It’s been a while since I last posted anything. I’d like to give you all a good reason, but I just don’t have one. Football season is starting, and keeping up with the NFL and Fantasy Football has kept me busy.

I have various little witty sayings that I have picked up over the years, such as when someone drops something I’ll say, “Just throw that anywhere.” Or when I have a situation handled and someone mentions to me to be prepared to handle said situation I’ll say: “I’m on it, like flies to the things flies fly to.”

One of my sayings when leaving to go somewhere is “Let’s head out like a fetus.”

My 9 year old son came up with one the other day that had me in stitches (on the inside)

We were going into my brother’s house and my son, the great mimic that he is, said “let’s head out like a fetus”, I explained to him that we were heading in, so that saying wasn’t accurate, so without missing a beat he says, “we’ll then, let’s head in like a gay man.”

Here’s a few new one’s that I’ve added to my stand-up routine,

1. I can’t do the two guy one girl three-way. I’m always afraid of crossing swords, and that’s just a little too gay for me. So, much to my chagrin, I’ve realized that means no more Letter “H-ing” midgets, the dicks still touch somewhere in the middle.

2. Did you know that every year there are over a million battered women in the United States? And to think, I’ve been eating mine plain all this time.

3. I have this cousin who is always in trouble with the law. He had to get a waiver to even enlist in the military, then was thrown out in AIT for pissing hot. I see him every Christmas and at family reunions (when he’s not incarcerated or I’m not deployed). Every time I see him he has a new scheme or less than savory money-making endeavor that he is trying out. This last family reunion he shows up with a bunch of new tattoos, and tells me that he’s tattooing for a living now, and working part time for a loan shark. As he’s leaving the reunion I say, “bye, and stay out of trouble, and if you can’t stay out of trouble I have a great idea for your next tattoo: “HIV Positive” right above your asshole, might help you out next time you’re in the joint”.

I graduated high school at the age of 17 and had my heart set on a service academy. West Point or Air Force, however I didn’t take into account that just meeting the minimum 1200 on the SATs would not guarantee me acceptance. It didn’t.

I still wanted to get away from mom and dad and not have them hold college tuition over my head to control my behaviors. So I took a scholarship to Georgia Military College, and went there with the intent to enjoy the southern belles, and introduce them to a whole new brand of Man-whore, yankee style.

I enjoyed a few lovely belles my first year there, but was smitten with the local preacher’s daughter who would go out with me, but not give in to my amorous advances. This girl was beautiful, but beyond that she was unlike any other girl I had seen. She would wash and wax my car, she would wash and iron my clothes and uniforms to include my underwear, she would cook me the best dinners, back rubs and foot massages were routine, because she enjoyed taking care of her man, and I was even allowed to spend nights at her house on weekends (though on the couch).

The sexual tension was insane, she was after all a repressed southern baptist preacher’s daughter. After a few months she told me that she wanted to give me whatever I wanted, but that I had to be “clean” for her and therefor I had to get myself tested for STDs. I figured that was probably a pretty good idea considering that I had been pretty active the previous year, and I was willing to do whatever necessary to get with this girl.

The next week I showed up at the free clinic, paid my 15$, and was led through a few stations by a very striking young nurse. I made it a point to flirt with this lady throughout the testing. She drew my blood, had me pee in a cup, and then took me into a private room and told me to drop my drawers. Being only 18, I had no idea what was in store for me, but judging by all of the smuggled pornographic movies that I had seen as a teenager I thought that I did.

I dropped my drawers, put my hands on my hips, gave her a wink, and said in my best Joey Tribbiani impersonation “How you doin?” She smiled and dropped to her knees. She gently grasped my manhood, looked up at me with the loveliest doe eyes, and quickly shoved a triple sized, spiraled, metal Q-tip up the head of my penis, and yanked it out just as quick.

As I looked down at her (now clinging to the ceiling tiles with my finger and toe nails like a cat) she gave me a wink and said in her best Joey Tribbiani impersonation “How you Doin?”

I now know why when people are faced with the possibility of doing something unpleasant that they say “I’d rather be tested for the clap”.

No shit there I was, Ramadi, Iraq. We got the call for additional support from one of our OPs (observation posts). My outfit was on the hook to lead EOD to outpost in case of need.

Just south of our outpost was a section of palm trees and reeds (along the banks of the Euphrates river). We had taken small arms, mortar, and RPG fire from that area in the past. We had taken to posting signs in that area that stated locals were not allowed there and could be shot on sight.

On this particular afternoon there was an Iraqi Military Aged Male (MAM) walking through the reeds of “no-mans land”. The OP tried to get the MAM to come to the OP through their loudspeaker, but the MAM wouldn’t come closer and he wouldn’t leave. So the SFC on site raised his M4 and shot the MAM in the side. The MAM then laid down just on the outskirts of reeds.

With EOD now on site, and our outfit also having robots, we sent our robots out to inspect the MAM, to insure that he was not strapped with explosives. When the robots got to the MAM he got up and started kicking them. We brought our robots back to keep them from getting damaged.

The next thing that we did was take EOD’s IED clearing/blast-proof vehicle: The Buffalo (they had one in the film Transformers) and we proceeded to put a large stick in the Buffalo’s retractable arm, so as to lift up the MAM’s man-skirt and see if he was packing explosives. When the Buffalo got to the man and started to lift his skirt the MAM got up, took the stick off of the Buffalo and started beating the Buffalo with the stick.

My First sergeant, who you may or may not remember from the Backscratcher story, suggested that we set up a Pop and Drop (A block of C-4 primed with a remote detonated electronic blasting cap) and have the robot lay it down by the MAM. As the SFC on site started to set up the Pop and Drop, our gunner Young Specialist Janelle started yelling, “I don’t think that’s legal, I don’t think that’s legal”, and therefore Top dropped that idea.

That is when the young E-5 EOD tech said, “this guy ain’t packing, I’m gonna drag his ass back here before he bleeds out.” Before any one could stop him he ran at the MAM, the MAM got up and started to run, The EOD tech tackled him, and subdued him.

Upon closer inspection it turned out that the MAM was Corky from Life Goes On retarded.

The SIGACT the following day read “The ___ Engineers shot a MAM around OP ___. The ___ EN and ___ EOD sent robots to check on the MAM’s status, the MAM fought off the robots. The ___ EOD sent their buffalo to check the MAM’s status, the MAM beat the Buffalo with a stick. The ___ EOD tackled and subdued the MAM. The MAM was questioned, treated, and released.”

This poor retarded bastard was just walking through the reeds and gets yelled at, shot, attacked with robots, poked with a stick from a Buffalo, almost blown to bits, and then tackled.

You just can’t make this shit up.

This story was related to me by one of my NCO’s, and as such I felt obliged to share it with you all. As told to me by SGT S.

No shit there I was, Fort Benning, Georgia 1990-something. My buddies and I were reading through our various sources of adult entertainment when we came along the topic of Penis Pumps. As it turned out, none of us had ever tried one, and after reading about how well they worked to increase the size of our man-parts, my squad made a pact to buy one for each of us.

Later that month 12 pumps arrived, and the only sounds one could hear late at night was akin to 12 bicycle tires being pumped manually.

Only one week later our brand new First Sergeant joined our outfit, and of course he was set to inspect the barracks. I was first to be inspected, and upon finding my manhood enhancer he got hot. “I know what this is, we had these in Nam! You are in some serious trouble! Though this one is kinda strange? Where do you inhale out of?”

That is when my LT stepped in, “Um, Top. That’s not a bong? That’s SGT S’s Penis pump?” Top got a disgusted look on his face and threw my pump across the room. Upon inspecting the rest of my squad mates and finding another, and yet another, Top put his hands on his hips and announced that “I must have the most well hung squad on this post, you buncha sick bastards.”

There was a chill in the air as the soldiers of the 876^th EN BN loaded up for their logistical ground assault convoy. The weather here in Iraq had dipped down from the 140 degrees that most soldiers experienced when they had first arrived, to a frosty 65. Our mission was a night move, our purpose logistics, and the reason was to gain some of the excellent equipment being left for us by our state’s outgoing Guard units: Task Force Dragoon.

The final pre-combat checks and inspections were complete; everyone was talking via the radios, weapons were given their functions checks, and the route was deemed clear according to the latest intelligence. I gave the final safety brief, reminding all of the participants of the places that we would travel past during our trip. Upon leaving the gate it was ”Go Time”. Our crew-served weapons gunners scanned their sectors, the drivers focused on the road laid out ahead of them, the passengers scanned the sides of the road for possible IEDs, and I kept constant communications flowing with our air support who was watching our progress from the sky.

We were making great time as we passed by Fallujah, one of the apexes of the Sunni Triangle. You could see the walls and towers of the Abu Gharaib prison complex as we passed Abu Gharaib. Once we reached Baghdad we got turned around on an onramp, but quickly righted ourselves. We were passing through the second of the Sunni triangle cities.

As we passed by Camp Taji and its high walls my thoughts passed to my brother who is stationed there, and reflected momentarily that even though I am thousands of miles from my home, that a person with whom I had lived under the same roof with for fourteen years of my life was only a mile away. My thoughts quickly returned to the duty at hand as a call came up on my radio. A convoy ahead had been hit with an IED. This served as a grim reminder to maintain my focus. EOD was on the scene, and the area would be cleared by the time we made it to that area.

A quick stop by Camp Anaconda for fuel allowed us to stretch our legs and prepare for the final leg of our journey. We would bypass Balad next, and then Sumeria. Coming up to Tekrit we saw that the road was blocked off entering into the city of Saddam Hussein’s birth. We knew that this was coming and took the detour around the third corner of the Sunni Triangle. Soon we were able to take the bypass of Bayji, where we were warned not to go because “there are bad people there”. Eventually we arrived at our final destination; Camp Sumeral. I looked at my Global Positioning System (GPS), and noticed that we were very close to the city of Mosul, and the countries of Turkey and Azerbaijan.

We had made great time, arriving two hours ahead of schedule. With the exception of the Baghdad turnaround, it was a flawless convoy.

On the way back we were also making great time. Because of this I allowed my soldiers time for Pizza Hut or Burger King at Camp Anaconda. They had performed exceptionally and this was a reward that they could not receive at any post near Ramadi.

This turned out to be a good choice because as we prepared to depart Anaconda I was informed over the radio that an IED had been initiated on a convoy just south of Anaconda on the route that we were to take. Had we not allowed the extra time for pizza it would have been our convoy hit with that IED. The return trip back was thankfully uneventful.

Thank God for lifesaving Pizza.

No Shit there I was, Ramadi Iraq 2005, actually wait….. Back up. I can’t say “no shit” for this story as it’s central theme is just that.

I don’t know about your tours to the desert, but from my experience, H20 was never in short supply. It was located in huge bottles, on massive aircraft pallets located all over the FOB. It sat in the 110+ degree heat, and was like drinking fresh McDonalds lawsuit coffee only without the delicious coffee taste, and foamy clumpy shits that followed.

Ice in coolers did not hold up on three hour convoys, and the massive 2 liter water bottles took up way too much cooler space.

Gatorade was never plentiful, and was considered a rare treat when we could get our hands on it. One day the mess hall received three connexes full of grape flavored Gatorade in the 20oz bottles.

My Armorer, Young Specialist Wesley Green, whom you may or may not recall from my back scratcher story from a few weeks ago, took it upon himself to wheel and deal for a pallet of this grape-flavored nectar of the Gods. It cost us a broken Nautilus ab cruncher (but we had two in our gym and one was not on the property books).

This pallet was enjoyed by my orderly room staff exclusively for nearly a week.

That is when a few of my guys started noticing that their fecal matter color was changing. Bright hues of florescent green and yellow began to fill our Job Johnnys. Then one day our NBC Private, PFC Powell, whom you may remember as not being the smartest of privates, whom mistakenly purchased a douche for a female medic on my orders, decided to mess with Top, and try to get some free time off. He took a green chem light and a turkey baster (where in the hell he got a turkey baster in Iraq I have no clue) and inserted glowing green chem light juice in, on, and around his latest drop.

He came in and asked Top to take a look at the glowing pile of nuclear waste shit, and asked if he could be excused from duty to see the Medics and get some “bed rest”. Top was one of the brighter First Sergeants that I have dealt with, and made PFC Powell scoop out his creation to take with him to the medics. Since the medics hadn’t been aware of the tactically acquired Gatorade they were in for quite a shock when PFC Powell came in with his glowing sandwich baggy of poop. They immediately called the PA and the FOB surgeon. It was only when they were preparing to order an emergency Medivac did Top step up and say that his troop was simply sandbagging, and that the poor dumb bastard had just drank too much Gatorade, and added chem light juice. For some reason these Medics, the PA, and FOB Surgeon were all of the mindset that my young PFC had grew up in Chernobyl or discovered Saddam’s secret stash of WMDs. It wasn’t until Top, just through his “Top Glare”, made PFC Powell admit to what he had done that the FOB Medical staff relented.

What form of perverse punishment that Top gave PFC Powell eludes me at this time, but I’m sure that it was fitting. It does roll downhill after all.

No shit there I was, because that is what all good army stories begin with.

So there I was, Camp Shelby MS. Pre-Mob OIF-IV. Soldiers of my unit were on “lock-down”, meaning they could go nowhere. After three and a half months of training the soldiers were given a two-day pass. Many had family make the 16 hour drive or three hour flight to come visit their soldiers.

This was no different for the unit armorer, we’ll call him young SPC Wesley Green. His brand new wife came down to visit, and they rented a hotel room to go and do the things that young married peoples do.

When he showed up at the orderly room to sign out, the First Sergeant was in a corner scratching his back with a wire coat hanger. “Specialist Green,” he intoned while still scratching, “It would behoove you to give us some contact information for your room, in the event of some sort of Armorer related emergency over the next few days. Am I clear?”

He was, and the Specialist ran off with his pass, eager to see his wife.

Now Young SPC Wesley Green was a conscientious soldier, and wanted to ensure that his First Sergeant could get a hold of him if he needed to. So, as soon as he got to the hotel room, he called back to the company orderly room and asked for “Top”. Top Toven put down the wire coat hanger that he was scratching his back with, and the conversation went as follows:

YSWG (Young SPC Wesley Green): Hey Top, I made it to the hotel, if you’re re..ady to wr-wr-wr..ite down the info, I….I’ll give it to you.

Top Toven: Glad to hear it, hope the hotel is nice, go ahead with that info.

YSWG: It it it…. The Best Western, on Bufford P.P.P.ike, the numb..er is, is…. Oh God, Where’s that number.

Top Toven: (in a very low and exasperated tone): It’s probably on the phone Wes.

YSWG: Oh that’s a good, ohhhhhh so gooood, idea, the number is 812*******.

Top Toven: Wes are you getting a blowjob, while talking to me?!?!

YSWG: ………. (sheepishly) Yes Top.

Top Toven: (screaming) Why you little Son of a…. I’m gonna kill you when you get back, I will PT you to death! *Slams down the phone!*

On the day that the troops returned from their pass, I was standing there watching. Top Toven was standing there as well, with that “Top look” on his face. I’ve seen 40 year-old men run from this look. This is the same guy that created the “fourth Army answer”. There are three generally accepted Army answers: “Yes”, “No”, and “I don’t know at this time, but I will find out and report back to you”. Top Toven created the fourth answer that only First Sergeants can use: “I don’t know, but I have a mother-fucking Frag Grenade, now get the fuck out of my orderly room, before I pull this fucking pin!”

Strolling up from the bus stop is Young Specialist Wesley Green, his head down, like a dog that knows it’s gonna get whipped. First Sergeant Toven, 6′4″, black belt in Tae Kwon Do, with his “Top Look”, now turned into a “Top Glare” was still waiting. As Young Specialist Wesley Green approached Top, he quickly produced a fine wooden, souvenir backscratcher, and said “Backscratcher Top!”

They say that First Sergeant Toven’s heart grew three sizes that day in Whoville, as all he did was snatch the backscratcher from Young SPC Wesley Green’s paws, clicked his heels in an about face, and marched off saying “I’ll take it!”

Attention to detail saved the day!