Yesterday, in honor of the end of Ramadan, the XO ordered some kind of feast of local fair, presumably in some sort of display of “cultural sensitivity.” The thing was catered by some Hadj company that one of the Hadji shop owners found, and it looked very suspect from the get-go. It consisted of various parts of a goat’s body still attached to shards of bone that looked like they were smashed apart with a sledge hammer rather than cut with any kind of blade, sitting atop a giant plate of rice-a-roni, accompanied of course by pita bread and several dishes of green, brown, and yellow mashed up baby vomit to dip the bread in. As you could have probably guessed, the whole thing smelled like “Sex Panther.”
Having learned this lesson the hard way back in June, when some local goat filled hot-pocket liquefied my intestines and had me running to the toilet for three days, I bolted from the building the second this meal was brought through the door. Had I stayed behind, I would have had Iraqi’s begging me to eat for three hours; “You’re not going to eat?” Why don’t you eat?” “Won’t you try it?” If they only knew how much they had in common with Jewish mothers, I think the Mid-East crisis would have been over decades ago. Maybe we should just have the Israelis and Palestinians sit down and guilt each other into eating Matzo balls and Goat Kebobs for a few hours and see what happens.
They would all have their feeling generally hurt when I offered my series of excuses for not eating; “No thanks, I just ate yesterday.” “It’s against my religion to eat goat.” Likewise, the truth would hurt their feelings even more; “you’re un-clean food makes my asshole explode.” Then all the Army guys with the iron stomachs would call me a pussy and shake their heads in disapproval.
Quote of the Day:
MAJ X: “Every two weeks we all devour a giant bowl of stupid soup!”