Wednesday, January 28, 2009

It All Compounds

They can't stop adding new things. Elbow pads, the new requirement. More to follow I'm sure.

Yeah yeah, Suspect, quit your bitching, you're out soon.

Well what about the brand new faces I'm seeing every week? Should I not care that THEY are getting fucked?

Reveille. TAPS. Taps just played. Last time I heard Taps? Burying friends. It isn't much of a Good Night to me. So Sorry, big army. I get it,there are all these traditions and whatnot. But has anyone ever stopped to think about how old and archaic some of these are? We generally don't shit in holes in the gound (civilian-wise). We don't die of dysentery on the Oregon Trail.

Tradition: a HUGE part of the army. You march in formation, well, cuz that's how they used to do it before the Indians/Native Americans showed them how to hit and run and kick some serious ass.

Tradition.

Are you serious? REALLY? WE ARE HIRED FUCKING KILLERS. Dress us up pretty with shiny new ACUs? Really? Stand tall, look good, oughta be in Hollywood? Well Hollywood is full of shit, and sometimes, so are we. Get rid of this goddamn image of us being stellar robots.

We piss, we moan, our senior leadership does the same goddamn thing behind closed doors and we all know it, and welcome to the army and all that.

TRADITION. Sorry, but it's archaic, done, erased, over, and out. We don't fight in rans and columns anymore. We use our brains. Tradition....

It's bullshit. Posturing. Parading. Lemme add a new paragraph and headbutt the capslock.

WE ARE NOT DIPLOMATS, MY PREVIOUS COMMANDER MADE THAT CLEAR. WE EXIST TO STAND GUARD, CLOSE WIDTH, AND KILL. WE ARE LEGALLY SANCTIONED MURDERERS. WHY DO YOU WANT US TO LOOK PRETTY? DO YOU NOT REALIZE HOW FAKE AND FULL OF SHIT ALL OF THIS IS?

Pristine uniform, crisp salute, lookin' good, ready for a camera. FUCK YOU. We get sent out to kill and die. You want us to look good and move with crisp discipline? You must have lost your fucking mind. Lemme speak for the rest of us.

We are 17-20+ years old. We don't care about your career. If we're new, we aren't going to fully listen to the old-timers cuz goddammit we're nineteen and we know it all. But furthermore, we do NOT care about whether or not YOU make Major or Lieutenant Colonel or what have you. You're just a face in the crowd to us. The only difference is that when YOU are around, we have to be fake and full of shit. Go along to get along.

We're getting new guys almost every week it seems. Phasing us short-timers out with cherries. And that's great. But these cherries, I WANT them to know certain things. I WANT them to know NOT to let people get within 30 meter of you. I want them to NOT be a picture on the wall with KIA (date) stamped on it.

This whole ordeal? It's a goddamn mess, and sometimes, so am I. Now and then I gotta let a few screws loose. Like one of my readers told me before: it never goes away. Well fine. I used up PLENTY of my nine lives if not eight already. I hear you loud and clear buddy.

Know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna contradict myself, and use one of those damn army cliches, and DRIVE THE FUCK ON.






LESS THAN 80 DAYS, BITCHES. Remind me to start uploading some pics. Thanks to all of you for reading this. Sometimes I use a keyboard to bleed some heavy stuff out, and I haven't gotten to the stuff that really eats me, but so far I think this works.

And everyone who comments, critiques, shares opinions, offers insight, kicks me in he ass, it all means the world to me.





Now gimme a nice, loud, thunderous smartass HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAHHHHH. (If you're just appeasing me, you did it right.)

Thursday, January 22, 2009

On Being Short

Two digit countdown.

Anger, irritation, why me? I'm short, motherfucker!

Til it hit me, that is. We were doing a roadmarch, for conditioning, in the morning before the sun came up. I'm looking at the helmet of the guy in front of me, and I almost bring my rifle up to the ready as someone else doing PT runs in our direction. It all came back to me for a second with surreality. Not that Hollywood type shit, I still knew where I was and what we were doing, but good God man, I could FEEL it.

We explained the subtler points of footmarching while deployed to our new guy, and I glanced around. My friends in full kit. Me, my gear, the trees behind chain link, the long roads, the carbon copy buildings and gargantuan motor pools. Strykers passing. Gathering around at 4:30 PM wondering when we're going to get off work, shooting the shit, jawjacking and fucking off.

It's all going to be over soon.

Yeah, it's miserable here for a person like me, but if I don't take some good from this, then what a waste. It's not the gung-ho shit, it's not trying to look good in a uniform, its not standing tall in formation and bursting with pride that I'm expected to have. It's harassing new guys, exchanging insults with the dudes I've spent too much time around (competitively at that). Finding creative ways to accuse each other of being raging homosexuals. Being young and uncivilized and forced to live the shitty life with the other guys.

Everyone talks about how they'll get together after they get out, make all these plans, maybe run a business together, but we all secretly know that it's never going to happen. Two digits worth of days left of this life.

Short.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Kinda Funny Eh?

There's pages upon pages, resources, pamphlets and porno mags all designed to help you get into the Army. Over-eager recruiters and MEPS stations in convenient locations, like they're competing with Starbucks. Oh yeah, it's easy as all hell to get in, shore 'nuff.

And if you REEEEEEAALLY want to get out? Truth is, you can. But they got you by the balls with all sorts of punishment because maybe, just maybe, you don't want to be subjugated anymore.

"Hey man, you raised your hand, you made that oath!"

If I was really defending this country from enemies foreign and domestic, I'd be kicking down the doors of prime time game show/reality TV series locales and CLAYMORE CLAYMORE CLAYMORE and expending every last round I had, filling vapid celebrities with holes, then torching the entire place like one big Vietnamese hooch. Oh yeah, the flames would singe the sky and the letters HOLLYWOOD would turn blacker than the hearts of the soulless fucks that are ok with letting us get collectively dumber.

But that isn't the case. Still, do you want to join the Army? It's fucking EASY-PEASY, pal. They'll hold your hand every step of the way, even after you swear in and sign up, and they suddenly aren't so nice about it.

Yeah, getting in is pretty simple. But what about getting out?

How many pamphlets do you see laying around that explain how to go about wrapping your enlistment up? Your time is coming to a close, right? Sure, they got a program that helps you write resumes and maybe even look for jobs, great, but hold the fucking phone:

HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GO ABOUT GETTING OUT, PERIOD?

What form? Take it where? What do I need? How do I get it? Where do I go? Who do I talk to? What am I supposed to be doing? How do I go about taking care of myself for once?

Bitch, you don't. You fucking gear up and get ready to go do some more TRAINING! Training for what? Live-fire exercises so I can scan your groceries?

"You're still drawing a paycheck, you should still--"

THEN STOP THE FUCKING PAY. Point me to the VA so I can start letting them know just how fucked and medicated I am these days. Ask your chain of command? THEY RE-ENLISTED! They don't know how to get out! Even if they do, there is some strange deal where people in the Army don't LIKE to see other soldiers get out. The Lifers? They seem to hate that shit. God forbid you move on with your life and maybe, just MAYBE start treating it like it really is your own life.

So what next? Training? Sigh, see ya there sarge.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Someday Bloody Someday

I vow to myself and to all future employers that I will never again put myself in a position like this. You will not play inane mindgames with me. There will be a purpose to what I'm doing, no matter how menial, or I will not do it.

One day, I will have the freedom to tell you to go fuck yourself, and quit, and find a better job. And I will.

I'd rather pump gas. I'd rather panhandle in a Stormtrooper costume, rather wash windshields at busy intersections. I'll flip your burgers if I have to. Park your car, deliver your pizza, substitute teach your kids' gym class, do temp work, answer phones, take notes, sort mail, count sheep, buy and trade souls, fund Starbucks, wear a tie, stress over finals, become a monk, be a door greeter, anything.

"Technically, you don't have the right to wear civilian clothes. That's a priveledge."

All it takes is one sentence spoken to really fuck things up. Oh, I'll keep playing your game, but only for a little longer. In fact, I'll even start participating, nay, COMPETING. I'll make myself a greased pig, fucking TRY and catch me.

No, I won't go reserve or national guard. I did exactly what I said I would do, did it, DONE. I'll take my chances with the inactive reserve, kthanks.

Less than a hundred days, let the games begin.