army wants me to be a drunken spendthrift; I need mental help; Tom Cruise does too.

(I just slapped that last part on there so I could share this with you. Go there. It's so genius that you will want to send these people boxes of money.)
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My face has recently begun sprouting blemishes, possibly due to the fact that even your sweat sweats out here.

And these aren't discreet little hairline blemishes, my friends. Even Britney Spears couldn't grow THESE hefty mothers, not even if she went on a Cheetos/Burger King/Godiva diet and gave herself a daily cookie-dough facial.

Oh wait, she obviously already does that.

But still, you would think my pillowcase was coated with Crisco, because personified, these zits would be the Incredible Hulk. Biore and Noxzema would of course be waifish Calvin Klein models, and the Hulk would easily whoop their anorexic ASS.

It's like my face suddenly thought, "Fuck clear skin! That's WAY too much work. I wanna par-TAY!" and proceeded to throw a little epidermal kegger, completely blowing off its pore-cleansing responsibilities because they are "so totally lame."

Heh. Good thing I'm already married.

"Hey, baby, how 'bout some lovin'?"

"AAAAGH! WHAT THE FUCK! YOUR FACE! HAS MOLD GROWING ON IT!"

"Mmmm, oh yeah, it does, huh? Oh well -- for better or for worse, right, sweetie?"

"AAAAAAAGH!"
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RANDOM OBSERVANCES:

1) If an anecdote begins with the phrase, "I was fishing in a kayak," it is usually worth listening to.

2) No matter how badly your day may be going, a few moments of enthusiastic "Bohemian Rhapsody" air-guitar-playing will always make it better.

3) As will a rousing chorus or two of "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life," complete with requisite whistling.

4) The ability to laugh at oneself is a wonderful skill, yet is not as fulfilling as the ability to laugh at other people without remorse.

5) A fun yet harmless way to exact revenge on people who anger you is by getting a song they hate in their heads. This is more unbearable for them than any personal humiliation you could possibly cause, and is not punishable by law.

6) Any e-mail with the subject line "@#*&@#" is probably not good news.

7) Adding the phrase "and I was naked!" to any story will instantly make it more interesting.
Example --
Boring: "I was late to work yesterday, and my sergeant made me do push-ups."
Not Quite So Boring: "I was late to work yesterday, and my sergeant made me do push-ups ... and I was naked!"

8) The more of a deployment you can sleep through, the faster it will go by.

9) The fact that my husband is not here right this second does not imply that I want to engage in sexual relations with you, now or ever.

10) The louder someone groans at a "tasteless" joke, the funnier they really think it is.
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And now, a picture of the "for everyone" shelf in our office's fridge!

That's right -- it's a half-eaten block of Velveeta cheese, salad dressing packets, one single-serving breakfast syrup, and hot sauce.
Yum!

I am such a wimp, whereas Toby Keith is hot

2005-07-17T00:42:00.000+04:00

I feel like boiled ass on a stick.

I broke one of my teeth a couple months ago, but didn't realize it till about three weeks after it happened. I don't know, I guess I thought there was a piece of popcorn stuck in there or something. I'm kind of a dumbass.

Which is why I didn't go to the dentist once I finally figured out what the fuck was making all my food get compacted into a little chewed-up lump and settling in my cavernous demi-tooth. There are two reasons for this:

1) I hate the dentist.
2) It didn't hurt.

I am one who does not particularly care to have strangers touch areas of my body which are not fully clothed and ready to defend themselves. My teeth, I admit, can be lethal. However, when a foreign hand is propping little pieces of cardboard between them and jabbing certain areas of my mouth which are used to being either left alone or lovingly caressed by a soft-bristled brush, I'm more concerned with nestling safely in my happy place -- where there is no jabbing, where Twix bars are fat-free and grow on vines within arm's reach, and where Paris Hilton is being continuously beaten with large metal beams and taunted mercilessly by homely intellectuals.

Where was I? Oh yes, the dentist -- "the devil's minion," as I fondly call him.

I may have to [gulp] make an appointment. You see, my tooth didn't hurt before, but now it's apparently taking this class -- maybe you've heard of it; it's called How To Cause The Worst Fucking Pain Ever -- and I am its homework.

Man, I seem to be having all kinds of physical ailments these days, don't I? Throat lump, head cold, aching muscles ... all I need now is a broken-down pickup truck, a Skoal ring and a git-tar, and I could be a country singer!
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Speaking of country singers ...

Remember, like, eight JILLION years ago (two months ago) when I told you guys I was going to post more Toby Keith pictures? And then remember when I, like, didn't?

Well, that was because I lost the CD I had burned the photos on. BUT I found it today, yay! It was in my junk box (for those of us who aren't fortunate enough to have drawers), and when I was rooting around in there for, um, a safety pin [coughvibratorbatteriescough], I saw it buried underneath some papers [coughporncough].

Anyway, since it's been two months to the day from when Toby came out here to show us soldiers what a steaming hunk o'patriotism he is, I figured, hey, I took all these pictures -- why not post them? Seeing as how doing my job is currently not fun, and posting pictures is.

So here y'are, in honor of the two-month anniversary of Toby Keith's Baghdad extravanganza, and work being boring.

EXPLANATION OF BIRD-FLIPPING BY MR. KEITH: Toby is not flipping us the bird. He is demonstrating his country-singer uber-patriotism by flipping the terrorists the bird. Oh Toby, you're such a badass!

I think the rest are pretty self-explanatory. Unless you are still unable to grasp the fact that this is a concert, in Iraq, and Toby is the one in the blue shirt -- in which case, you should not admit you are relieved that I just told you all that, because I will point and laugh at you. Loudly.

You don't need to thank me -- just do a shot this weekend for all of us sober folks in the desert, and we'll call it even.

Or else (as Toby says), "We'll put a BOOT in your ass; it's the American way!"

"Vomit," and variations thereof

2005-07-16T00:57:00.000+04:00

It's amazing how my regular night shift seems to fly by so quickly, but a night of guard duty creeps so slowly you'd think time had actually stopped, and possibly begun running backward.

Luckily I don't have to pull guard duty too often (my last all-nighter was a couple weeks ago), and a night of that is far better than any outdoor duties during the daytime, but sitting in a chair, usually by yourself, trying to stay awake all night -- with no entertainment except perhaps watching eagerly as unsuspecting victims blunder into the concertina wire -- can be a bit of a drag.

Especially when you have to wear what feels like every piece of gear the Army has ever issued you, and you have so much sweat collecting in your cleavage that you could swear there are tiny micro-organisms having a little pool party down there.

There was one guy on duty with me for part of the night who had just been out there two nights before. One of his sergeants had decided that making him do it again would be a good way to punish my buddy for having his sleeves rolled up (the nerve of this guy, rolling his sleeves halfway up his forearms in 130-degree heat! Can you imagine?).

So the sleeve-roller was teling me about the situation, trying to find just the right way to express his displeasure in the extraordinary dumbass-ness exhibited by his sergeant.

Which leads me to the Quote Of The Day:

"Man, that guy should have been a blow job."

Even if I could have said it better myself ... why would I want to?
_________________________________________________

I'm sure the anticipation of the Vomit Story has been driving you all mad, judging from the quality of your responses to yesterday's question (or was it earlier today? Eh, who even knows anymore?), so I may as well satisfy your sick cravings before you start stalking me.

Before I begin, keep in mind that although I may seem to be the very image of sophistication and docility, I am, in fact, not.

I am 22 years old, and I have been in the Army for three years. Take everything you know about twenty-somethings and the military, apply to it everything you know thus far about me, and you should end up with a semi-stupid, loud, foul-mouthed drunk with a tendency to not quite care about those little things called "rules."

Then add Iraq.

Now you are prepared for this story.

When I returned from leave, I may have mentioned that I carried back with me an admirable amount of a beverage that was DEFINITELY NOT ALCOHOLIC.

A few of my friends had also acquired something that was NOT ALCOHOL, so we decided to pool our resources and mix the NON-ALCOHOLIC beverages (which were both in the same "family" but definitely not the same "brand," which apparently makes "mixing" not a "good idea") together for the sake of convenience and, I don't know, family bonding.

Did I mention the word "stupid" yet? Because combining a beverage we shall call "Bim Jeam" with a beverage we shall call "Rown Croyal" would certainly be classified in a category containing that word and its synonyms several times. And actually pouring the mixture down one's throat should really be a crime.

However, with our reckless abandon and firm conviction that "No Drinking On Deployment is a SUCKY rule!" we passionately consumed a delicious cocktail which I have come to know as "Pre-Puke."

Yes, that's right. The vomit outside the trailer was my own. I admit it. I am a 'tard.

But the visual you must all be getting of me efficiently and involuntarily ridding my body of said tasty mixture is NOT, if you can believe it, the best part of this tale. I learned the best part last night, as another member of my guard shift (who had been a part of the NOT-DRUNKEN revelry) felt it was his duty to inform me of The Future Of The Spew.

The day after my little stomach-emptying adventure, our company's First Sergeant happened to pass by the trailer where lay my, um, product.

My friends were there when he stopped by, and thought for sure that they would be found out, because why would there be remnants of ralph outside the door of a room belonging to men who were not ill? Other than bulimia, which can be ruled out because these guys believe in holding on to perfectly good food as long as possible.

As they stood there, bracing themselves for the worst ... well I should let my buddy tell it.

"He looked at us, and at the puke, and we were all 'Oh please don't get suspicious,' but in our heads, you know, and then he looked at us AGAIN, and said, 'Why is there chewed up food on the ground?' ... DUDE! He thought we were chewing up food and spitting it on the ground!"

You have to admit that any of your suggestions would have been more intelligent than that one -- even Brin's squeaky-gloppy Spock-attackers, which would have had to come from an imaginary planet!

Yep. They only promote the best and the brightest, in this Army!

Which, I suppose, is REALLY good for us drunks.

Care for a quickie?

2005-07-15T03:48:00.000+04:00

First of all, you guys all rock my hizz-ouse, and the love is so totally felt.

Mwah!

I'm technically in the middle of a 12-hour guard shift, but since the area we're guarding is really in no danger whatsoever of anything infiltrating it except, oh, maybe the evil dust-flinging wind, I got to take a break for a minute.

Whoops! Minute's up!

But before I go, I pose this question to you:

If you see vomit on the ground outside someone's trailer on your camp, and, for some reason unknown to sane people, you don't recognize it as vomit, what else would you assume it could be?

All suggestions may be deposited in the comment box.

Back-story to follow tomorrow ... stay tuned!

Every Meany needs a Nowhere Man

2005-07-14T02:05:00.000+04:00

You know, I realize that I've classified myself as a bitter cynic who looks at the world through shit-stained glasses, but I've found that every once in a while, it does me some good to think about the various happy-fuzzy parts of my life.

So, at the risk of alienating those of you who came by to hear some expletive-spattered ranting about the vicious dick slap that is my deployment, I'd like to break from the routine for a moment and indulge in some expletive-spattered blessing-counting. Mmkay?

Here goes, as they say, nothin'.
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Although I hate being stuck in Iraq for a year more than your typical homophobe hates a drag show, I have to admit that if I hadn't come here, I would be a different person right now -- and not necessarily in a good way.

All my life, I've been told that I'm too impulsive, too hardheaded, and too resistant to the idea of changing myself, rather than other people, whenever I come up against a difficult situation.

This, I know, is not exactly a mature attitude, akin to demanding a river to dry up so I can cross it, rather than putting in some effort and building a bridge over it, or finding a raft to ford it.

Since I've been stuck in this disgusting environment, stranded among people who, for the most part, don't give a fart in a closet about me, I've had to learn to harness the parts of me that want to stir up trouble and bring attention to my own unhappiness.

I'm by no means good at it now, but I think I'm a considerable distance from my starting point. When someone upsets me, when a situation confuses me to the point of anger, it's gotten a lot easier for me to look at it as a minor inconvenience -- not the first shot fired in a new world war. And even though I'm one who's always understood anger better than acceptance, I'm finally being forced to either change my ways, or be miserable.

It's a good thing misery sucks such very stanky ass, because I never would have done it on my own.
_________________________________________________

Another benefit I've reaped solely from being sent here is a bittersweet one.

I was shipped off near the end of January, about five months into my marriage, having been told by many seasoned veterans of spousedom that the first year is the hardest.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I thought as I squeezed Husband one last time before boarding the bus, which would take me to the plane, which would dump me in Kuwait. "How are we going to deal with the normal stresses of The First Year if we also have to add on a 7,000-mile separation?"

Well.

It's been far more difficult than I even imagined -- after only six months! Now throw into the mix Husband's aversion to phone conversation and propensity for spending money as soon as it hits his pocket, and then my own anxieties and dread of admitting that any problem is out of my own personal control.

Woo hoo! It's like a party in a can! Misconstrued words flying like confetti, tempers flaring and bursting like fireworks, accusations whipping across the span of continents faster than any bullet propelled from an M16.

But because of all of that, the thought that keeps echoing in my brain is, "If we can get through this, we can get through anything. If our fragile, young marriage can hurdle this giant obstacle, whatever else happens to fall in our path will seem like nothing more than a twig on the trail."

That, my friends, is something to work for. More than the money I'm saving and the experiences I'm collecting, it's the little connections I'm making with Husband and the little victories we share every time another struggle is overcome that keep me going.

I'm sure we would have had our issues even without me being here, but please understand me when I say that being able to resolve these problems from this distance -- feeling like they are truly resolved without that loving hug of closure, or that tentative smile of forgiveness, or even (dare I say it?) that release of some stellar make-up sex -- feels like more of an accomplishment than anything I've felt before.
_________________________________________________

The last thing I want to say will hopefully mean something to all of you, my devoted ducklings!

I've mentioned before that when I started writing in this diary, I was hoping to have an outlet in which to vent my frustrations, maybe even a venue to peddle my attempts at creative writing (complete with free criticism!).

If I hadn't been stuck in a tent in Kuwait, bored, tired and filled to the brim with pent-up hostility -- and if I hadn't just so happened to have a computer available -- I most likely never would have even thought about journaling.

As a result, I never would have had the opportunity to become acquainted with all of you, who have played a bigger role than you can possibly know in keeping me from one extreme of depression, and another of unbridled rage.

There are very few people out here with whom I feel fairly close, and to whom I can speak openly and honestly about whatever happens to be going through my mind -- be it work, personal issues, politics, or just plain old rambling.

Here, I know that I can do that. No matter what inane rants spew forth from the chasms of my brain, I know that somebody is going to listen (or read, if you want to get technical about it) and respond.

Maybe you'll say something funny, maybe something informative, maybe compassionate, maybe insulting -- who knows? But it's exactly what I need to keep my creative juices flowing and my mind from twisting all my thoughts around into a large, unmanageable lump.

Plus, you send me presents! How cool is that?! As of right now, I have had love showered upon me in the form of books (Thanks to Batten), magazines (Thanks to ebm), tasty treats (Thanks to Poola and Michael), CDs, (Thanks to Dangerspouse and Thatgrrrl), and even naughty toys (Thanks to Hiss and Michael)!

(By the way, if anyone who has sent me something has been left out, it was purely unintentional -- I love you, too!)

All of you have become dear friends to me, and have inspired me to write as very few have before. As much as I hate to admit it, I never would have been able to say all that if I hadn't gotten deployed to The Land Of The Boiling Butt Stench.
_________________________________________________

Now, I hope I haven't bored anyone too much with this little break from my firmly established routine of bitch/moan/complain/mock, but I felt that it had to be done. I mean, even the meanest Meany couldn't be mean forever -- right, Witty?

Thank you all, for being my Boob!

The cycle be broken! And, pictures!

2005-07-13T01:10:00.000+04:00

After reading over my last entry, I realized that I can now truly be classified as Loser, A Big One.

Sleep, eat, work. Sleep, eat, work. Sleep, eat, work. Sleep, eat, work. VOMIT!

So I decided to mix it up a little bit, and go to the pool today with my friend/next-room-neighbor -- the Sausage Pool, as I fondly call it, due to the overwhelming majority of its patrons being Persons With Sausage .

You may be wondering, "Well, if it's as easy as all that for her to shake up her loser-y routine, why doesn't she go to the pool every day? Is she, as we may have formerly suspected, retarded?"

But nay, surprisingly, I am not retarded. I would SO go to the pool every day, if it were not for one teeny, tiny detail: Choosing to go to the pool is synonymous with choosing not to sleep.

I can either sleep between shifts, or I can make use of my day. There is no middle ground. A nap is but a cruel tease which, when it is over, results in bitter resentment of all things at rest.

"Fuck inertia, I said get moving, people!" is a frequent post-nap utterance of mine to immobile, yet innocent, bystanders. "Objects at rest tend to stay at rest, my ASS! I was at rest a minute ago, and just look at me now! Fuck you, Sir Isaac Newton -- you QUACK!"

So, yeah, I didn't sleep today.

MOVING ON ...

The pool was lovely and refreshing, but as soon as I exited the water, the sun (which is, by the by, a vindictive asshole) decided that it would crank up its ray-magnitude to level Let's Set People On Fire, and my body was instantly dry. And red -- can't forget the redness, if only because it actually causes me to have a Rudolph-esque "very shiny glow."

We only ended up staying there about an hour, because in addition to being A Big Loser, I am also A Pussy.

"I think I'm going to evaporate," I said to my friend.

She responded compassionately, "Will you hand me that lighter first?"

Eventually though, we decided that it was time to peel ourselves off of the pool chairs and start walking back.

Why, yes! Yes we DID walk back! A couple of miles! Through the heat of Satan's groin! Thanks for asking!

Once collapsing in my room, which is air-conditioned by the grace of God to the point of being an actual freezer, I nursed myself back to health using the only way possible without extensive travel: eating chocolate and watching Season One of 21 Jump Street.

Yes, Johnny, I do love you. May I bear your future children?
_________________________________________________

Since I have nothing else of interest to share verbally (re: I = Loser), here are a few photographical delicacies for you all to feast on whilst I cool my brain down:

Please note the "FLAMMABLE" fuel truck behind me, with its strict ban on "SMOKING WITHIN 50 FEET."
If you peer into the upper left-hand corner, you will be able to see Incompetent Co-worker deftly lumbering through our shot. Of course.

Hello! I'm an oxymoron!

In OUR dining facility, one prime rib is never enough. Which, apparently, also is true of one English class.

Here is a flower! Holy shit!! We have a FLOWER here!

This was fun. We should do it again sometime, hmm?

Here we go again ... and again ... and again ...

2005-07-12T00:43:00.000+04:00

Monotony: (n) The force which enables one to "sleep-work."

We've all seen the movie "Groundhog Day," right? Where Bill Murray finds himself repeating the same day over and over again?

(All of you who now have "I Got You, Babe" stuck in your heads starting from the line "so put your little hand in mine, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb" -- you've seen it too many times.)

There's an ongoing joke out here that that movie was based on our camp. Most of us work in a Large Boring Building known as the division headquarters, and each day is usually exactly like the next.

Seriously. I had to ask two people what day of the week it was today. (It's not that I forgot the first time, just that the first guy I asked didn't know, either.) The only variable in my day is the number of meals I eat.

This is the general routine:

5:50 p.m. Alarm begins incessant beeping, wrath is visited upon snooze button, alarm is reset for 6:20.

6:20 p.m. Alarm again, accompanied by audible howl of frustration.

6:25 p.m. Insert plastic eyeballs, stumble to shower trailer as wind whips dust into face and creates brown film on previously-clean towel.

6:50 p.m. Emerge, cleansed, from shower trailer, come under attack by wind which has been patiently waiting for this very moment, reach own room where de-dusting of eyelashes commences.

6:53 p.m. Dress for work. Decisions, decisions -- put on desert camouflage uniform which properly fits, or desert camouflage uniform which moderately fits but is cleaner? Hair in twisted bun or regular bun? So many options.

7:00 p.m. Knock on wall in room, ask neighbor through wall if she can spare a smoke/would like to go to dinner.

7:05 p.m. Go to dining facility, possibly eat, possibly get to-go plate. Pause to marvel at quantity and quality of desserts which dare not eat, at risk of resembling full-grown orca in less than a week.

7:20 p.m. Walk to work, make small talk with entry-control-point guards at Large Boring Building, field compliments/insults/scornful laughter regarding gigantic sunglasses.

7:30 p.m. Sit down at computer: check work e-mail account/hotmail account, open Google News/Diaryland/MS Word, read diaries, feign ultra-busy-ness to boss.

9:30 p.m. Smoke, join fellow smokers in bitch/moan session, find out FOR SURE what day of week it is.

9:45 p.m. Do iota of work, attempt to write diary entry.

Neighborhood of 11:30ish p.m. to 2:00 a.m. Submit diary entry, do additional iota of work.

2:05 a.m. Smoke, battle darkness/light eye torture.

2:20 - 7:00 a.m. Complete work while obsessively checking e-mail/refreshing buddy list/surfing web/keeping imminent mental collapse at bay/taking additional smoke breaks.

7:05 a.m. Burn classified documents in evil ash-spitting Burn Barrel.

7:25 a.m. Sweep floor, mop floor, take out trash, sing "Cinderelly, Cinderelly" under breath.

7:30 a.m. Flee Large Boring Building, go to breakfast.

7:40 a.m. Eat ham-and-cheese omelet or buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel, also several varieties of fruit to justify massive carb intake via snacking continuously during shift.

8:10 a.m. Return to Small Boring Room, strip off uniform with lightning speed, remove plastic eyeballs, don embarrassingly-thick-to-point-of-being-binoculars glasses, read one chapter of whichever book is closest to hand.

8:50 a.m. Fall asleep, despite fucking Blackhawks flying over fucking trailer every thirty fucking minutes, plus intermittent fucking booms which could be fucking anything.

Repeat.

Laundry turn-in/pick-up days (Sundays/Wednesdays) help change it up a little bit, but for the most part, this is my life.

I have actually reached the caliber of your average Monotony Superhero, who saves the same people from dangerous spontaneity every single day.

"It's a bird!"
"It's a plane!"
"No, it's Monotony Man; who else is in this exact location around 3:30 p.m. every Thursday? Duh."
_________________________________________________

To everyone who offered up their loving congratulations the other day when I announced my award-winning news o'happiness: you are my favorite people in the world. If I could get you all together in one place, I would throw you the rulingest party EVER. Thank you!
_________________________________________________

I watched Sin City today in lieu of reading a chapter in my book, and let me tell ya -- it fucking ROCKED!

I've never been one of those action-movie junkies, and I've also never been that into comic books, mainly because I'm too easily-distracted to get obsessed with anything other than Johnny Depp.

And now Clive Owen, who is the sexiest man ever to join an army of lethal, gun-wielding, cop-slicing prostitutes.

That movie kicked such tremendous amounts of ass (and I'm not comparing it to whatever "graphic novels" it was based on, because in case you have short-term memory loss and forgot already, I know about three degrees less than nothing about that sort of thing), that I am ordering you, yes ordering you, to get up out of your comfy web-surfing chair and get it right this very second. If you've seen it already, get it again. Do not deprive yourself of the wicked-coolness of this movie, nor the hotness that is Clive.

Because Clive is HOT. And if you disagree, fine, but let's see you gather a better prostitute-army!

Yeah, that's what I thought.
_________________________________________________

I just got up to go to the bathroom (Number One, thankyouverymuch), and when I was in there, there was someone a couple stalls down who sounded like she was attempting to birth a baby rhinocerous. I got out of there as quickly as I could, because ew, who wants to be able to match a face to those noises??

Enjoying your lunch?
_________________________________________________

Before I go, I have a question to ask those of you who are involved in reasonably peaceful and/or happy relationships which have lasted for, oh, let's say more than a year thus far.

How does one go about instructing one's husband in the ways of being an attentive spouse who does not drain his wife's bank account while she is away at war?

Any advice? Please? I'm going just a tiny bit out of my mind.
_________________________________________________

If you are gay, or if you are not gay, you will probably shit your pants from laughing at this.

And while you're at it, check out what Iraqi Reality TV has to offer!

Hint: it's much more "reality" than "TV"

Ho hum ... (that's the noise a prostitute makes)

2005-07-11T00:17:00.000+04:00

Why am I not able to stop eating honey-roasted peanuts?

I can clearly see that they will cause me to morph into the Giant Honey Roasted Peanut, but I continue to shovel them listessly down my throat, pausing only to lick "honey" crud from my lips and dislodge legume grout from my pathetic little broken tooth.

Damn you, honey-roasted peanuts! You and your careless "No Preservatives Added" claims! Why do you want my bottom to expand to the point where it must be towed in a large wagon? Don't you care about my needs at ALL???

Beware, my friends. Beware.

_________________________________________________

I've been told that my unit is going to be administering a 100% urinalysis at some future date to be determined.

Isn't that the best way to keep people from using drugs? You don't even need to waste money on doing the actual test, just tell everyone that "it's been scheduled for the near future, so be ready."

Especially because out here, it's not too easy to avoid Test Day when it comes around. There's no "calling in sick" or "having car trouble" or "getting shot the night before."

Well, maybe that last one. But still.

So what I'm trying to say is ... anybody need a slightly-used "tobacco pipe"?*

*obviously I am just kidding and would never attempt to sell "paraphernalia" via my online diary**
**but seriously -- anybody?***
***KIDDING! Geez ...
_________________________________________________

I'm sorry; I'm a bit disgruntled today. I think it's because my entire job necessitates reading all the depressing news stories about everything going on over here.

Hey! Civilian Media People! Would you mind covering maybe ONE positive story about Iraq? Seeing as how exploding buildings are about as common as they come these days, it might be nice to see what's going on in the buildings which are still standing.

I mean, we know about the school donations, the medical and civil aid missions, the construction projects, the patrols, and what have you, but, um ... it seems like nobody else really does.

Wanna throw us a bone, there, Civilian Media People? We're trying, we swear. We're not all dead yet.

Now if you'll excuse me ... apparently a mosque just blew up.

Frigging terrorists.

The Army says I'm special

2005-07-09T23:22:00.000+04:00

Fresh from the Tooting My Own Tiny Horn department ...

How many of you remember the Army journalism award I got back in February? The one that I was MEGA EXCITED about because I came in FIRST place?

Well ... today I got another award from the Army, as a little pat on the back for getting the first one.

Cool, huh? An award for getting an award? Sometimes the Army's strange ways work to my advantage, I guess.

Anyway, yay me!

I obviously rock the hizz-ouse. Even though I appear to be gazing off into space in this photo.

_________________________________________________

OBSERVATION:

When one's pectoral muscles are fairly sore, and one then attempts to operate a broom, said muscles go into Wild Stabbing Spasm Mode, prompting one to wish a slow, tortuous death upon the individual who invented the broom, and the broom manufacturers, and the knob-slobbing neatfreak who decided the floor needed to be swept in the first place.
_________________________________________________

Today, I'd like to share with you a few of the major Sights which you would see if you wandered aimlessly around my camp.

You are cautioned not to look at these if you are easily annoyed, as you will probably give yourself a concussion as a result of the violent and repetitive forehead-smacking they tend to provoke.

I see this every day as I walk from work to breakfast. It is strategically placed perpendicular to a sidewalk and parallel to a dirt road, with the nearest asphalt roughly a half-mile away. However, the individual who engineered its design and emplacement was clearly driven mad with rage, and may have written "asphalt" instead of "sidewalk" or "dirt road" as a result of mental instability.

Everywhere there is a "Potable Water" tank, you will surely spot a "Black Water" tank in its immediate vicinity. There are several different conclusions we can draw from this, and none of them are especially pretty. The ambiguity of the situation only serves to make it that much more disturbing.

What a charming little sign! How friendly it is! How considerate! How nowhere-near-where-anyone-would-cross-the-road! How, in fact, stamped-on-the-side-of-the-Black-Water-tank! Huh!

As you can see, I find myself simply bombarded with logic throughout the day. This boosts my morale, and gives me faith in the organization to which I belong. It inspires me to reach new heights within that organization, and even to dream of --

Oh, who am I kidding? It makes me want to smack random strangers in the face with a two-by-four.

Maybe I should just go sniff some glue, you know? As they say, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"

What, no applause?

2005-07-09T01:58:00.000+04:00

Today was one of those agonizingly achy days where I desperately wished my body was hooked up to a life support machine, just so I could have someone pull the plug.

I woke up to discover that several hundred cinder blocks had been carefully placed upon my thighs.

The cinder blocks were invisible, of course, but I knew they were there, because you know those nerve endings whose job it is to sense incredible pain? They gave me the heads-up.

I'm really not too worried, as this particular level of suffering is by now a normal part of my Day After The Physical Fitness Test routine.

Those whiny little nerve endings, though -- they are being total dicks about it.

"We hurt!" they shriek. "We need medical attention! We think there is a water buffalo or Yeti or something sitting on top of these cinder blocks! Did you know you had pectoral muscles? We didn't, at least not until this Semi parked itself on them! SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!"

So it is now clearer than a stripper's heels that I will not be attempting any strenuous movement (standing, sitting, bending, etc.) without an extremely valid reason.

A "valid reason" being, in case there was any confusion, the threat of my soul being damned for all eternity, or the beginning of Armageddon, or the dire need for some water to wash down this entire bottle of pain pills. Something along those lines.

If you should hear, from my general direction, any odd noises akin to a bellowing walrus, or maybe an elephant with the croup, don't you worry -- it's probably just my poor little nerve endings, over-reacting to a flight of stairs.
_________________________________________________

Today is a special day, you know. Anyone care to take a gander as to why that is?

No, Talk Like A Pirate Day isn't till September.

Sorry, Cinco de Mayo is usually observed a little earlier in the year.

Nope, I haven't impregnated myself.

What's that? [leaning closer] No! Didn't I tell you never to bring that wretched night up again? You're lucky Hillary didn't hear you!

So [ahem] ... do you give up?

Today I am posting my 100th entry here at Diaryland!

Yes, this one. Derr.

I know it's not really a big deal, but the thing is I had all these pictures just hanging out on my computer, so I thought I'd hook you guys up with a little "then-to-now" type gallery-timeline-dealie. It's not entirely complete, and I'm using a couple photos that I posted back when they were taken, but -- eh, whatchou gonna do?

Plus, this searing pain is making it kind of hard for me to think of anything else to write.

Okay, here goes ...

I saw this herd of camels shortly after I got to Kuwait. I believe I was attempting to give them the "thumbs up," but the sleeves of my jacket, which was apparently designed for an orangutan, make it look more like I'm holding on to some sort of imaginary handles in the sky.

This was meant to be a Valentine's Day greeting to Husband, but since my expression is one which conveys my misery in the grip of the Kuwaiti Death Sniffles, I decided to just write him this poem:

"Your booty's so squeezable, squishy and pinkish
Which helps me forget just how awful its stink is
But still, on the whole
From my heart and my soul
I'd rather lick it than be stuck here in Kuwait."

I am SO romantic.

Here I am in Iraq, about to take my first ride in a Blackhawk. Whee! I was the total retard who couldn't figure out how the stupid jillion-armed seatbelt worked.

The first story I covered in Baghdad was at the infamous Crossed Sabers parade ground, in front of Saddam's reviewing stand. I was STOKED about being there, as you might be able to tell from the way I summoned this cheese-filled grin despite the magnificent Niagara Perspiration Falls gushing through my pores the entire day.

I interviewed one of my favorite comedians, Colin Quinn, sometime in March when he was at a camp near us. I know I've said this before, but I love the Zoolander "Blue Steel" look he's rocking in this picture. This is also the last remaining picture of me with anything resembling clear skin, and must be held in a place of honor.

Hell YES I will include this frozen moment in time of me falling desperately in love with Toby Keith! You can totally tell how he's just aching to pick me up in his massive gorilla-arms and carry me off into the sunset.

That's all I got for now, mainly because all the others are too big, and I don't feel like resizing them at the moment.

If you are that bored and really want to see more, you can go back through my older entries -- I put a bunch of photos up in April of the few adventures I managed to have before they chained me to this desk.

Anyway, Happy 100th Entry to me! See, there's always a reason to celebrate, here!

Now I'm afraid I must be going ... my nerve endings have instructed me to bathe in a tub of Ben-Gay.

You can just call me "Faily McSucksatlife"

2005-07-08T00:10:00.000+04:00

First and foremost:

London. Buddy. We feel for ya. We are attempting to take down those dirty bastard terrorists once and for all. We'll let ya know how it goes.

If you need anything, let us know -- we'll get right on it.

Psst! In case of emergency, the password is "WMD."
_________________________________________________

Now on to the self-deprecation portion of today's entry!

I would really not like to talk about the results of my Obvious Lack Of Physical Fitness test.

But since I am apparently one of those disturbed individuals who enjoy reliving FAILURE, I have no choice but to drag myself back into the freak show which is my bodily strength in its so-called "prime of life."

To begin with, my muscles (or, "strands of over-cooked noodles") have this tendency to, when I ask them to be any more active than a tree sloth, throw a little muscle hissy-fit.

"What did you say? RUN?! Oh, no, we're sorry, that's completely out of the question. In fact, we already have a deal worked out with your bowels, if you get our drift, to prevent you from even trying anything crazy like that. Not to mention, there is a nice little pocket of air in your side with which we will not hesitate to stab you relentlessly. That's right, you know you are our bitch."

Thus, my two-mile "run" was more of a two-mile "stagger," complete with the sort of "breathing noises" one is accustomed to "hearing" from a person in the throes of "passion," or possibly a "baboon" who is suffering from severe sinus "congestion."

I finished my two miles in 19 minutes and 47 seconds -- ELEVEN FUCKING SECONDS TOO SLOW.

Eleven. Seconds. A gust of WIND would have made an eleven-second difference.

Now we backtrack to the sit-ups. They were going just fine at first --or so I had the audacity to assume. Right around number thirty, the Revenge Of The Muscles kicked in, and my body just locked itself up into grunt-n-struggle mode.

I did 47 total sit-ups. Six more, and I would have passed. Do we sense a trend?

If we do, then our senses are surprisingly WRONG, because I actually passed my push-up quota: 32 were completed, and if I hadn't been on some sort of Crisco-slathered mat, I'm sure I would have done better.

But even so, when I was done with the push-ups ... there were side effects. Which I cannot fully describe without the help of King James.

"And yea, her arms, they did not move, and did hang at her sides like two giant Slim Jims, quivering in that breeze which did not make itself known in her time of need, the two-mile run. And her useless upper limbs desperately strove to do great harm to those Vile Flying Death Bugs which hovered about her face, but found themselves powerless to do so. And verily, she did commence to bitch and moan in the ears of all who wouldst hear it."

It was a pleasant morning, really. At least, it would have been if you define "pleasant" as "brutally, seizingly painful to the point where tarring and feathering would be considered a more desirable option."

There was, however, ONE solitary good thing.

As part of our testing we're required to get our height and weight recorded.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to announce that I have successfully gotten rid of four more unwanted pounds, and am only TWO TINY POUNDS away from my goal.

To which you reply, "Holy fucking shit!" because I have now achieved a weight which has been nothing but a happy, far-away memory to me since I was 16 years old.

Let's celebrate with CHEESECAKE!
_________________________________________________

Husband, who has clearly been hitting the crackpipe more often than the cheesecake dish, is re-enlisting tomorrow. He's been in the Army for almost four years, and is now signing up to do two more.

"Thank you for staying in the U.S. military, where we promise to try to remember to use some K-Y!"

Blecch.

The thing is, Husband actually likes the Army, unlike yours truly, who wishes it would get crushed with a mallet.

So there you have it: the yin and the yang of the Meany marriage.

Bet you thought it was more complicated, huh?

What will happen when we're both out of the military, you ask?

I'm assuming it will have something to do with him being a man, and me ... well ... NOT being one.

Just a thought.
_________________________________________________

Let's see, thought, thinking, The Thinker, posing, sitting ... ah! Toilets!

There is now a sign up in my building's bathroom that reads:

"Females!! Do Not Urinate On The Seat! If You Are Concerned With Sanitation Put Down Some TP!!"

Evidently, this sign is necessary. Which makes me sad.

Didn't we all, at some point, learn that bodily waste fluids are not intended to be avilable for observance by those from whom they did not originate?

Is this not, in fact, the entire reason for a toilet to be in "bowl" form and not in, say, "plate" form?

Ladies, I beg you -- take heed of the little-known Eleventh Commandment, which most of us have been attempting to teach our Cro-Magnonly men for decades, and which decrees:

"Thou shalt not dribble. If thou shouldst dribble, thou shalt wipe thy dribble away with the tool I have given thee, namely, Toilet Paper, which shall from this day hence be considered Your Friend."

Thus spaketh the Porcelain God.

"Johnny loves me best," and other true things

2005-07-06T23:10:00.000+04:00

Dear Witty and Hiss,

Stop the madness! We all know that Johnny, should he ever gaze upon my wondrous countenance, would commit himself and fully and devotedly to his one true love -- me, obviously. This would result in the chocolate-feeding/book-reading/whim-fulfilling, etc., which has already taken place in my (blatantly prophetic) dream.

I will participate in the chocolate-wrestling anyway, of course, purely because being covered in chocolate from head to toe is one of my primary goals in life. As it should be.

Love to you both, as always! But Johnny has made his choice, whether he knows it or not, and you two must learn to deal with disappointment sooner than later. Sorry girls, but that's life. Oh, and while I'm on a man-claiming roll here -- Michael's mine, too. Ta!

Kisses,

Meany

P.S. Johnny reads my diary! Johnny reads my comments! Nyah nyah nyah, and other adolescent taunts which may or may not be true!
_______________________________________

Update on impending proof of the pitiable worthlessness of my seemingly-toned yet feeble muscles:

The Physical Fitness Test Of Certain Doom And Despair is now upon me.

After my shift is over, I will change into my oh-so-flattering, Army-issued physical fitness t-shirt (now in cadaver-skin gray!) and shorts (complete with built-in blood-constricting panty-like device designed to make even the toughest Personal Region gasp for air!) and head down to the testing site (the gravel/asphalt combination that is every runner's dream).

In order to score the maximum number of points for my age group (22-26) and gender (female), I must do 46 push-ups in two minutes, 80 sit-ups in two minutes, and run two miles in 15 minutes and 36 seconds.

HOWEVER.

In order to score the minimum number of points required to pass the test and therefore meet my Army Physical Fitness Standard, I must do 17 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, and run my two miles in 19 minutes and 36 seconds.

Heh. Heh heh.

Now, let's review the actual amount of physical exercise-ish activity I have inflicted upon myself over the last, say, six months -- not including sex; walking to and from work, bed, and meals; and the act of drowsily forging my way out from under blankets:

- 1 morning jog, approximately one mile

- 2 bike rides around toxic lake at leisurely pace, approximately three miles each

- 30 minutes walking on menacing gym contraption due to all but involuntary gym-visit with Husband, approximately two miles

Right! Minimum required to meet the standards, it is!

Wish me luck ... or, pray that my leg randomly breaks, or my spleen ruptures, or my foot evaporates, or something to that effect.

Anything worth doing is also worth avoiding like the plague, I've always said!
_______________________________________

Now, since I have little to no concern about an actual segue which makes sense (You heard me, critics! Damn the Man!), I'd like to talk about what happens to your eyes when you torture them.

Some background: The building I work in is one that is constantly being targeted by pesky terrorists and their silly little mortars, rockets, what have you.

Although the terrorists have not yet hit us, I suspect because they are taking aiming lessons from a cross-eyed chihuahua on crack, the Powers That Be have decreed that no outer lights shall be allowed to make our building's whereabouts visible by night.

(To which I say, "Derr. In case you haven't noticed, the building remains in the same place during the day. Unless there is some sort of Romulan Cloaking Device in use -- which I highly doubt but may be led to believe via bribery -- the absence of a few nightlights will likely make about as much difference as Mary-Kate's rehab.")

Inside our building, a metric assload of artificial lighting apparatuses (apparati? apparatums?) roam unfettered across the ceilings, and are of the sort which, if the sun were to burn out, could easily replace it with no major adjustments or public acknowledgement.

No natural light is found herein because we don't believe in windows. Windows cause people to not feel as if they are trapped inside a giant block of cement, and this leads to high morale. "Leave Morale For The Terrorists," that's our motto!

Anyway. My point. Which does exist.

Every time I walk outside during my shift (night shift = dark outside = sucks to be a smoker), I am forced to transition from The Brightness Of The Heavens to The Darkness Of The Interior Of The Undershorts.

Not so bad. I stumble blindly from the door to the adjacent smoking area, where my eyes adjust in something like the time it takes me to be ready to go back in.

Upon opening the door and stepping inside, my retinas are violently assaulted by what appears to be the surface of the actual sun.

"AAARRRGGGGH!" they scream, as Lucy metaphorically pulls the football away from them and they land on their metaphorical tailbones. "WHY have you DONE THIS to US?!?!? AGAIN?!?"

And it goes on like this. Every night.

Why do you care? Well, it's very simple: you don't. But I felt the need to share it in spite of your apathy, and you are fine with that.

That's what I love about you guys! I revel in your indifference.
______________________________________

Before I go, I'd like to extend my hearty congratulations to London, which managed not to be an asshole to the Olympic committee folks. Unlike Paris, which most likely told them to "Go 'way! Or I shall taunt you a second time!"

Mad propz, London! I knew there was some reason we wanted you on our side.

Hmmm, no graceful conclusion comes to mind ... heh. Um. This is kind of embarrassing. Think of something, think of something! Ummmm ...

You're making me nervous, damn you!

Oh ...! Fine! God bless us everyone! Good night!

Fuckers.

Hey! It's Tuesday!

2005-07-05T23:48:00.000+04:00

Question: Exactly how delicious was that slice of cheesecake which I just consumed via what appeared, to the naked eye, to be a whooshful sucking blackhole vacuum-cleaner action?

Answer: Ah-aaah ... aaaah ... mmm mm aaAAAHHHH! SO GOOD! SOOOOO GOOOOOOOD! [droolslobberdrool] aaaahMUST GET MORE CHEESECAKE NOW!
_______________________________________

Apart from the orgasmic cheesecake, today was genuinely asstastic.

The anger-management-needing wind which has plagued my immediate world for the last couple days finally took a break today, probably to rest up in preparation for more dust-flinging vengeance in the near future.

I slept for 10 straight hours (from end-of-shift-o'clock to oh-fuck-I'm-so-late-for-work-thirty), thus avoiding the day's weather featuring a high of Post-Vigorous-Workout-Armpit degrees.

Now I'm sitting in my office chair ("introducing new Ass-Widening model!"), listening to my recently-acquired Proclaimers CD, which allows me to sufficiently Walk 500 Miles and then Walk 500 More Just To Be The Man Who Walked 1,000 Miles To Fall Down At Your Door With A Charming Scottish Accent.

And ooooh ... the cheesecake ...

I'm sorry, I'm going to need a minute alone to relive the cheesecake. Which will heretofore be referred to as The Diet-Thwarting Dessert Of Supreme Creamy Goodness.
_______________________________________

Any of you who happen to have found yourselves here by clicking on a crudely-manufactured depiction of an Iraqi political map outfitted with some pimpin' "24"s -- yes, I am That Much Of A Dork. It's not just, as they say, a One Time Thing.

Welcome! Stay awhile! Have a slice of Supreme Creaminess! Go check out Dubya's Hoedown Look!
_______________________________________

Husband called me yesterday to extend holiday salutations and inform me of his desire to insert objects into several of my bodily orifices.

How many of you have been wondering about my recent lack of entries focusing on Extreme Horniness Due To The Army Being A Cock-Blocking Bastard?

That many? You guys are such pervs!

Anyway, it's because I'm trying to ignore it. But it's not working. At all.

The scary thing is, I think some of the men have begun to sense it. They hover around me (an estrogen-exuding Vision of desert camouflage beauty), just waiting for their chance to break the I-Don't-Like-You-Like-That Barrier which keeps them from zestily ravaging my personal region.

**Note to Feminactivists: This just might be why women were kept out of the military for all those years. I'm just sayin'.**

So, yeah. Boo hoo for me and my involuntary celibacy. Begin the empathetic weeping which will not get me laid.

Six. More. Months.
_______________________________________

Oh, I can't believe this has yet gone unmentioned!

I now have MY OWN ROOM. Eeeee!!

The roommate I've had since I got here recently moved up to a different camp, leaving me the proud owner of a lovely little thing called Privacy.

Freedom of nudity is mine once again.

Why, thank you, life's small pleasures! Don't mind if I do!
_______________________________________

I was just informed that I have a Physical Fitness Test looming in the very near future, for which I am not prepared because I think exercise is E-vyil, like the De-vyil.

I'm pretty sure all the weight I've lost was simply muscle-mass, packing its bags and heading off in search of greener pastures, i.e., "those pastures which do not sit at a desk on their rump all night and then sleep all day, with smoke-breaks and snacks in between."

So, um ... imminent failure, here I come!
_______________________________________

I had a lovely dream during my last sleep (which is not at night, which is why I didn't say "last night", for those of you who were mildly curious for purely grammatical purposes), wherein Johnny Depp was my love slave and fed me chocolate chips out of the bag while insisting I let him stay with me forever to read me books and indulge my every whim.

We were very happy together before my alarm clock decided it wanted me to throw it across the room.

[BEEP]
"Johnny ..."
[BEEPBEEP]
"Johnny ... why are you beeping?"
[BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP]
"DamnyoualarmclockSHUTUP!!!"
[BEEPBEEPBEE-WHAM]
"Moooooaan ... Johnny? Fuck."

Off to Productivity Land I now skip merrily, flinging daisy-petals and trailing happy sunshine in my wake.

I leave you with this very important topic --

Cheesecake: Supreme Creamy Goodness, or just plain Heaven?

Discuss.

Exposed gums are sexy

2005-07-05T01:28:00.000+04:00

Have I ever mentioned that patience is not one of those virtues that I personally possess?

Self-control, too. Never quite got the hang of that one.

I just had to let you know all about that and get it out of the way so I can start bitching about how ALL MY TEETH ARE GOING TO FALL OUT OF MY MOUTH without feeling like I omitted anything.

The reason I'm now looking to be the proud owner of new, sexy, bare gums ("all the better to drool on you with, my dear!") is that somebody thought it would be a great idea if they gave me a bunch of mini-Jawbreakers.

Due to the unfortunate lack of such beneficial traits as I mentioned above, the Jawbreakers idea turned out to be a horrible, terrible, very very bad idea, akin to the infamous Five Shots Of Tequila Plus One Vicodan Equals Good Times idea of 2003.

I chew hard candy. Like, immediately. As soon as that peppermint or butterscotch or Tic Tac or Tootsie Pop or in this case fucking JAWBREAKER which is CALLED THAT for a VERY GOOD REASON passes through my lips, my teeth go absolutely insane with the chomping action.

I don't even know what to compare it to; it's that bad. Around Christmastime, when everyone's sucking their candy canes down to that deliciously dangerous point at the end? My candy cane has been consumed before the others are even fully moistened.

The Jawbreaker ordeal -- not a whole helluva lot different.

A WHOLE helluva lot more painful, however.

But I can't stop! I just keep grinding away at what might as well be a lump of fucking Formica, going "Ow!" [chew] "Ow!" [chew] "Owwrrgh!" [chew] as shards of molar fly out of my busily-chawmping gob, most likely fleeing "the pain, OH MY GOD the pain!"

My dentist probably thinks he's at the Museum Of Fillings complete with a tour through the Land Of No Floss, whenever I go there (generally only when I've been pretty healthy for awhile and need a little toothcare smackdown to keep me on my toes).

Anyway ... OW. There had to be, like, eight drillion Jawbreakers in that bag, and I just had to be little miss OCD-sugar-addicted-masochistic-stupid-shit and eat them fucking ALL.

Hrmph.

And, ow.
_______________________________________

In other news from the I Suck At Life But Not On Jawbreakers department, I found out today that apparently, I am the cheesiest Diarylander alive.

I made this banner which literally looked like it had been designed by a crayon-wielding goat with questionable motor skills, but which I thought might be so supremely pun-errificly fugly that people would click on it anyway.

Diaryland says, "Hey Meany, how about a nice consolation prize of No Clicks By Anyone? Loser!"

Or also it could have been trying to say, "Hey Meany, why would you put up a banner over a long weekend when nobody's updating except you and that guy who sits in a dark room all day refreshing his buddy list ever four-point-six seconds? Loser!"

This just hasn't been such a fantastic day for me, as non-depressing days go.

As far as pain-filled hours of stabbing rejection go, however, it ROCKED!

See, I can be an optimist when it counts!

Ow.

___________________________

ADDITIONAL ITEM OF INTEREST!

Tell me that Dubya doesn't TOTALLY look like he's wearing a huge, floofy, barn-raisin'-picnic skirt in this picture:

Tee hee! Don't fergit t'slop th'hogs, Georgie! Yee haw!

[Insert Cheesy Patriotic Country Song Title Here]

2005-07-04T00:18:00.000+04:00

Happy Fucking Fourth!

I don't know why I felt the need to be so aggressive with my holiday well-wishes just now, but let's go ahead and blame it on Womanhood and all the joys which lie therein, hmm?

Anyway, it's great that America is still all independent and shit, but other than that, I don't have much to say about it that everyone else and their third-inbred-cousin-in-law haven't already said.

EXCEPT ... for this short story about a very popular "Freedom Of" -- that of The "We're SO Not Biased" Press!

I had the good fortune a couple of years ago to be assigned the task of gathering "Man on the Street"-type interviews for the Independence Day issue of our post newspaper (which we we would never call "military propaganda" straight to its face, but, uh, Go Army!).

I've always loved being able to push random questions upon bewildered strangers, but my favorite part about the job was that I got to hear all kinds of wack-ass answers, and then slyly print the ones which were most likely to offend anyone without an active sense of humor.

My attempts weren't always successful, due to the ultra-high level of Please Don't Get Mad At Our Newspaper molecules in the air, but on this glorious occasion, victory was mine.

The question was, "Do you think it's important to celebrate Independence Day and why or why not?"

The interviewee (who that day earned the title of Best Interviewee In All Of Recent History), responded, "Well, we kicked some British ass a couple hundred years ago, so that's a good enough reason for me to party."

As this was the blatantly-not-giving-a-fuck type of answer I'd been waiting for all morning, I had to refrain from pumping my arm and emitting the obligatory, "Yessss!"

I collected the young patriot's name and headed back to the office for some exquisitely surreptitious quote-maneuvering.

The next day, the paper hit the stands.

Well, who'da thunkit, they got them some Inglish folks in Jawja!

Only, like, two, though.

Still, those two were irritated enough to call the office, and since that's really all I need to maintain my ever-professional shit-eating grin (also since I wasn't the copy editor), I counted myself triumphant.

Let's hear it for Intentional Crossing Of The Foreign Relations Line! Hurrah!

Oh, and, um, We [Heart] The UK!

(Especially your accents. Mm mm mm.)

Our forefathers kicked your forefathers' ASS.

But I guess now you're on our side, so GoGreatBritain!

I bet it still stings, doesn't it, every Fourth of July? Yes, of course it does.

That's okay. At least you have Tony Blair, who can pronounce words -- that's better than our guy can do. Doesn't that help a little? Don't cry; we still love you.

And now I leave you, my fellow Americans -- and also citizens of those other places -- with these eventually-historic words, written by two of my favorite offensive assholes:

"America! FUCK YEAH!!"
_______________________________________

P.S.

Now that we've wrapped up today's Main Patriotic Shizz-nit, I'd like to say that everyone who enjoyed my Exhaustive List O'Bullshit yesterday is in for a BIG treat:

I'm gonna finish it!

In fact, by the time I post this, it may even be finished already.

You see, due to the EXTREMELY LEGAL fuck-with-your-body-mind-and-soul energy supplement I took a few hours ago, I've come up with a couple more items for your time-wasting pleasure. I also did some Power Spell Checking, as my brain obviously neglected to properly communicate with my fingers last night.

So go on! Go read 'em! Or not, whatever. They'll be there later.

They'll never let go, Jack!

(ChuckleSNORTchucklestupidmoviereferenceSNORTchuckle)

Pretty Damn Near 100 Things

2005-07-03T03:30:00.000+04:00

Hi there, everyone!

[crickets chirping]

Oh, that's right, everyone's off on their nice long patriotic-beer-binge-bottle-rocket holiday weekend.

Isn't that special.

But you know what? That's okay.

Over here, we've got fireworks aaaall year round.

Loud ones, too. Thhhhppppt!

Sigh ... who am I kidding?

Someone drink a beer for me, willya?
_______________________________________

So, since ain't nobody heah, I figure I'll use the time I usually spend reading your updates and penning devoted comments to do something I've been tempted to do for a loooong time now.

That's right, g money ...

The Official Blue Meany 100 Things You Never Really Wanted To Know About Me List is about to make its grand debut!

Bear with me now, because I'm not sure if I can even come up with 100 things about me that will not make you want to smash your screen, fleeing the room out of sheer terror and boredom.

But I'll do what I can, and you will love it. Do you hear me?! YOU WILL LOVE IT LIKE YOUR OWN SMALL, HELPLESS CHILD!!

Heh. Um ... yeah. That leads me to the first 100 Thing:

1. I have random outbursts, usually the kind that cause Incompetent Co-worker to observe, "Man, I kept expecting your head to start spinning."

Shit, I've scared everyone. Let me continue with something a little less along the lines of Whoa She's Fucking Insane.

2. I was brought up in a close-knit family, with one brother almost two years younger than me, and parents who have been married more than 25 years.

3. I was homeschooled until I was a freshman in high school. When I tell people this fact, they usually say, "Ohhh ... that makes sense." I've never known how to respond to that.

4. My personality is such that most people either really love me or really don't.

5. I'm always most comfortable with people who can make me either laugh till I cry or think till my brain hurts.

6. My favorite toy as a child was a Cabbage Patch doll named Matty Bob. Its gender remains unknown.

7. I have been in deeply in love with books of all types since I learned to read at age four.

8. My taste in music is eclectic to the point that someone who doesn't know me might suspect I have multiple personalities.

9. At times, I also suspect this of myself.

10. My greatest passions are writing, reading and spontaneity.

11. I tend to get bored and want to move on after a few months in one place or one job.

12. Which I should have considered more thoroughly before joining the Army.

13. Damn spontaneity.

14. I have always been outspoken and strong-willed, and discovered that early in life that this is not always a good thing.

15. I am extremely gullible, not really in a "You dropped your pocket" "Nuh uh!" sense, but in more of a "Some llamas can fly!" "Really?" sense.

16. I almost always laugh at any type of humor, but really well-used sarcasm has a special place in my heart.

17. The word "popular" has never been used when referring to me.

18. That used to bother me quite a bit, but I eventually realized that the popular kids were generally superficial airheads, and therefore not very much fun.

19. My definition of "fun" is "anything worth doing again."

20. I would rather regret doing something I've already done than regret not doing something I could have.

21. But I also firmly believe that (CLICHE ALERT!) everything happens for a reason -- even if that reason is unclear to me at the time.

22. I attended three different high schools -- private, public, and boarding -- and did not graduate from any of them, although I got my GED before involuntarily going to boarding school.

23. Speaking of that, I was always a bit of a hellion. Or more accurately, an enormous pain in the ass.

24. But due to my quick temper, impulsiveness and complete inability to tell a believable lie, I was a terribly unskilled rebel, and ultimately was inclined to reform for convenience's sake.

25. I have a bad habit of repeating my mistakes, subconsciously believing that "things will turn out differently this time around."

26. This, I'm told, is a common belief of schizophrenics.

27. (I'm not a schizophrenic.)

28. My foot is in my mouth nearly as often as my tongue is in my cheek, and this is not a coincidence.

29. I will not eat sauerkraut, on the grounds that I do not believe it can be classified as food.

30. I will eat anything that originates in my grandmother's kitchen, on the grounds that it is classifed as the best food ever made anywhere.

31. I will not hesitate to physically defend the previous statement, although I would most likely be beaten to a gelatinous pulp in the attempt.

32. This is because I fight like a girl -- in some cases, like a crippled girl with no eyes and the reflexes of your average slumbering heifer.

33. I love to dance and will gladly use any excuse to bust the proverbial move.

34. If you should ever witness me dancing, you should feel free to join any other witnesses present in the sort of uncontrollable, shrieking laughter that does not stop until, due to an extreme lack of oxygen, it becomes more like a series of heaving, gaspy squeaks which are only audible to dogs, bats, and certain species of sea-dwelling creatures.

35. I believe that bubble wrap, when used as anything other than packing material, can be instrumental in forming an unbreakable bond between complete strangers.

36. I have never been able to see any constellation other than Orion's Belt and the Dippers.

37. I once won a goldfish at the New York State Fair; I named it Muffin and kept it alive for nearly a week.

38. My first nickname after beginning public school was "Fro Lady."

39. No, it was not an exaggeration.

40. I am the only member of my immediate family who can't play at least one musical instrument.

41. I am the first member of my immediate and extended family in two generations to be in the military.

42. The name of my M16 rifle is Bungalow Bill, and he has not killed anything.

43. My favorite color is green, and I honestly don't remember why.

44. I have eight tattoos, and they are arranged more or less symmetrically on my body because balanced designs make me happy.

45. Also because it gave me an excuse to keep getting tattoos.

46. I am very familiar with the concept of Moderation, but am barely acquainted with the act that goes along with it.

47. The only part of my body I am really satisfied with is my toes.

48. I look at all forms of exercise which do not involve vigorous sex as hostile, and will go to greater lengths to avoid them than the average man will go to avoid entering into a meaningful conversation.

49. I can't cook anything more complicated than noodles.

50. Handling disappointment is about as easy for me as reading words is for Paris Hilton.

51. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Sometimes on both sleeves.

52. Competition doesn't matter to me unless I am competing in something I know I excel at. Then I am ruthless.

52. A single sincere compliment can alter my entire mood.

53. I did not see "Top Gun" all the way through until 2003.

54. I did not learn how to do the Electric Slide until 2001.

55. Needless to say, I was very sheltered.

56. I am absolutely unable to understand how anyone can hate an entire race of people, just because they are that race.

57. I learned about sex by reading Judy Blume books.

58. Hitchhiking is one of my favorite modes of transportation.

59. Because of that, I will almost always pick up a hitchhiker when I'm in the driver's seat.

60. For some reason, things like that don't scare me.

61. Driving in heavy traffic at night in the rain terrifies me.

62. I've been in four major car accidents -- three were recorded as being my fault, but I have chosen to blame two on Nature and one on the fact that the highway guardrail was obviously too close to the highway itself and just begging to be slammed into.

63. I have driven drunk more than once because I am afraid of not being able to locate my car the next day.

64. The last time I let someone else drive me home drunk, I could not locate my car the next day.

65. My car is a silver 1997 Honda Accord named Bruce, and is presently resting up from the 45,000 miles we traveled during the two years we've been together.

66. Husband hates Bruce because Bruce is a homosexual.

67. Yes, I will tell you that story someday.

68. The first time Husband rode with me in Bruce, I almost wrecked twice because Husband and I were not yet a Spousal Unit, but a Fuck-Buddy Unit, and I was very conscious of his lack of faith in my driving ability.

69. I inevitably screw up anything I am trying excessively hard to do well.

70. I find that I am the most talented person on earth whenever I am drunk.

71. Not to mention, extremely attractive.

72. Which may be why Husband and I did not have non-drunken sex until after at least three months of having sloppy, inebriated, how-did-I-end-up-in-your-bed-again-last-night sex.

73. It was truly a whirlwind romance, not unlike the sort one might find in the plethora of celebrated classic films which are produced in fraternity house basements.

74. I hate fraternities.

75. Yes, sororities too.

76. But I really would like to go back to school.

77. One of my deepest and least-acknowledged fears is that I'll have a mediocre life.

78. I am a notorious procrastinator, but once I begin to do whatever it is I've been putting off, I'll work on it with an almost maniacal obsession till it's done.

79. That second part didn't really kick in till I went to Basic Training, though.

80. I joined the Army because I was out of money, bored with my life, and happened to be able to get the "journalist" job I wanted.

81. They almost didn't even let me into the military because my eyes are so worthless that I'd need a pair of astigmatism-correcting binoculars duct-taped to my face in order to see without contacts.

82. My list-making skills really blow.

83. I pray daily that my marriage will last at least until our first anniversary.

84. That would be August 28th, less than two months away.

85. At our wedding reception, we were the drunkest people there.

86. So drunk, in fact, that upon entering our bed-and-breakfast room (with some assistance), we passed out fully-clothed, only to wake up the next morning with little memory of who drove us there and not even the faintest clue as to where in the crap my car had gone now.

87. Husband and I are obviously the perfect couple to invite to any social gathering where you are determined to a) get rid of every drop of booze you have ever purchased, including that stuff from Mexico with no label and a smell so rank and unique that in order to describe it a new word would have to be invented, and b) enjoy plenty of free entertainment consisting of live amateur soft-core porn, rampant incoherency, and dancing so painfully bad that your eyeballs actually develop free will and independently leap out of your head to avoid watching it.

88. As much as I clearly love to get my drink on, my Italian origin also bred into me a deep-seated appreciation for all things covered in homemade tomato sauce, good Italian bread (we're talking about the kind of which you buy two loaves because one will be consumed by the time we get home), and the concept of Always Keep Eating. To name a few.

89. My parents worked at a children's home in Bumfuck, Missouri, for two years, during which time I owned a horse, acquired my first Walkman, got mixed up with the Wrong Crowd, and received my first Actual Kiss From A Boy (when I was 13).

90. I participated in my first Girl Kiss when I was 16. Her name was Lexie and she was enormously pleased to help me put another notch on the ol' worldly experience belt.

91. Also when I was 16, I got in a fight with my mom, hopped a Greyhound for Port Authority, and lived in Manhattan with my aunt for a month. It was an eventful year.

92. I was born and raised in upstate New York, but since I've been in the Army my home's been in the Dirty South.

93. The thing I like best about the Dirty South is going to the flea market, stopping in the immediate vicinity of the most elderly, redneckish geezer I can find, and commenting loudly to my friends, "Don't they know they lost the war?"

94. I will say just about anything in public, to anyone, sober or drunk, whether or not an actual dare is involved, because I'm like that.

95. Right around the time of my second high school, I was a very good shoplifter, but haven't done it since, and never got caught.

96. I've gotten speeding tickets in almost every East Coast state that I-95 passes through from Georgia to New York, and including them.

97. My eyebrows were monstrously thick until I let my friend downsize them when I was 16. If you picture a weed-whacker being part of this process, you're not too far off.

98. In addition to my Italian background, I am one-quarter Jewish -- this makes for a gorgeous mix of bodily features, including wide hips, long nose, large/flat ass-thighs, and dark, curly, frizzy, razor-destroying hair just about everywhere.

99. I've been known to stop at #99, just because I can.

So! There it is. It's done now.

If there is anything else that you could possibly want to know about me that doesn't involve credit card numbers or film career (cough) ... well, you're way too curious and frankly it's beginning to make me nervous.

Einstein's less-famous cousin, Dumbfuckstein

2005-07-01T23:31:00.000+04:00

And now, here to make you feel very, very smart, are a few outstanding moments of "what the fuck?" brought to you by my Astoundingly-Strange-Yet-Not-Quite-Completely-Mental Boss:

ASYNQCMB: "Well, I'm off to go find a red printer cartridge. The one I borrowed from [another office] wasn't the right kind."

Meany: "Didn't it say what kind of cartridge it was on the box it came in?"

ASYNQCMB: "Yes ... but I didn't look at the box until after I'd already, um, broken the cartridge."

(I emit an unmistakable cackle of scorn, which he of course interprets as something like a cackle of "Oh, she thinks I'm amusing! I better continue proving how much of a senseless dolt I am!")

ASYNQCMB: "Yeah, I just kept trying to make it fit, and it wouldn't fit, so I kept pushing on it, and then it broke. Then I saw it was the wrong type of cartridge."

(I shake my head in disbelief, as he calmly walks away in search of other printer-related accessories upon which to wreak his destructive retardedness.)

THE NEXT DAY

ASYNQCMB: "You'll never guess what happened today, Specialist Meany."

Meany: "What happened, Sergeant?"

ASYNQCMB: "Well, I went to the airport and accidentally walked in front of a formation [D'oh! You don't walk in front of a formation, if only because it makes you look like a flaming dumbass! We all know this! Except you!] and I happened to see another person with same last name as me, and it was even spelled the same!"

(His name and its spelling are not altogether uncommon. About the same as maybe "Miller" or "Jackson." Not as common as "Smith," although possibly in Germany it would be right up there at the top of the list. But I digress.)

ASYNQCMB: "We both saw each other at the same time, and got a laugh out of it, and then he said there was another guy a couple rows back who also had the same last name as us, spelled the same way!"

Meany: "Wow." (with all the enthusiasm usually reserved for funerals, Shakespearean tragedies, and the hopefully-forthcoming death of any of Britney Spears' obnoxious dogs) "How interesting."

ASYNQCMB: "I know! So then we all three stood around for awhile talking about what a coincidence this was, and how we hate it when people spell our names wrong."

Meany: "And ...?"

But, dear friends, that was his entire story. No "then we figured out that we were all related," or "then we discovered we all were from the same town" ... nothing.

This man is in charge of me, folks. He's in charge of other people, too.
Which is why I have no faith in the Army. At all. Ever.

Oh, and while I was sitting here typing this, he came up to me and said, "Hey, so how about that Runaway Bride?"

Heh. Heh heh. WRONG thing to ask me; if you have doubts about that just check out yesterday's entry.

I told him exactly what I thought of his precious Runaway Bride: i.e., she's a loser, she's a selfish attention-seeking cowardly whore, if her husband's still with her it's only because he's desperate or crazy or she's a good lay, etc.

ASYNQCMB, (whom we've previously nicknamed "Scarecrow") apparently finds Ms. Wilbanks fascinating.

Wow. How surprising. Now why doesn't someone really give me a shock and tell me the War On Terrorism is really just about penis envy?
_______________________________________

I mentioned the other day that I was going to stick this article in with the regular news review/report thingy that is my nightly duty.

Well, I did it. And nobody noticed. You'd think a headline like "Bush Lifts Ban On Vigilantism" would get the attention of, oh I don't know, ANYBODY, but apparently the fruit of my labor is just not worth their all-important glance.

One might then ask, "Why must you even do this job, seeing as how nobody pays attention to it?"

And one who is a moron might respond, "Because that's just the way we do things around here."

Don't worry, that banging sound you hear is just me smacking my head repeatedly against a wall, in hopes that I can knock something loose and finally be able to understand their logic, which I suspect was largely influenced by a Magic 8 Ball:

"Magic 8 Ball, should we create yet another meaningless, monotonous, unnecessary task?"
(ShakeShakeShake)
[Reading] "All signs point to Yes. Okay, let's get on it!"

Go ahead, tell me it couldn't happen.
_______________________________________

Since miss-k2 has graciously declined to be tagged for the infamous Five Things I Hate But Which Society Thinks Kick Some Serious Booty list, I must select another victim.

TheCritic is it! Go now, and begin to ponder over all that you believe to be oh so very wrong with our beloved Modern World. Then write it down, and make it funny! Make haste, young knight!
_______________________________________

Everyone send out lots of happy thoughts and maybe cash to the incomparable Batten, who has sent me several glorious literary classics by one of my long-time favorite genius authors, C.S. Lewis. I am so excited to read them; I could just pee!

On that note, I bid you a good day and/or night, and of course a very happy and drunken Canada Day.

Altogether now: "Ooo Caaa-na-daaaa ..."