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.