"Three days with no post, what gives? I am chained to my computer awaiting your next post; please get busy slicing up some Army dudes with your razor sharp wit!"
The above comment is fabricated, it was never actually posted, which is why it lacks the little gray “men’s room” logo that confirms blogger authenticity. However, I did receive some encouraging words from the Golden Girls of comedy, and in my imagination, you are all glued to your computer screens, obsessively hitting the “refresh” button in hopes that new post will finally appear. Well, your wait is over imaginary fans; feast your eyes on D-211!
Many of the battalion’s soldiers are deployed to command outposts, some are better equipped than others, but I was under the impression that they all had showers. I guess I was wrong, because I got into a truck today that smelled like a Tupperware that you find in the way back of the fridge; the kind that you pop open out of curiosity, perhaps in vain hope that you may be able to salvage the dish itself, only to be punched in the face by a stinky fist that makes you throw up in your mouth. It smelled like that.
I am sympathetic to those guys who live at the outposts; that sucks. I am not, however, the slightest bit sympathetic to people who don’t shower in the morning here on the FOB. One of the people I work with, routinely opts for the extra 20 minutes of sleep vice the shower before the morning meeting, and shows up at the last second with his boots untied and his hair all disheveled, looking like a Charlie Sheen mug-shot circa 1995.
It is a known fact that some people just “keep” better than others; I can say this, because I am not one the fortunate ones who can afford to skip a morning shower. One morning, it prompted my pretty wife to inform me that I smell like I “slept in garbage.” And that was me stateside; here, with temperatures routinely topping the 120⁰F mark, and with my very manly quaff of Tom Selleck-like chest hair imperialistically invading my shoulders and back, morning showers are not an option.
Well, some others are cursed with my same fate, but do to a lack of an honest wife or a poor sense of smell, they are not yet aware of it. The disaster of a gentleman described above is one of them. This morning, he was leaning back in his reclining office chair with both hands clasped behind his head. In this relaxed position, he was exposing both armpits and thereby releasing the smell of smashed asshole mixed with cab driver all over the room.
Never one to mince words, I turned to him with contempt and said “dude, you smell like hadj.” He muttered something about just waking up, to which I replied, “well, wake up earlier and take a fucking shower!”
Quote of the day: PFC with broken hand, to me
“You think I care about breakin’ ma hand; no way sir, if I cared about breakin’ ma hand, I wouldn’t been on my ATV when I was on leave… Jumpin’ mountains, you know, dirt mountains. It only hurts sometimes anyway, like when I’m doin’ somethin’ with it… you know, like turnin’ a steerin’ wheel… or tyin’ ma shoes.”