Savage Henry's Witty Title

Addiction, Part One

2008-10-30T09:30:00.000-07:00

When I got out of the military, I needed a break. I also needed to pay some bills. I had just one small problem – under the “Applicable Skills” section of job applications, the only thing I could honestly put down were things like “Locating, closing with, and destroying the enemy”. Being“expert at long distance precision marksmanship, concealment, and field craft techniques” will not endear one to an HR department fueling The Engine of American Capitalism. I’d had a turn at some backbreaking landscaping jobs, both in High School and between my hitches in the service, and I really didn’t want to go back to that sort of thing. Let me tell you – it is a Good Thing to work indoors.

It is a sad shock to look around at the age of twenty six and realize the only things you are good at involve shooting at people, digging holes, or digging a hole frantically while people shoot at you. Bouncing seemed like a good choice while I got my bearings.

I was surprised by how much I liked it at first. The bar was a nice one, the patrons were mostly laid back, and if you’re a withdrawn loner with an anger problem, bouncing is a great way to break out of your shell. You are forced by the atmosphere to be happy and welcoming. You socialize for a living, and that is a great thing if your normal leisure activities consist of sitting alone in a bare apartment. Fringe benefits include occasionally pounding the hell out of douche bags that get grabby with the cocktail waitresses and free Jack Daniel's. The whole routine is more therapeutic than any selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor ever invented. If you are reading this and are a burned out old (read: mid-twenties) vet with no real job skills other than violence, I highly recommend this course of action.

I even reconnected with an old friend of mine named Andy. It was a shock to see him at that bar, in the heart of The Yuppie Dominion. Andy and I went to elementary and middle school together in the same shitty neighborhood. I had moved away, finished high school, and gone into the military. Andy had stayed in the old neighborhood, dropped out at sixteen, and followed his brothers and father into the family business – selling cocaine. Andy had big plans – he was expanding the family business. He was tired of spending his days and evenings in crackhouses, selling twenty sacks to toothless criminals. He was here, downtown, selling high quality blow to hot waitresses and successful yuppies.

Andy clued me in to some things I had not noticed. Behind every downtown bar scene, there is a shadow drug economy. Stand in the middle of your favorite large drinking establishment and you’ll see it. There will be a subset of people who go to the bathroom every twenty minutes. There will be skinny, tired looking girls with hypnotically dilated pupils. There will be babbling, empty headed men who ask where the after-party is five times in the course of an hour. Fifteen minutes of standing near the bar watching Andy work was like learning a new language.

I watched cocaine and alcohol use do it’s work on several people over the course of a few years. The one that sticks out in my head the most is a guy I’ll call AJ. When I met AJ, he was a personal trainer at an expensive gym. I introduced him to Andy at one of the ubiquitous after parties, and the fuse was lit. I don’t know why Andy singled out AJ, but he did. Perhaps AJ reminded Andy of someone who'd bullied him in school. Maybe Andy hated AJ because AJ had all the things Andy did not - a stable job, hot girlfriend, and a good family. Normally, Andy was that rarest of coke dealers – a man with a code of honor and a sort-of conscience. He would refuse to sell to people he deemed “out of control”. He also never, ever fronted people drugs. He was strictly pay-for-play. Not with AJ, though. Andy sold AJ as much coke as AJ wanted. He even fronted him huge amounts – sometimes entire paychecks worth. After AJ got really going with the blow, Andy showed him how to make crack. That was the kiss of death for AJ – he went from a strapping, tanned meat head to a pale, skinny, sunken eyed crack head who was barely tolerated by anyone. He lost his job, and began living on credit cards.

One night I walked into the bar to start my shift, and Andy came up to me.

“Yo, nigga. You wanna see sum fucked up shit?”

“Sure, Andy. What’s up?” I said.

“Lookit this text that dumb nigga AJ sent me.”

I took his phone, and read the texts:

AJ: Hey man, I’m hurtin. Can u front me?

Andy: No. I need to re-up.

AJ: When u do, hit me up.

Andy: U got money?

AJ: How about if you front me, my girl will suck ur dick now and I’ll pay you Monday.

“Holy shit. That’s fucked up,” I said. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothin’. Imma delete his numba right now. That nigga be crazy. Don’t let him in here tonight, aight?”

“Sure thing, Andy.”

I gave my two weeks notice a few days later, and haven’t talked to Andy since. I haven’t been back to that bar in almost two years. Once in awhile, Guilt still twists her knife in my guts, torturing me for that whole situation. I hate it – there are many things I wish I could erase from my mind, and that one is pretty far up there.

I thought by going to school and staying out of bars I could avoid that kind of thing. I don’t like watching people destroy themselves. I like even less having any involvement - even a periphery one. I know what it is to live with intense, overpowering guilt and regret. I hate seeing people take on a load of it. War and drugs will make people do things on impulse, in the heat of the moment, that they will regret for the rest of their lives.

The other day I saw a doctor do something Andy would do, and I want to kick him in his fucking face.

The meaning of sick

2008-10-26T23:51:00.000-07:00

I work part time at a busy, urban, high acuity emergency department, and part time at a nice suburban urgent care. The contrasts between the two places are stark. No one ever dies at an urgent care. Most people walk in. Most people speak English. Most people pay for their health care. Most people are responsible citizens who take charge of their health. Many of them are also pussies. I’ve seen a grown man scream and faint while getting three stitches put in his index finger. He’d had a horrible, tragic accident with a corkscrew while opening a bottle of wine. I’m sure the sight of three drops of blood on his single slab granite countertops was the horrifying high point of his year. His two porcelain doll daughters wailed uncontrollably in the waiting room. His brave Stepford wife wrung her hands constantly, worry lines in her forehead nearly overcoming Botox paralysis.

At the ED, things are different. Lots of those people are desperately ill, horribly irresponsible, or both. I once took care of a dude who ripped some staples (an alternative in some cases for stitches) out of his head. He was drunk and fell off his ATV. How’d he get the staples in the first place, you ask? Well, Dear Reader, he was riding his ATV, drunk, the week before. While I was cleaning gravel out of his scalp, we were bullshitting in pidgin Spanish about which nurses we’d like to fuck. At one point, I could see the periosteum covering his skull. We both had a pretty good time, as I recall. Neither one of us knew the meaning of “helmet” in Spanish.

The definition of the word “sick” is not the same in both places, either. Sick in the urgent care is a sore throat, a migraine, an upset tummy. Sick in the ED means the Grim Reaper is out at triage, asking after a patient. If someone says you are sick in the ED, you’ve got problems. That discrepancy bit me in the ass the other day at the urgent care.

I should have known better. Doc Goodguy is like me – he puts in some time at an ED across town. We share moments of eye rolling and semi-feigned concern about sniffles. We make fun of soccer moms that require a wheelchair and assistance in the bathroom after spraining their wrists playing tennis. We know that a child with a 104.2 degree fever in the ED is fucking serious, and the same “104 degree fever” at the urgent care was obtained by a terrified first time dad with an axillary thermometer that has been sitting next to a mug of boiling Theraflu for twenty minutes.

“Hey, Savage Henry. The guy in room five is pretty sick. I need some bloods drawn – get me a CBC, CMP, and a stool O and P. Send ‘em out stat,” Doc Goodguy said.

“Okay, Doc.” Stool sample. Fuck. I flipped immediately to Gross Out Mode. Gross Out Mode is a semi-Zen trance I am capable of, wherein my sense of smell disappears and my long term memory is set to “Standby”. My reflexes become catlike, in order to dodge flung bits of mucus, sailing vomit, drunkenly propelled spittle, and explosive diarrhea. I’m like a superhero whose talents are keeping clean and forgetting about wounds that would preclude a mortal man from eating lasagna.

I got my gear together and entered room five.

“Hello, sir. I’m Savage Henry and I’m here to collect some samples from you. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I feel like Hell. I just came back from vacation in Mexico, and I think Montezuma got me,” the man said.

“That’s too bad. We’ll get you fixed up, though. I need to get some blood from you, and a stool sample. Which would you like to give first?”

“Stool sample?”

“Yes sir!” I said brightly. See, you’ve got to sell the stool sample. People are less embarrassed if they think you’re really interested poop. I held up the stool collection containers like a hunter displaying a brace of pheasants.

“Ugh. Let’s do the blood first.” I need to get Zig Ziglar to write a book about selling stool samples.

“Absolutely, sir. Do you have a problem with needles?”

“Well, I’m not a fan, but I really want to get better. Do what you have to do.”

“Okie dokie, let’s get started.”

I palpated for a vein, cleaned off the spot on the inside of his elbow, and struck red gold on the first try. I could tell the guy was dehydrated by how slowly his blood rolled into the collection tube.

“Oh man, I don’t feel so good,” the man moaned.

“Hold still sir, we’re halfway done.” I swapped the first collection tube for the second and final one.

“Ohh…I don’t feel goooooood…” The man began to tremble slightly. I could feel the vibration through the needle buried in his vein. I stared at the blood slowly….slowly….slowly filling the tube. He began to sway back and forth, sweat popping on his forehead.

“Hold still, sir! Hold still if you can!” Fill, damn you!

“UhhhhIgottago!”

The man lurched up from the exam table, headed toward the door.

“WAIT! WAIT!” I yelled. I whipped the needle out of his arm, and contorted like a drunk yoga instructor, simultaneously trying to keep pressure on the venipuncture site and avoid stabbing him with the needle.

“I’m gonna puUUUGGHGHIIIOOOAARPHHHHLURGGEOOOPH” The man erupted with vomit. A stream reminiscent of the Belagio fountains blasted into my shoulder. Only my Gross Out Mode reflexes allowed me to avoid being hit in the chin.

“I GOTTA GOOOOoooo” The man sprinted toward the bathroom. Both hands were covering his mouth. Blood from the venipuncture site on his arm drooled off his elbow, spattering the floor. Halfway to the bathroom, one hand came away from his mouth and clamped onto his anus. While fumbling with the doorhandle, a thin, semi-clear stream of liquid yellow shit squirted from between his fingers. The man dove into the bathroom, door slamming behind him.

I stood dripping in the doorway of the room.

Doc Goodguy poked his head out of the office and surveyed the damage.

After a minute, he looked at me and said, “What the hell, Savage Henry? I told you that guy was sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, sick.”

“Oh. Like ED sick.”

“Yeah. ED sick.”

“Fuck.”

My stab at writing a romance story for a female audience

2008-10-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

I met him in line at the grocery store. I never knew how much people all around the world would love me at the time.

I was flipping through the magazines in the checkout isle, trying figure out the best hairstyle for my face shape. Who can keep up? It’s almost impossible to be a woman in today’s world. At least I had some Dreyer’s Grand and Jeno’s Pizza Rolls to share with my kitties when I got home. I sighed, and put the latest Cosmo in my cart when I overheard the man behind me. I’m good at hearing over cubicle walls at work (just ask that bitch Jasmine and her ex-boyfriend!) so eavesdropping in the grocery line was no problem.

“I just don’t know, Johnson! It’s got to be some kind of code!” the rugged man growled into his cell phone.

“If we don’t solve it, the terrorist will poison all of L.A.!” Beads of sweat started at his temples. His hairstyle was kind of cute, but also a little last year, if you know what I mean.

“Montag…..Montag….It sounds German. Doesn’t it mean Monday?...Yeah…I suppose it could be a name too…If we could only figure it out…” The big man was really bearing down on his phone with his scarred, manly fingers…fingers that were oddly sensual and understanding. Those tanned, athletic fingers kneading the phone were what made me decide to help him.

“Excuse me, Mister, but are you talking about Heidi Montag from the Hills?” I put just the right amount of sassiness in my tone. Sassiness will get them every time, just like it says in Elle! I hope you are taking notes, ladies!

“Hang on Johnson – we might have been saved by….an angel…” I heard the breath catch in his throat as he looked me deep in my eyes. Our eyes locked in a moment of tenderness, trust, and compassion. Somehow, we had a connection deeper than anyone had ever had. He looked deep into my soul, and found the answer that would save millions of innocent people.

“Of course! Johnson, send the react team to arrest Heidi Montag! This must be a revenge plot against that bitch Lauren Conrad! Why didn’t we think of this before! Right….keep me informed. I have a debt to pay – not that we’ll ever be able to fully repay this beautiful, enchanting woman I just met. Right! Secret Agent Striker signing off!”

“I don’t think you will ever understand how much everybody in the world will love you now! You just saved the entire Western Seaboard of the United States! You have saved Hollywood!” He looked deep into my eyes again, lost in a swirling tumult of emotion. He stepped close to me, and I inhaled his masculine musk. It penetrated me to my core. As he stroked my frosted hair, I was glad I had skipped the L’Oreal Home Touch Up Treatment and gone to the salon yesterday. He picked me up in his tan, corded arms. His lips trembled with lust.

“I have to have you,” he said in a throaty whisper. To be honest, girls, I was ready to let him have his way right there, but my mom says not to be one of those “easy” girls.

“Well, I suppose you could take me to dinner,” I quipped, still in sassy mode.

“Anything for you, my love!” Secret Agent Striker said, devotion lighting his face.

To be honest, I can’t remember where we went to eat, but it was even nicer than Olive Garden. I was a little embarrassed when I got a standing ovation from the crowd, and all the camera flashes made it hard for Striker to gaze longingly at my face. Dinner went well though, so I wasn’t surprised when Striker pulled out the small velvet box and got on his knee.

“You are brave, resourceful, and sassy. You have the most beautiful eyes and best maintained hair of any woman I have ever met. Your wardrobe choices are always sensible and practical, with a hint of cutting edge style that I find irresistible. I can’t draw another breath on this Earth if you aren’t by my side….Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will, Striker!” The crowd went wild as he slipped the six carat, D, FL, Princess cut ring from Tiffany’s onto my finger.
Striker leapt to his feet and glared at the crowd. In a voice that marked him as a leader of men, he growled at the adoring throng.

“I need time alone with my beautiful, heroic fiancé.” The restaurant emptied in seconds. Immediately he stripped off his Armani Tuxedo, revealing his tan, athletic body. I ran my hands over his scarred, masculine torso.

“You must have suffered so much pain,” I said, caressing his bullet wounds, shrapnel scars, and an axe wound, all of which detracted not in the slightest from his mobility or the lethal, oiled grace with which he moved.

“I will never hurt again, as long as you are by my side,” he breathed. His tan, athletic penis strained toward me, throbbing with unbridled lust. As he gently and sensually undressed me, being careful not to wrinkle my fashionable outfit, he looked deep into my eyes again.

“There is something you should know…”

“Anything, Striker. You can tell me anything now, my love.”

“Even though I am a super secret agent in the service of my country, a fireman, and a Board Certified Plastic Surgeon, I also own several production companies, as well as a controlling interest in Viacom. I want to show you to the world, and release the inner cultural icon you are hiding. I will use every penny of my eight figure per year income to do it. I will work every day, tirelessly for you!”

Girls, it was when Striker said this that I realized: Here is a man who is worthy of me. Here is a man who finally understands who I am on the inside.
“Take me,” I whispered. The heat from the lust in Striker’s eyes ignited several candles on the surrounding tables. His undying, unconditional love for me caused the restaurant’s PA system to play soft, erotic music.

“Lie on your back, and let me worship your body…you don’t have to move…everything you do is perfect…”

I shuddered in ecstasy over and over again. When his tan, athletic penis slipped into me, I could feel every vein and bulge of his engorged manhood on my beautiful, sassy womanhood. I’ll bet Jill, that bitch from Accounting never got made love to like this!

Because I’m classy, I can’t tell you everything, girls! Anyway, I have to go. It’s time for Striker to vacuum the beachfront castle he built for me. He is hopelessly lost without me to supervise him while he cleans. He loves my little suggestions!

Men! Where would they be without us?

Mom says no? Just ask Dad!

2008-10-08T01:41:00.000-07:00

Flu season is kicking off pretty early, delivering enthusiastic fountains of vomit, acres of fevered flesh, and tanker trucks of viscous, foul smelling diarrhea to my place of employment. Amidst the viral war being waged on the population of my city, life is still going on. People are still cutting fingertips off in food preparation accidents, acromio-clavicular separations occur in young football players per usual, smokers still die their slow deaths, and somebody is still letting these idiots smash into each other with automobiles.

At times like this, we few, we happy few beleaguered health care workers are sometimes forced to enlist unwilling allies. When things are busy, we show all the compassion of a Royal Navy press-gang.

“You – Parent! Control your child. Hold him like this. I’m GIVING the injection NOW.”

Alcohol swab, stick, aspirate, thumb push, band-aid, POW! I’m out the door, moving faster than the sound waves created by wailing children. It’s busy as hell, and I’ve got shit to DO.

I don’t like working like this. It’s not why I got into this business. I like to give out lollipops and Otter Pops to brave children. I like to make nervous young men laugh. I like to shoot the shit with old folks. I like to see faces relax, to be there when some painful unknown is explained, understood, and conquered. I like rolling the positive emotions around in my mind, like you do with a nice red wine on your tongue. Savoring the good is a fine thing indeed.

Doing work the fast way is only made tolerable by the slow times, when I can explain and comfort. The situation is even harder on the semi-willing, unknowing helpers we dragoon into our ranks.

I helped the stressed out Doctor Worksfast take care of a little girl the other day. She was around five, with a nasty infected cyst on her little belly. The cyst was the size of a golf ball- hot, angry, and inflamed. It hurt her so bad she walked with her hands stuffed in the hem of her shirt, keeping the cloth from rubbing on the bump.

Normal procedure is to numb the area with a series of Lidocaine injections, cut a small slit into the cyst, and squeeze out the crap inside. Sometimes, depending on what kind of cyst it is, the doc will be able to pull the whole thing out at once in one evil, satisfying little sac. A small sample will be collected and sent to the lab. We then insert a thin strip of gauze packing into the cavity, allowing the wound to drain for a few days. On an adult with some pain tolerance, the procedure is routine and simple. I’ll bet the docs I work for could do it drunk and blindfolded.

On a terrified little kid, the procedure is not so simple. Lidocaine burns for about twenty seconds when it is first applied. It feels like a cloud of rioting sunburn has been injected under your skin, roiling away from the pinch of the needle stick. If you close your eyes, it is easy to imagine the formerly nice doctor standing over your body with a tiny flamethrower, torching off your skin. The fire soon dissipates, replaced with an odd absence of feeling and the heartfelt belief that the now numb body part is four times it’s usual size. If you managed to keep your eyes closed through all this dicking around with an imaginary flamethrower, you might have a tear or two in the corner of your eye.

Our scared little girl did not like this one bit. The trouble started with the first needle stick and Lidocaine injection.

“Ow, mommy. That hurts.”

I saw Dr. Worksfast’s jaw set. My heart went out to the little girl.

Doc Worksfast popped the needle into the next spot on her little belly, starting a perimeter around her cyst.

“OOooo mommy! It burns. It hurts!” Her little hip came up off the table.

Doc Worksfast looked at me and said quietly,”Hold her. I need to get this done.”

I put my big paws on her hip bones and kept her from squirming while the next Lido injection went in. I have some scars on my knuckles you can see through latex gloves, and they looked terrible holding her down.

“OWWWIIIEEE mommy! It hurts it hurts it hurts it huuuuurrrrts!” went the little girl.

“Get me an eleven blade,” said Doc Worksfast.

I took my ugly hands off that poor little girl and ripped open the scalpel package. By the time I handed the Doc the scalpel, the little girl had curled into the fetal position, protecting her stomach. She was crying in earnest now, one hand across her belly and the other one clutching her mother’s arm.

Doc Worksfast looked at the mother.

“We’ve got to get that out of her. This is the best way to do it, and she’s probably numbed up by now. I need you to help hold her down. OK?”

The mom just nodded. She was crying, too. Doc Worksfast has a great voice for stuff like this. He’d make a good Platoon Commander with that tone.

I said some bullshit in a kind way, and got Mom situated. We pried the little girl open like you’d open a recalcitrant mouse trap, and got back to work.

The incision happened without a whimper from the girl. Doc Worksfast worked a hemostat around in the wound, loosening up the connective tissue. The trouble began again when he started squeezing the cyst.

“AHHHhhHA MOOOMMIIEEE! It HUUUURRTS!”

Doc Worksfast kept squeezing.

“MAKE IT STOP MOMMY! OHH GOD IT HURTS! OH GOD MOMMY MAKE. IT. STOP!”

“I know baby! It’s almost over!” The mom was holding the girls shoulders down, dripping tears into her daughter’s face. I held the girl’s hips down. The girl was busy screaming and kicking me repeatedly in the balls.

Doc Worksfast was busy squeezing.

“OHHH AHHH MOOOOMMMY! IT HURTSSOBAAAD! MAKE IT STOOOOOP!”

Squeezing.

“I HATE YOU MOMMMYY AAHHHHGGHGHH! WHY WONT YOU MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOOPPPPPppp.”

The little girl was trying to bite her mother. She was more than trying to kick me in my junk.

Still squeezing, the Doc was.

“I WANT MY DAAAAAADYYYYY! OH GOD IT HUUUUURTS GET MY DAAAADY! I NEED MY DADDY OH GOD!”

Then, audible over the girl screaming, the mother sobbing, and a child’s size three sneaker impacting upon my testicles came a wonderful, delightful, heaven sent noise. The cyst popped open with the sound of a fresh fall apple’s skin breaking on your front teeth. A shot glass’s worth of gray and yellow gunk wormed out of the bloody incision on the girl’s little belly.

Doc Worksfast swabbed some for the lab and wiped the mess away. The little girl, exhausted, relaxed. I took my hands off her and surreptitiously checked to make sure my boys were still attached.

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry, baby, but you’re going to be all better now,” the mother said, going in for a hug.

The little girl pushed her away and turned her head.

“Mommy, you didn’t help me! It hurt and you didn’t help me! You helped them hurt me!”

Doc Worksfast packed the wound with gauze. I cleaned everything up and bandaged the girl.

The mother lost her shit in the corner.

Stuff I wonder about

2008-09-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

I’m a bit of a voyeur. Not the hang around your bathroom window masturbating type of voyeur, but an emotional voyeur. Being in healthcare affords me plenty of opportunities to feed my proclivities. Sooner or later everyone has to visit the emergency room or the urgent care. This job allows me to observe people in all kinds of circumstances. One of the frustrating things about my voyeurism is not ever knowing the back story.

I had a patient awhile ago at my Urgent Care that rubbed some salt in this particular voyeuristic wound I have. She was a late fifties woman brought in with shortness of breath and dizziness. I could tell she had been very attractive in her day, but time and personality had not been kind to her. She had worry lines in her forehead, a down turned, tightly frowning mouth, too much makeup, and badly colored hair. Her oxygen saturation was bouncing around in the mid sixties, so the Doc ordered oxygen and a chest X-Ray to rule out pneumonia and other lung pathologies. Getting a chest X-Ray can be a vulnerable time for a lady, as the requisite attire is an open backed paper hospital gown, sans bra. As if this wasn't bad enough, they must pose in a manner reminiscent of a pin up poster model while I bustle around them, getting the shielding right, collimating the beam, hanging films, measuring things, and occasionally cursing under my breath at the stupid fucking computer. There are all kinds of clicks and whirs, strange lights, and cold surfaces. I’m sure it’s no fun for the patient, so if circumstances allow I like to have a family member present as much as possible in the x-ray room. Pretty routine stuff.

What piqued my interest was this exchange:

“Ma’am, I’m going to wheel you back to the x-ray machine now. We’re going to take a couple of pictures of your heart and lungs.”

She looked at me, her arms crossed across her paper covered chest. I noticed a lacy black bra prominently draped over the exam table. Her bony elbows didn’t conceal the losing fight her breasts were having with gravity and time. Nobody wins that two front war. She cocked her head to the side and jutted her chin forward, saying nothing.

“Some patients are more comfortable with family in the room. Do you want your husband to come with you?”

“He’s my EX-husband, and he can just STAY here.”

Holy awkward, Batman.

“Okie dokie (yes, I say dumb shit like that). Let’s get started.”

She got up off the exam table and settled in to the wheelchair. Her EX-husband swirled around her like a Labrador who’s trying to get back in its master’s good graces. He shot sidelong glances at her and me, but was quick with a hand on the oxygen tubing. He got in my way when I loaded up the oxygen tank. When I spun the patient around in her wheelchair, he made a production of staying in her field of view. He awkwardly jumped to open the door.

Once we got into the exam room, her demeanor changed. She slumped a bit and uncrossed her arms. She posed without complaint, letting her once awesome boobs dangle out at the world. Most women will make an unconscious effort to keep their backs to me, but she obviously didn’t care.

When I was wheeling her back to the exam room, she changed again. It was like watching someone put on a suit of armor, or gear up for a raid. Her posture straightened, her arms crossed, and her expression was hard again by the time we entered the room. I’ve seen that look on Marine’s faces after they jack a round into their rifles and step out toward the wire.

After the Doc looked at her x-rays, he ordered a nebulizer treatment. I set up the neb, and put in the medicine.

“Alrighty, ma’am. Make sure you breathe deeply. This should open up your lungs, let you breathe easier. Some patients say it tastes funny, but don’t worry about that.”

She just put out her hand, palm up. Her EX-husband leapt up, grabbed the mouthpiece from me, and handed it to her with a flourish. He tried to stroke her face, but she turned away, chin up so high that if it had been raining, she would have gotten water in her nostrils.

Obligation and retribution hung in the air like fog.

I went off, did some other stuff, and checked in on her a few minutes later. Usually, people’s O2 sats will come up after a few minutes on oxygen and the nebulizer. Her’s was still right where they were when she came in. Some patients need a little coaching to breathe the medicine, and I figured that must be the case here.

“Ma’am, I need you to breathe in deeply, then exhale through your nose. Can you do that for me now?”

She rolled her eyes, the plastic neb mouthpiece obviously precluding whatever acid retort she’d normally fire back. She did what I asked, though. She also did something a little unusual – she began alternating her glances at me and the O2 sat readout. Most patients sit with their eyes closed or stare fixedly at the numbers that indicate how the ol’ pulmonology is going. I’m like a piece of the machine to most people - I only get looked at if I speak. This lady was looking at me like an adversary. Her O2 sat blinked from 64% to 65%.

I turned away and busied my hands with the jars and medicine wrappers on the counter. As soon she thought my attention was off her, I could hear her breathing change. Gone were the slow steady inhalations, the booger whistling in her nose as she exhaled. Instead, she breathed in shallow pants. Her O2 sat blinked from 65% to 64%.

“Ma’am, please breathe deeply, like we talked about”, I said.

“Honey, breathe in the medicine,” the EX husband added.

She turned her face to the EX husband like an M-1s traversing turret. She took the mouth piece out.

“I AM doing it. It just isn’t HELPING,” she said to him. She crammed the mouthpiece back in and glared at the EX husband until his eyes dropped.

Right then, I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. I got the Doc when the neb finished. Her O2 sat was pegged right at 64%, like I knew it would be.

“Mrs. Johnson, we’re going to have to…,” Dr. Goodguy began.

“It’s Miss Johnson, Doctor,” she interrupted.

“Alright, Miss Johnson. We’re going to have to send you to the hospital. We can’t get your oxygen saturation up where it’s supposed to be here, and we’re going to be closing soon. I can’t let you go home as sick as you are.”

Miss Johnson’s eyes lit up a bit at this. Most folks look worried or frustrated when they get told that a hospital is necessary.

“Very well, Doctor. HE can drive me.”

“Well, it’s not that simple. I have to send you by ambulance, since you’re not responding well to the treatment. I can’t let something happen to you,” Doc Goodguy said. I could see he was getting ready to argue liability and malpractice issues with a recalcitrant patient.

“Hmmm…Well, HE will just have to follow along behind the ambulance, then.”

“Okay, then. I’ll call and let the ER know you’re coming over.” Doc Goodguy bounced out of the room, not believing how easy that was.

We got Miss Johnson ready for transport, then handed her over to the Paramedics.

“Hold my purse and meet me at the hospital,” she commanded the EX husband.

EX husband was standing in front of me, the doc, and six firemen. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to make it back to YOUR HOUSE in time for dinner, does it,” Miss Johnson said to EX husband as she was loaded in to the ambulance.

He didn’t look at her, just turned and started to his car.

That happened a couple of months ago, and it rolls around in my mind a lot. I wonder what kind of marriage they had. Who decided to end it? I wonder if she was always a bitch, or if she turned bitter because of something he did. I wonder at the discipline it took her to fake getting treatment when she was so sick. I wonder what she was punishing the EX husband for. I wonder why he took it, or if he ever fought back. I wonder if Miss Johnson is angry or desperate for attention. Would she take him back if he asked? Why was he the one to give her a ride to the clinic?

I wonder why I still worry about her.

An unfinished thought

2008-09-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

Every human being on earth is three meals away from being an animal. If you are hungry enough, you will lie, cheat, steal, and kill to eat. You will kill to eradicate a perceived threat. You will kill to protect your family and friends. You can’t help it - it’s hardwired into your brain. Even the nicest animal rights activist is the pinnacle of her genetic line. Her ancestors have triumphed over disease, famine, and saber toothed tigers. Her ancestors have even triumphed over that most dangerous of animals – other humans. Sure, she can divorce herself a bit from her genetic heritage, but only if the present environment is cushy enough to allow the luxury of adopting a cause that runs counter to all that genetic conditioning.

I wish I could teach her that not every human tries to separate so hard from that heritage. She puts herself at a disadvantage by doing that. I'm sad for awhile after she gets taught that lesson. Since I'm a bit sad, I don’t mind when she bleeds on my scrubs. I’ll put a cool cloth on her forehead and bring her a piece of ice to suck on. It’s the little courtesies, you see, that separate me from the animals.

Internet Dating

2008-09-15T06:58:00.000-07:00

I wrote this on a message board in response to a question about internet dating. It came out pretty good, so I'm putting it up here.

I've been on two internet dates. One ended with me getting hot tea poured deliberately into my lap, and the other one was a fucking disaster.

Several years ago, I went through a period of pretty low self esteem. I had just gotten out of the military and had a five year long relationship end on bad terms. I was adrift in life, and women could smell it on me. It was like I had a phantasmal neon sign above my head that read "Mid twenties male. Brash, annoying, desperate, clingy." There was no love out there for your faithful scribe.

I did what every idiot does at that point, which was to convince myself that if I could just get the right girl, everything would look up. The ladies were not so enthusiastic about my cart before the horseness. I turned to eHarmony to remedy this unfortunate situation.

After the month long vetting process, I finally arranged a date. The girl was a Mary Kay salesperson (make up ladies are hot, right?) and seemed to be about where I was in life. I drove over to her apartment to take her to dinner, visions of meeting my future wife playing in my head. I just knew that this would be The One - we were going to become a team and pull each other out of our collective funks, building each other's self esteem. Together, we were going to conquer the world.

I pulled up outside her building (she didn't give me her actual apartment number for PERSEC reasons) in the rain and called her. After she said she was coming out, I began watching for her. I am a gentleman and always open the door for a lady, but I wanted to stay in my warm dry truck as long as possible. After several false alarms, I heard a knock on my passenger side door. My finely tuned jungle sense had somehow missed the future love of my life walking across the parking lot.

I sprung into action, much chagrined. Had I messed up her first impression already? I hopped out, and went around to the passenger side door. The creature I beheld was nothing like the one that had danced in my mind on the trip over. There were no long, lean thighs. There was no feminine jawline, no perfect (but tastefully concealed) busom pushing through a sheer (but tasteful, you see?) blouse. Absent were soulful (but glinting with subtle mischief!) eyes.

I was looking at a human tub of shit. This poor girl had let herself go to the point of repulsiveness. She had two and a half chins, a pannus that hung to her knock-knees, and tiny, beady eyes that were permanently squinting due to the oppressive weight of facial fat. Dear Reader, I believe I actually took several steps back.

"Hi, Savage Henry! I'm so excited to meet you. Where are we going to eat?"

My mind raced. I had reservations at a five star restaurant. I was prepared to invest three or four hundred dollars on dinner with the vision in my head. There is no sense skimping on the woman who was to be my salvation, I had reasoned. But this? Hell no.

"I figured we could head over to The Macaroni Grill. They have pretty good food, I guess."

Quick thinking, right? Smooth, too. Not smooth or quick enough to back out of this date, though. I was bullied into opening the truck door by social convention, and my inability to be a total asshole to an obese girl.

Have you ever seen films of the paratroopers getting on planes prior to jumping into Normandy? Burdened by a hundred pounds of gear and parachute, those brave men struggled up the ladders into DC-3s, teetering on the threshold until they got a helpful shove from the man behind them. Watching this woman get into my truck was quite similar. She huffed and puffed, quivered and jiggled, and finally slopped herself into the passenger's seat. My huge Dodge truck with a 3/4 ton suspension groaned. When I got back on my side, I swear my truck had a ten degree list to starboard.

Walking in to the restaurant with her, I was as embarrassed as I have been since a very unfortunate incident in fourth grade. The men cast pitying looks at me, and the women were not much better. The servers looked at her greedily, knowing there was economic opportunity in a woman who obviously ate so much.

Dinner conversation was uncomfortable, until I struck upon an idea. I asked about her past relationships. If I wasn't going to get to know the future Mrs. Savage Henry, I could at least do anthropological research into the kind of man who sought a woman such as this. She was emboldened by my seeming interest in her.

"Oh, I don't date a lot. I was seeing this guy for awhile, but he cheated on me and gave me an STD."

"Oh..An STD?...So...uh...what did you get?" Like she had won a raffle or grab bag or something.

"I have genital warts. Don't worry, though - I get them frozen off and you won't catch anything. We can still have sex."

"...."

"I hope we do have sex later. I'm having a really good time with you. I promise it will be great." The last part was said with what I assume was a conspiratorial wink, but it looked like some adipose triggered facial tic.

"Okay." I said.

That was the final blow for me. At that point in my life, I might have sunk so low as to use this poor creature for sex, but the thought of warts on my unit put the kibosh on that. We sped through dinner, her surely thinking I was excited by the promise of wading through folds of Limburger scented chub in search of her diseased lady parts, and me wishing for an ejection seat instead of a booth.

When we pulled up in front of her apartment building after dinner, I made the usual excuses about being tired and having to work early in the morning.

"You'll call me, right?"

I envisioned her very own phantasmal neon sign spinning over her head. It read "Female, mid-twenties. Fat, boring, desperate, and a PERMANENT FUCKING STD."

I went home, deleted her number, and drank half a bottle of Jack.

2008-05-13T19:17:00.000-07:00

Part 2:

“What can we do for you today, sir?” asked the extremely attractive front desk receptionist.

The young man’s eyes widened a little, and his face paled a bit. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

“Hey, bro – you need to see a doc today?” I asked. Amy the attractive receptionist turned around and glared daggers at me. Amy and I don’t get along very well. I don’t like her because she is relentlessly self involved. She has the ability to work every conversation around to be about her, all the stories she tells are about something she has done, the only things she is interested in are start with “A” and end with “my”. I recently lost a dear friend overseas. I took two days off and went to his funeral. When I returned, Amy regaled me with tales of how much she had done to get me the days off. She told of hours long patient wait times, the harrowing job of rearranging the schedule, and the Sisyphisean task of keeping the back office staff under forty hours for the week. She bitched so much I almost wrote my congress-critter and requested a Congressional Medal of Freedom for her.

Instead I told her,”Thanks” and went on about my day.

If you ask Amy, she will tell you I am a sloping browed Neanderthal, bereft of the milk of human kindness. She will go over in great detail how brusque I am, and how little I care for the front office staff. She will point out the fact that I used to be a trained killer (her words), and so don’t belong in healthcare. She would never tell you that I am the guy who buys the lollipops we give to sick kids, or that several old ladies that come in schedule appointments only when I am working.

I pushed past Amy and sat at the other computer.

“Why don’t you fill this form out, and I’ll take you back when there is a bed open,” I told the young nervous man with man-type problems.

“Okay…uhh…are you the guy who will be examining me today?” he asked. When I glanced up at him, his focus on me was laser like. I had the oddest sensation of looking at someone’s face from down a length of pipe. He was willing all the females in the office to disappear. He was trying to be invisible to anything with a vagina, but stand out like a bank of Klieg lights to me, a fellow penis owner. His extreme psychic focus on this task was having the exact opposite effect.

“No, dude, but I’ll take your vitals and get this stuff put into the computer. Don’t worry bro – I’ll walk you through the process.” I really need to stop calling people bro and dude, I thought.

He filled out the paper and I took it from him. When he had a seat, Lisa, a female nurse came up to me and asked what his problem was.

“Looks like he has some kind of bumps on his balls,” I said.

“I don’t care what he has – that guy is creeping me out,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Oh Female Nurse – he is WAY more afraid of you than you are of him right now,” I said.

“What, is he like some kind of rattlesnake?”

“His problems are just a little south of his snake this time.”

“Ugh. I’m just glad he’s not my patient- he’s weird. Who is the doctor on duty?”

“Doctor T.”

“Oh….that poor kid!” Lisa said. Women – see how fickle they are?

Lisa’s change of heart was due to an amazing accident of genetics. You see, Doctor T. does not look like a doctor should look. Doctor T. has no salt and pepper hair, crow’s feet, and deep, kindly voice. Doctor T. looks like she belongs in Penthouse Magazine. She is a tall, late twenties, strawberry blond with a bedroom voice. Her baggy scrubs do nothing to hide her howl at the moon, drool on your shirt figure. When she leans over while examining a patient, her scrub top falls down a bit, revealing her taste for lacy bras that barely contain the awesome pair of mammary glands she was gifted with. If her scrub pants ride a bit too low, one is treated with tantalizing glimpses of thongy goodness. No matter what she is talking about, I find it incredibly sexy. If she is waxing poetic about traumatic amputation, I can’t help but imagine us having the conversation after a nice, ass slapping fuck session, with her hair spread out on my pillows and the sweat drying on our skin. If she is rambling on about MRSA abscesses and pus filled pockets, I keep thinking about how much I want to MRSA her pus filled pocket. Kind of disgusting, I know – but you should see this woman. You’d think the same thing.

I took Mr. Man Problems back to the vitals room and got his medical history and vitals. When we got to the chief complaint, I discovered the reason for his intense nervousness.

“Well, I uhh…I have these bumps on my balls.” The end of his sentence came out rapidly, like an M-249 on set on the maximum cyclic rate of fire.

“I see, Mr. Man Problems. When did you notice these…bumps?” I asked.

“Well….how much of this are you going to type in to that computer?” Man Problems asked, his nervousness starting up again.

“Dude, we’ve got to build a good picture for the doctor. Sometimes things you or I wouldn’t think are important figure in pretty prominently for the doctor. Lots of times heredity, environment, and nutrition are important. If we skip something, either the doc is going to ask you again, or we might miss a diagnosis. We want you to get better, so I’ve got to ask lots of questions.” I mentally berated myself for the “dude” in my sentence. Saying dude all the time is not an acceptable substitute for bro.

“Okay, I guess I’ll be honest. Does any of this go down on my permanent record?”

“Look, we’re not the cops. We want you to get better. Things are always better if you are honest.”

“Okay…I…uh….” The sweat started on his upper lip again.

“I was a virgin, and I didn’t want to be, you know?” He looked at me sidelong.

“No problem with that, my man. Everybody on Earth was a virgin at one time. Hell, I’ve never even seen a woman naked,” I quipped. Sometimes joking makes things go easier.

“Hah hah…yeah….Well, I got a hooker. You know….I hired a prostitute.”

“Okay, bro (dang it). No problem at all. You had sex with her, and now there’s something funny about your wedding tackle?”

Man Problems sagged in his chair. He looked like someone who’d just finished running a race. It surprised me how much psychic weight had been lifted from this guy. I’ll bet a (non-bumpy) testicle that this kid was raised Catholic. Maybe the stethoscope around my neck was an adequate substitute for a priest’s collar.

“I’m just going to put that you had sex and noticed a problem afterward into the EMR, ok? The doc might ask you more, but I’m not putting anything crazy in your records, alright?”

“Alright, thanks man. I really, really, appreciate it.”

“Ok, but it’s very important you are honest with the doctor.”

“Alright, I will be.”

I took Man Problems back to an exam room, and gave him a gown to put on. I put his chart in the appropriate slot, and let Dr. T (yum) know the next patient was ready for her. She snatched the chart and read the name.

As she read down the chart, the expression vanished from her face. She snapped the chart closed, and trudged toward Man Problem’s room, shoulders hunched.
I watched her square up to the door and gather herself. She knocked twice, and poked her head into the room.

“Hi, I’m Dr. T. and I’ll be…” she started.

“OH GAWD!!!! YOU'RE HOT!!! I can't...I can't do this...I can't be here today!” came blasting out of Man Problem’s mouth.

“Man Problems! Relax, I’m a doctor!”

Man problems ripped the door open, and ran down the hallway toward the front entrance. His yellow hospital gown was open in the back, so he mooned everyone in the waiting room as he ran out into the parking lot.

I gathered up all of Man Problem’s clothes, and walked them out to his car. When I handed them over, he fished his keys out of the jean pocket.

“Man, I thought you were cool! How the fuck could you do that to me? Why didn’t you say SHE was going to be my doctor? I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

“Sorry, bro. I didn't know,” I lied.

I WILL break myself of the “dude” and “bro” habit one day.

Hopefully, you all found this story as amusing as I did. I realize it's kind of a "you had to be there" type of story. It was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. Any comments or critiques on this would be most welcome.

2008-05-10T00:43:00.000-07:00

This has nothing to do with the military. It's something that happened the other day at my job in health care that I thought was funny.

Part One:

I could tell he had a "man problem" as soon as he walked in the door. There is a certain set of the shoulders, a tension in the neck that manifests itself in the carriage of a young man when he realizes he will, in all probability, be showing his twig and berries to a stranger when no drinks, romance, or physical attraction is involved. The gait is shortened, the eyes furtive. What is usually an out thrust chin is angled down toward his chest. Clear eyes that are normally on some masculine pursuit become shifty and darting. Tension and embarrassment shimmer off him in waves.

Some of the women I come into contact with in this line of work seem to wear their feminine problems as a badge of honor. I listen to extended litanies of pelvic pain, cramps, bleeding, vaginal discharge, cramps WITH bleeding and discharge, etc. several times a shift. These descriptions of what should be very private maladies are told to me with eye contact, straight posture, and the subtle insinuation that I will never, ever, know how hard it is to be a woman in this day and age. It reminds me of the way we used to talk to new Marines about things we had done:

"Yeah, it was a bitch, but we made it, no problem. You might be able to do it someday, boot. IF you train hard enough. IF you don't puss out and quit. IF you unfuck yourself and wire your shit a little tighter. But probably not, boot"

Men are different. When something happens to our jubblies, we become as mice.

This young man slunk in the door like a dog that had just crapped on it's master's carpet. He paused at the front desk, screwing up his courage. He surveyed the scene, flicking eyes moving from the rack of Cosmopolitan magazines, to the tasteful potted plants, to the Family Channel playing on T.V. The tasteful, feminine inspired touch of the waiting room ran down his spine like ice water. A battle played out in his mind, lasting a subjective eternity but visible on his countenance for only a second or two.

Finally, he stepped up to the front desk.

Unintentional Cruelty, and an Awful Flavor of Kool Aid

2008-04-21T05:29:00.000-07:00

A five ton truck passed, it's big tires aerosoling the talcum like sand. I closed my scratchy eyes and covered my ears, waiting for the dust to drift away. I was fucking sick of the dust - It blew up from helicopters, roostertailed behind tanks and amtracks, billowed behind humvees. I was sick of brown boogers, bloodshot eyes, caked and gritty ears. When I sweat through my sleeves, the dust transformed magically into a salty mud exoskeleton. My groin was caked with a salty mud proto -exoskeleton. When I had time to sit with my legs open, like I was doing now, it would dry into crotch-chafing armor plating, inhabited by itch demons. Every time I opened my canteen, dust got in there, too. Each drink was like a contest winner for the worst Kool-Aid flavor ever. Our Grand Prize Winner: Sugar Free Bleachy Dirt! Now with 10% more Real Grit! In stores now!

Across the road from me was another guy having a bad day. Maybe he was having a bad life. He was sitting in a concertina wire pen. His pen was roofed over with regular barbed wire, just high enough to squat in. I wonder what he did to get there. I started thinking of him as Monkey Man, because of the way he was sitting. His heels were almost touching his butt, with his skinny arms wrapped around his knees. He reminded me of the poo flinging monkeys they grow in South America. Those fuckers will sit on tree limbs, still and silent until you come close enough, then POW! Faster than any immediate action drill, they flip to the bottom of the tree limb, hang by their tails and shit into their hands. The shit is then flung at your bipedal self with remarkable speed and accuracy. I don't think this guy had eaten enough lately to shit, though. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunk into twin tunnels in his skull.

Dust has a remarkably defining quality when it collects on a human face. It settles into the lines and grooves, collects on eyelash tips and eyebrows. If you have a cut, it will collect there, highlighting the edges in black. Crow's feet you never thought you had appear in dark brown. The net effect made me think of a comic book face - flat colors, with features exaggerated. Very stylistic, like living in some kind of Caricature Land. I imagined Stan Lee sneaking around behind me, drawing old Arabs squatting in barbed wire cages for me to look at. Monkey Man's ancient, comic book faced wife was there, outside the cage. She had draped a scarf over the top of the cage to give Monkey Man some protection from the noon sun. The scarf was so thin it cast only a shadow of a shadow. Not much, but I guess it was all she could do for him. Love in the Third World is at once beautiful and tragic.

Instead of enduring another series of leg cramps, I got up off my rucksack and started doing some hurdler's stretches. Mail had been slow, and my mom's care package containing powdered Gatorade and Copenhagen was probably sitting in Kuwait or something. Instead, I drank warm canteen water and got leg cramps. No nicotine meant I saw better at night, anyway. I thought about quitting chew for a minute. That shit will kill you.

My buddy Sanders was coming back with our ammo. No mere Green Tips of Justice for us! Match Grade all the way, baby. Death with style and precision! I always got a chuckle out of the green tips painted on the tips of the NATO Standard rounds. Green is the color of Islam, and what better way to send someone to Allah than with that? It's like a little piece of destiny, painted five point five-six millimeters at a time. Tracers have red tips. I wonder if the guys who get killed with tracer rounds are jealous of the green tip ghosts when they get to the afterlife. Do they feel like they missed out or something? What do they think of the rounds Sanders and I used, with no pretty colors on the tips at all?

I had a half full canteen of water after my drink. It's hard to sneak around with a half full canteen sloshing around on your ass, so I walked across the road, intending to give Monkey Man the rest. I got to his cage and started to thread my canteen through the strands of concertina wire. Some officer looked over and yelled at me to "get the hell away from that guy!" I shrugged at Monkey Man, waved at the officer, and walked back to my gear. Instant willing obedience to orders is our creed, after all. Sanders didn't want the rest of my canteen, so I poured it out. Lighter, and quieter, too. Swift, silent, deadly, right?

Pretty soon, word came to saddle up and move out.

As we walked away, I looked back at Monkey Man in his cage. He was pressed against the concertina wire, looking intently at the damp sand where I had poured out the warm bleach and grit flavored water. Maybe if it had been dark, you could have seen some glow of psychic energy stretching from his thirsty mind to that patch of damp sand, willing the water to him. His comic book face mask cracked, and his tongue darted out, scraping across his lips. His tongue was very pink.

I walked on up the road, all by myself in a line of guys just like me.

Rights, and their theory and practice

2008-03-10T19:48:00.000-07:00

Berkley brushed at the dirt that encrusted his Day-Glow orange coveralls. It was important to keep his uniform clean. How fair would it be if an innocent person was detained by the enemy because he couldn’t be distinguished from a civilian? He looked down and brushed more dirt off the word “SOLDIER” that was stenciled in block letters across his chest. As always, he felt a twinge of shame when he read them.

How had it come to this?

Nervously, he clutched his M-48A2 megaphone and peered anxiously up the street. He decided to lay suppression propaganda. The enemy was out there, he just couldn’t see them. He rolled from behind the pile of bricks and pointed the megaphone down the blasted street.

“Imperialism is wrong! Go back to your homeland! Peace and love will rule the day!” He yelled, his amplified voice booming up the street.

Quickly, he rolled back behind cover, a textbook maneuver, just like his instructors in Infantry School taught.

BRAP BRAP BRAP! Went the patch of asphalt where he had just been laying. Hamilton’s sphincter tightened when he looked at the three gouges in the street where he’d been, seconds before. He could have been hurt! What kind of animals were the enemy? He knew he was just a soldier, but he had the right to live, just like anyone else! He raised a hand to his cheek. It came away red. These filthy fucking imperialists had HURT him! That was against the rules! No one should ever be allowed to hurt someone else!

Berkley was momentarily stunned. Maybe the rumors were true after all! These scumbag invaders didn’t play fair. They actually used disgusting violence to get their way, contrary to every civilized dictum. He had to get this vital information to the Grievance Commission! Once the Commission heard about the enemy hurting people, they could start a Tribunal to appropriately sanction the offenders. It was probably a mistake, Berkley thought. Probably just a rogue psychopath who’d gotten out of control. The Tribunal would put paid to that crazy! See how they liked being sanctioned for inflicting pain on someone then!

Berkley prepared to abandon his position. He had a surprise for the invaders, though. He dug into his leg pocket and pulled out a Persuasion Mine. When the invaders came to give him medical aid, they wouldn’t find him, just the mine. Once they tripped the mine, a jet of compressed gas would erupt, propelling hundreds of leaflets into the air, fluttering down to be read by the invaders. Once they read the leaflets, surely they would see the error of their ways and go back home. Berkley shoved the fiendishly clever device under a piece of rubble and low crawled back down the street.

Dignity Battalion A’s headquarters area was a mess. There were Day Glow clad soldiers running all over the place. What was once a bastion of compassionate efficiency was now a stirred up hornets nest of yelling, screaming panic.

“Senior Co-coordinator! I have to file a report!” Berkley said to his unit leader.

“What the hell are you talking about, Berkley? Don’t you know they just blew up the power plant? We don’t have time for that now!” the Senior Co-ordinator yelled. “We have to get out there and help the Citizens!”

“But Senior Coordinator! I’m almost sure they were firing guns at me! The Grievance Commission needs to hear my side of the story. Look, I was injured in an unwarranted personal attack!”

“All right, Berkley. That’s your right. Just know that I’m going to put a note in your file for this. There are people out there with no power now, and it is our duty to turn the tide of this invasion, and help the Citizens!”

“Senior Coordinator, I know my rights, and I am exercising them. The invaders have no right to hurt me. It’s not fair.”

“All right, head back to the rear. If you pass any soldiers on the way, tell them we are massing for a group protest near Broadway and Sixth Street. We’re going to stop the invaders in their tracks!”

Once Berkley had filed his report, he began making his way to the site of the mass protest. The city was eerily quiet, with the afternoon sun slanting down through smoke and dust. He passed several bodies with terrible wounds, blood congealing in the dirt around them. Berkley was too afraid to look closely, or offer any aid.

Rounding one corner, he saw a Vertically Challenged, Weight Enhanced Citizen arguing with a small, hard looking man in a green military uniform. There were several other dangerous looking men standing around them, with bemused looks on their faces. They all had some kind of black rifles slung over their shoulders.

“You people ruined my power plant, and now my air conditioning’s stopped. It’s hot in my house, and I want it fixed! I know my rights!” The Vertically Challenged, Weight Enhanced Citizen who was differently cultured and female said to the man.

“Get the fuck out of my face, bitch,” the hard man replied.

Berkley drew close enough to join the exchange. His sense of human decency was aroused when he heard the reply.

“That is NOT APPROPRIATE, sir! This Citizen’s rights were infringed upon, and you have a duty to make amends!” Berkley yelled, hitting the perfect note of righteous indignation guaranteed to induce willing compliance.

“Rights? Here’s you rights right here.” The hard man shot the Vertically Challenged, Weight Enhanced Citizen who was differently cultured and female in the face with his pistol.

“Buh..buh…you can’t DO that! She has RIGHTS!” Berkley cried.

“Watch me,” the hard man replied.

“I DEMAND TO SEE YOUR MANAGER!” Berkley was squealing now.

Berkley noticed the hard man turn toward him, but never saw the pistol shot that ended his life.

Oh no, not this crap again

2008-03-06T19:31:00.000-08:00

I seem to be writing a lot about the military. That's definitely not what I set out to do with this blog. I'm out, and I have been for a few years. I guess I'm still processing my experience, though, and it helps to write about it.

I always liked coming "on base" as they say. It was a good feeling, coming in the front gate. It felt kind of like stepping out of a movie, and going back to real life. I laugh now when I think about that feeling. After all, aren't movies MADE about the people who live on the base? It didn't seem so to me at the time.

There are a lot of stories walking around the PX and the bowling alleys. You never know who is standing behind you in line. See that young guy buying boot polish and a Gatorade? He killed three Iraqis with a pistol. Their blood stuck to the bottom of his boots and gummed up the passenger side floorboard of his Humvee. The next day he gave all of his food to some kids at a checkpoint, and went hungry for a couple of days. He didn't feel like eating for awhile after that. His wife cheated on him with their neighbor while he was deployed, and he came home to an empty house. It doesn't bother him as much as you might think. He likes the solitude of the empty house when he gets off work. He worries Admin is going to figure out his wife left him and make him move back into the barracks.

There are thousands, millions of stories like that, walking around you all the time on base.

One guy you would never walk by without noticing is named Gunny Franco. Gunny Franco is one of the guys they definitely do make movies about. Sometime during the First Gulf War, he'd been shot in the face. The bullet, or fragment - no one is sure - blew through both cheeks while he was yelling. He lost most of his molars, and was left with some vicious looking facial scars and an inability to eat Doritos, which had been his favorite food. He tried gumming them once his face healed up, but it was more trouble than it's worth. Gunny Franco was pretty philosophical about it. He always said he knew his time was coming. He'd been in every dust up the Marine Corps had since Lebanon in 1982.

It's only a matter of time until you get zapped, he said. I got mine, now it's your turn.

An old story with a new twist

2008-02-17T17:10:00.000-08:00

I got the idea for this story from a story I read as a kid. It's a science fiction story, set about one hundred years in the future. Let me know what you think.

We were sitting in the mud in what was left of some blasted building. Harvey and I were listening to Sergeant Whittle run his mouth like he always does. Of course, we weren’t really talking, because we had our power armor on, and there was always artillery or rockets going off somewhere. We were listening to him over the company radio net in our helmet phones.

“Fuck, it’s dark. I can’t see shit.” Whittle said. “Nothing showing on thermals, either. Looks like they popped chemical smoke again.”

“Want me to shoot a flare?” Gupta said. I never liked Gupta’s voice. I can’t really describe why – it just had a funny flat quality to it.

Just then Sergeant Whittle raised his armored head over the wall again. About five machine gun rounds spacked into the wall right under his helmet.

“Fuck! No flares. They already know we’re here.” Sergeant Whittle said.
“The ragheads must have night vision goggles over there,” Harvey said.
“Those ragheads ain’t got shit on us,” I said.
“Some of ‘em have pretty good gear. They’ve got Chinese NVGs and some body armor,” Sergeant Whittle said.
“Come on, Sergeant. Our shit is way better than their shit. In a stand up fight, we’ll eat their lunch.” I was feeling pretty good just then, all cozy in my armor. I was thinking about how much better off we were than the regular grunts. We don’t just fight in our suits – we live in them too. The suit is your barracks, latrine, and chow hall, all rain and radiation proof. Each suit has more firepower than a squad, and more communication gear than a tank.

“There’s way worse things to be in this war than Armored Infantry. They tuck you in to your suit and seal you up like a sardine, but at least you’re warm and dry and you don’t even have to use your own feet to walk with. You’ve got a nice fuel cell to move you around.”

“You couldn’t move the feet of these things on your own even if you had too,” Sergeant Whittle said.

“This…This seems like a funny way to fight a war,” Gupta said. He talked like he had to hunt for every word before he said it. Creeped me out.

“What’s funny about it, Gupta? We’ve been doing it this way for fifty years,” I asked.

“I…I guess you’re right. I dunno…”

“Yeah, fifty years. The last five we’ve spent crawling back and forth over Jerusalem.” The Sergeant was talking again. “Just think – in the old days they used to call this the Holy Land.”

“Yeah, it’s holey all right,” I quipped. I was following some movement on my radar, over behind their lines. There was no incoming fire, but if you turned the gain up on your external microphones you could hear their voices floating across the mud.
Suddenly a girl was talking over a loud speaker from behind their lines. Her voice was like soft lips against your ear.

“Hey there, boys across the line. It’s not so much fun being here, is it? Especially when you know some guy in Berkeley stole your girl a long time ago. Sweetie, I know just how you feel. I know because I used to live in Berkeley. I lived there until I found out how much better things are over here, in the People’s Federated Democratic Islamic Republics..” Just then a plane tore over, the roar of it’s engines competing with the sweet, syrupy voice. The plane faded quickly. The sweet voice drifted back.
“Well, guys, we’re going to play you some music from home in a few minutes, but first we’re going to tell you about our contest. We know you Yankee boys love contests! This one’s awesome!” A burst of auto cannon fire sounded somewhere down our line. Outgoing, I think.
“This contest is open to any soldier in the Armored Infantry units. Check out these awesome prizes! First prize is one million Euros in gold! And then we have an all expense paid vacation in scenic Dubai, followed by a television appearance and dinner date with Fatima Hussein, the glamorous singer!”
“Now, I know you guys are wondering what you have to do to win these glamorous prizes, and you won’t believe how easy it is. All you have to do is write out a thousand word statement on ‘How my power armor works’ and turn it, along with your armor, into the nearest P.F.D.I.R. Army unit! Isn’t that easy? Once again, this contest is open to any member of the Armored Infantry!” The sweet voice faded away.

“Who the fuck do they think they are?” I said. I blasted half a magazine of 20mm toward their lines, just on general principles.

“I…I don’t understand…I don’t think I understand that at all,” Gupta said. “I thought the enemy was the ragheads!”

“You’re in bad fucking shape, Gupta.” I said. “Can’t you even remember who we’re fighting?”
“Leave him alone, Smitty,” the Sergeant said to me. “If you’d been Indoctrinated as many times as he’s been, you’d be in bad shape too.”

“Whattya mean, Sarge?” I asked.

Sergeant Whittle swung the big headpiece of his armor around and looked at Gupta through his cameras.
“How many times have you been captured, Gupta?” Sergeant Whittle asked.

“I…I don’t really know….three, maybe four?”

“That’s at least two, maybe three Indoctrinations from each side, Smitty. All that brain washing doesn’t leave much in a man’s mind.”

“Well, shit. Who’s side were you on first, Gupta?” I asked.

“Uh…ours, I think”

“You think? You think? Come on, man, you’ve got to know. Were you an Arab or were you an American? Western Federated People’s Democratic Republic or People’s Federated Democratic Islamic Republic – which side?” I asked.

“I…I don’t really remember. All I know is they’re bad and we’ve got to fight…got to kill every last one of those dirty fuckers.”

“You better watch your mouth, Smitty. There might be an officer listening to this frequency. You wouldn’t want to sit through an Indoctrination, would you?” Sergeant Whittle asked.

“The officers aren’t listening to us jabber, Sergeant. Fucking Gupta creeps me out. He doesn’t know anything but how to run his armor and how to fight. He doesn’t even know what side he was on first. For all he knows, he was shooting the shit out of his brother this morning.”

“You know, Gupta, maybe you was a big shot on the other side. Maybe you was the Ayatolla’s grandson or something,” Harvey chimed in.

“I…I wish I did know…” Gupta sort of trailed off.

Whittle was looking back at our lines.

“There’s something going on back there – looks like the whole company is moving up. There’s a big armored transport, too.” Sergeant Whittle sat back down with a whine of servos and a clanking of armor.

“Must be some brass up from the rear, telling us how to win the war.”

“Fuck, I wish they’d bring me a shower. I haven’t been clean in months,” I said.

“Do they have showers on the other side?” Gupta asked.

“Naw, Gupta. Showers are reserved for infidels,” I told him.

“If we’ve got the showers and…and they don’t….then what are we fighting for?” Gupta wanted to know.

“Shit, Gupta! I don’t know. You should ask Sergeant Whittle. He’s the intellectual around here. He watches all the news and stuff.”

“Why do you think were fighting, Gupta?” Whittle asked.

“Well, Sarge…I don’t know. If I could just remember who I used to be, I’d know. Sometime I’m gonna remember. Every once in awhile I can almost…but then I don’t.”

“Well, why do you think we’re fighting?”

“Well…well…I guess it’s that there’s bad guys and good guys…just like in cartoons and movies. We’re the good guys and they’re the bad guys. Is that right, Sarge?”

“I don’t know, Gupta, but I kind of think it has something to do with when we won the last war.
We thought we had finished with it but they had us fooled. In the States they called us racists and in the Middle East they called us infidels. Pretty soon people didn’t know the difference and it was just better to be pointing at someone than be pointed at.”

“Now, Sergeant, you’re the one who’d better be careful. You don’t want the officers hearing that sort of talk, would you?” I cut in.

“Maybe you’re right but I kinda think that’s why….”

Just then the command circuit in our helmets opened up with orders for us to pull back and form up with the rest of the company. All the way back Gupta didn’t say anything, so I figured he was trying to remember who he is. We got back to the command post without drawing too much fire, and things were really jumping there. The big crawler Whittle saw from our outpost was sitting there in the middle of the street and the rest of the company was gathered around it.
“What’s going on?” I said as I sidled up next to Freddie Dobshanski.

“Don’t you know? There’s a big drive comin’ up. General Mac Williams is gonna talk to us himself!”

Gupta was right beside me. He sure was a funny guy, always hanging around and asking questions. Sometimes I used to wonder what he looked like. You get used to not seeing the guys you work with in the forward areas. Sometimes for weeks or months at a time the front would be contaminated with chemicals, or radiation or some such, and you didn’t open your suit at all. Even if you got wounded, the suit just gave you a shot and took you back to the medics. That is, if the suits was still working. So you kind of forgot what the guys look like, and you sort of didn’t care much. But with Gupta, it was different. His voice had such a dull someplace-else sound you got to wondering if there was dude in there at all. You got to wondering if that armor just walked around by itself…

“Mac Williams? Who’s he?” Gupta asked, like he could hear my thoughts.

“Fuck, Gupta! Don’t you know nothin’?” Freddie asked.

“I dunno Freddie….” Gupta sort of trailed off again.

“Mac Williams is Fightin’ Joe McWilliams, and he’s gonna talk to us hisself. Look! There he is now!”

I adjusted my eyepieces for direct vision and sure enough out steps the General from his crawler. He looked like some piece of work, too. He was wearing a mother of pearl plated helmet, with three gold stars set in rubies. His armor was trimmed out in scarlet and gold. Even the twin machine guns fitted to his armor instead of the 75 recoilless and 20mm we had was plated to look like silver.

“Damn! Imagine a General coming all the way up here in all this mud and stuff. That guy must really have balls!” someone said on the command circuit.

“At ease! That ain’t no way to talk! Quiet down!” some officer said.

“OK Guys, the Generals going to speak,” the Captain cut in. The guys got still, listening.

Well, the General started in about what a great crusade we’re embarked on, and how our way of life is at stake. And how proud all the folks at home is of us. Of course, he admits, we haven’t had direct word from the States since those dirty bomb attacks a couple of years ago, but he’s sure they all love us back there. Right then, I knew we were in deep shit, because when the brass starts talking about great crusades, a bunch of grunts are going to get killed.

He went on like this for half an hour, and all the time the news cameras were grinding away from the transporter, and all these news reporters were standing around nodding their heads. He mentioned blood sixteen times, and that’s not good. He said sweat fourteen times, and guts an even dozen. When it got really hairy, though, is when he called up the Captain and the Major and pinned a medal each on the medal rack the officers wear on their suits. When they start passing out the medals beforehand, bro, that’s not good. It’s not good at all.

When he got through with all that, old boy retired into his armored transporter.

“I guess he’s going to plan the battle,” I said.

“Ha,” said Sergeant Whittle. “All the blood and guts in his speech wore him out so much he’s gotta go to the bar and have a couple quick ones.”

“That’s no way for a patriot to talk, Sarge,” I said.

“My patriotism is at a low ebb at the moment. Do you know what kind of party we’re about to have?”

“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell us.”

“You’ve seen that huge mile long building across the square from us?”

“I’ve seen it,” I said. “The Rags got every kinda gun ever invented in there.”

“Well, the Captain says that’s it! Fightin’ Joe wants us to take it.”

The general circuit in our headphones cut on : “Remember boys, what you’re fighting for. Our way of life is better. Remember – hot dogs and apple pie, your sweethearts and mom. Don’t let mother down, boys!” The National Anthem was playing in the backround.

Twenty minutes later and we were in position among the rubble and wrecked buildings on our side of the square. As usual, the enemy seemed to have a pretty good idea of what we were up to.

“Fuck,” said Sergeant Whittle. “Did Mac Williams send them an e-mail as soon as he got done writing the orders?”

Just then we got the word to attack.

Heavy shells and rockets were blasting into the already plowed up pavement all around us. Geysers of mud and water erupted on all sides. I saw a couple guys go down and I tripped over a tangled mess of blood and armor as we broke from cover and started across the hundred yards of the square. Floater rockets were circling overhead, lighting up the whole company pretty as flares. It’s real comforting to see guys all around you, but not so great when they’re falling right and left.

I knew I was running right along cause my power pack revved up, and I zig zagged, dodging shell holes and trying to throw off the enemy’s aim. Not that they were aiming much. They just threw everything they had into the square and bet on the law of averages. The whole length of the big building we were after was lit up, but it wasn’t with lights, it was with muzzle flashes.

The radio bands were a mess. Even the officer’s circuit was filled with guys yelling and screaming. I kept going because I didn’t know what else to do. Once or twice I recognized Whittle and Gupta by the numbers on their suits, and I caught a glimpse of Freddie as some kind of rocket blew him in half. Then we were almost at the building, and I was being hit by point blank machine gun fire. I blazed back with my 20 and 75, grateful my armor could take machine gun rounds even at close range.

Then there were other guys around me and we were busting through doors and crashing over widow sills into the building. The place was full of ragheads and I took a round from a 40mm that knocked me off my feet. Gupta blasted the gun crew a second later, though, so it all worked out. We fought our way up some big marble steps, when suddenly they took a notion to rush us – about three hundred of them.

What we did to them wasn’t pretty. That light Kevlar body armor of theirs didn’t even come close to stopping our stuff, and packed together on the steps, it was murder. A lot of them got to the bottom, but there wasn’t much left of them when they did.

Suddenly, it was over. It just sort of stopped. Guys were yelling for the ammo robot, or the medic, or just yelling. Some of us just sat down, waiting for something else to happen….and in about ten minutes it did. Just as soon as we chased the Rags out of the building, they tried to knock it down around our ears. Big artillery rounds and rockets started raining down, all around the building we had just captured.

Armor or no armor, what’s left of the battalion took cover in the cellars where a few hours before the Rags were playing possum from our guns. Whittle, Gupta, and I found a nice heavy beam to stand under. Whittle was talking, as usual, and Gupta was wondering who he is, and I watched the Captain and the Major take inventory. Our assets weren’t what they used to be. There were maybe twenty guys left in the Company and about sixty five in the whole Battalion.

I guess that’s why the Major wasn’t so friendly when a couple of the guys dug out a couple of dozen women and kids who’d been hiding in the building.

“Well I’ll be damned! Look what’s coming in!” I said to Sergeant Whittle. There were about twenty women and a bunch of kids. “Why do the kids seem to outlast the other ragheads, Sarge?” I asked. “Everywhere we go in Jerusalem, there’s always more kids than older folks.”

“I don’t know, Smitty. Maybe they make smaller targets.”

They already had the kids lined up and we gave them the Hershey bars wrapped in propaganda leaflets we all carried. Like all foreigners, they weren’t very polite or grateful. They didn’t even understand what I said when I turned up my outside amplifier to full power.
“What’s the matter with those fucks? Don’t they appreciate candy?” I asked the Corporal who was muttering to them in their kind of gibberish.

“They say the Muslims didn’t give them anything but copies of the Koran, and we don’t give them anything but candy bars. They’d like something else.”

“Now isn’t that just like people like them,” I said to Gupta. “No gratitude for us liberating them, or feeding them.”

“I think I would know… what it was all about if I could just remember who I was. You know Sarge, up there I almost…but then the shelling started and…and..” Gupta was going on about his favorite subject, so I turned back to the Corporal and the kids he was talking to.

“What’s up with these assholes? If it wasn’t for us they’d have no country.”

“They say the Muslims were about to take them to a camp and make them into soldiers and they’re afraid we’ll do the same.”

“Well….what the fuck do they want? To hide in some hole for the rest of the war while we do their fighting?” I asked.

“This youngster says he doesn’t want to be brainwashed. He doesn’t want to be a soldier,” the Corporal said back.

“He’s right,” Gupta piped up. “He doesn’t want to be like me. You know, I had a dream…or did I remember? Anyway…in this dream, or whatever, I remembered I had been an important person like you said, Smitty. I knew something and wanted to tell it to the whole country, but they didn’t want me to. That’s why they sent me to the Indoctrination machines. That’s why they made me like I am.”

“What was it you knew, Gupta ?” Sergeant Coleman asked.

“I’m not sure. It was something….something about there being no more Western Federation or Islamic Federation….no more Americans….no more Arabs…just two self perpetuating armies crawling like maggots across the corpse of the Middle East.”

“That’s a funny sort of dream….a very funny sort of dream,” the Sergeant said.

“Why would you have any sort of crazy dream like that?” I demanded. “You know we have newscasts all the time about how things are getting along fine back home.”

“How longs it been since you got a package, Smitty?” Whittle asked.

“Package? I don’t remember. Who’d send something to me anyway? What’s the matter with them kids? Do they want the Rags to come back and rape their mothers and sisters?”

“I’ll ask them,” the Corporal said, and started gibbering at them through his outside amp. Pretty quick they started gibbering back just like they understood.

“They say the women have been raped so many times by both sides it don’t make no difference anymore.”

“They ain’t go no gratitude..”I started to say, but just then I heard the Major yelling at the Captain so I stopped to listen.

“Why did they permit the Muslims to hide out in this building? Don’t they know that is collaborating with the enemy? Where are their men? I’ll have them hung!”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the Captain interrupted him. “This woman says their men are up on the second floor and…”

“Good! Send six men up there and hang every one of them!”

“Sir, they say the Muslims have already hung them. As American collaborationists, sir.”

“What? Humph…well, send some men up there to cut them down and hang them again. No! Wait, Captain! We’ll wait for the news cameras to get here.”

It was just then that word came for us to fall back to our old positions.

“My God! What’s the matter with them?” Gupta asked. “After all the guys we lost taking this place, why do we have to give it up?”

“Maybe we have to do it again for the TV,” Sergeant Whittle said.

“I don’t want to go,” Gupta said suddenly. “Maybe if I stay here I’ll remember.”

“Fuck it, Gupta,” Whittle told him. “Maybe you wouldn’t like it if you did. Maybe you’re better off this way.”

“I like it here. There used to be paintings up above…I saw one during the fighting…it was beautiful.”

“Come on, Gupta! Let’s get going! Don’t you see what the Captain’s doing?” I said.

The Captain must have been mad about giving up our objective, because he wired up the biggest mound of C-6 explosive I’ve ever seen. Maybe you’ve never seen C-6 go off, and maybe you don’t want to. It’s pretty powerful shit.

Pretty soon we were running back across the square and I saw Gupta break off and head back to the building. He got to the door by the stairs just as the charge went off. One minute he was there, and the next, no building, no Gupta, no nothing. Just a huge crater and a lot of dust.

Later on, when were back at the base, I was sitting by Sergeant Whittle while our armor heated up some rations for us.

“Why’d he do it, Sarge? Why’d Gupta go back?”

“I don’t know. There was something about that building that he thought he remembered. It reminded him of something, sort of set him off. He said maybe that painting was the last one there was in the world.”

“Did…did he remember what side he started out on?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Gupta? That’s a funny name, anyway. His name sure is mud now. I bet he was on the wrong side, anyway.”

“Maybe the two sides are one and the same, Smitty,” he said.

Sergeant Whittle always was a funny guy.

Dealing with Rodents, and other Tactical Doctrine

2008-02-17T00:26:00.000-08:00

*I have changed the names, to protect the bastards who did this to me.

I was a young Marine assigned to Rifle Security Company Windward, aboard US Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. It was sometime in the nineties, and things were tense. We had taken some rounds from across the minefield, and Raul Castro (brother of the bearded one) was making noise about American Imperialism again. Those bastard commies had also taken to allowing prisoners through to the US side under the guise of political asylum. It is harder than you think to control a hundred murderers, rapists, and criminally insane people without killing them. Among other things I learned that year, I realized being a jailer wasn’t for me. Kind of ironic in this day and age, considering what goes on aboard Gitmo these days isn’t it?

I remember the first word I spoke as a Marine in a combat zone like they were yesterday:

”Corporal, I don’t understand why you want me to go in there!”

Cpl. Jones was my squad leader, and I was pretty sure if I didn’t do what he said, I would end up as a smear on the nearest available hard surface, but I REALLY didn’t understand what he was telling me to do.

“Listen, fuckstick,” he said, affording me the respect and courtesy a PFC rates from a Corporal, “Get your dumb ass into that drainage pipe and see if there are Cubans crawling through under the mine field.”

“Aye aye, Corporal,” I said. In my mind’s ear, I sounded like a warrior eager to find and kill the enemy. In reality, I probably sounded like an arthritic female field mouse, as my throat was constricted to pinpoint size by fear. You see, I was being asked to crawl into a pipe about four feet in diameter that ran underneath our lines, buried underground all the way (as I understood it) to the Cuban side of the lines. This would be a prime infiltration route if Fidel Castro decided he was tired of a few Marines taking up the real estate on his island. By the way, it was DARK. Not flip off the light in your bedroom dark, but inky black, blindfolded, coal black DARK. Apparently, someone had heard some rustling in the pipe, and the source of the rustling needed to be investigated, hopefully thwarting the aforementioned real estate deal before it got started.

I wrestled with my courage, and found I’d rather take my chances with the Cubans than with Cpl. Jones. I did, however, decide to stack the odds in my favor as much as I could. I borrowed my buddy’s flak jacket so I could wear two, and I borrowed the Corporal’s pistol. I figured the pistol would be easier to employ at close range than my M-16. This was in the days before we had a lot of night vision gear, and I briefly entertained the thought of carrying a flashlight. Visions of me switching it on and drawing the ire of many unhappy subterranean communists quickly dissuaded me from this course of action. With my free hand I maneuvered a borrowed helmet, using it like a shield to hold in front of my balls. Reproductive organs rate as much protection as you can give them, in my opinion. I took several deep breaths, wished I was anywhere else, and started up the pipe.

I duck walked slowly, my heart pounding in my ears. I have never been so scared in my life. Saying “scared” doesn’t do the feeling justice. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, yet still managed to taste coppery. My knees trembled so much I could barely duck walk. My heart was climbing my throat like a cat struggling out of a full bathtub. I was so scared that after more than ten years, as I sit in the here and now, the hair on my arms and neck is standing up just typing this missive. After about three lifetimes, I had progressed about forty feet.

What was that?

OH SHIT Oh Shit ohshitohshitohshitohshit

I heard it again…..a faint rustling from farther up the pipe. Yes….it was coming closer now.

Oh shit ohshit ohshit ohshitohshitohshit…

Dear reader, I would love to report that I acted heroically, in the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service. I would like to report to you that I acted as gallantly as Horatio at the bridge. I would like to spin a yarn containing combat the world has not seen since Achilles slew Hector…

Instead, I screamed like a nine year old girl in the presence of a boy band. I clutched my hand on the pistol over and over, trigger control, bladder control, and sight alignment forgotten. I blasted nine millimeter rounds into the blackness until the pistol’s slide locked open. The jerky flashes from the muzzle blast made huge purple afterimages in my eyes, and the stroboscopic flashes turned the pipe into a horror show. I flew back down the pipe in a single bound. I would have won a race against Carl Lewis, Deon Sanders, and Jesse Owens with time to spare. I fucking FLEW down that pipe.

“THERE’S FUCKIN’ CUBANS IN THERE! GOTTA BE TONS OF ‘EM!,” I reported in a calm and coherent manner.

I emerged to hear not the sounds of my fellow warriors preparing for battle, but guffaws and laughter so loud it cut right through the ringing in my ears.

“Haw haw heee haw…What the hell were you doing, Henry!!??!,” Cpl. Jones asked. He was bent over with his hands on his knees. He was laughing so hard his canteens were sloshing.

Once Jones could breathe enough to speak, he detailed another Marine to “confirm my contact report”.

A minute or so later, a smirking Lance Corporal emerged from the Drainage Pipe of Doom, holding a large, dead rat by the tail.

“Congratulations, hero. You done killed a Commie rat!”
He gleefully displayed the fruits of my warrior prowess for all to see. I had killed a banana rat that nested in the pipe.

Once again, Faithful Reader, I must admit to being slightly less than satisfied. I would like to write about the rat being blown into scraps, or perhaps dead from a single round between it’s beady, communist eyes. Instead, I must report that the rat was totally intact. Not a single one of the fifteen rounds from my M-9 pistol had put paid to that dastardly servant of the Evil Castro Regime. The rat wasn’t even bleeding. It had either been knocked on the head by a ricocheting rock, or died of laughter, like my buddies seemed to be doing.

Once I had calmed down a bit, I was informed that the pipe had been installed in the sixties sometime, and ended somewhere under the minefield. There was no chance that there were ever Cubans in there. I was the on the receiving end of some sort of sick joke on the new guy.

I also learned that I was no longer PFC Henry. Nay, Dear Reader, I was now referred to as Rat. This unhappy state of affairs continued for several months. Time passed, as it tends to do, and I was promoted and made a squad leader. I was making my rounds and passed by the Drainage Pipe of Doom. Inspiration struck.

“C’mere, PFC! Yeah, you - the new guy! I think I hear something in this pipe! I need you to check it out! Could be some infiltrators!”

“Aye Aye, Lance Corporal Henry,” he squeaked.

500 word story

2008-01-20T07:43:00.000-08:00

It's hard to write a story that takes place in less than 500 words. I tried it because I tend to get quite verbose. I figured it would help. Here it is:

This time was going to be different. There was no doubt in my eight year old mind. I was going to make it all the way to the corner store and back this time…..I was mobile.
My noble steed was a decades old rusty red Scwhin with a crooked banana seat – brand new to me, and all my parents could afford for a birthday present. This bike was joy and freedom made manifest. Just like the post apocalypse Australian desert, mobility was life in my neighborhood. The big kids were the wolves of the street – human wolves who thought nothing of jacking you for the buck your dad had given you. Sure, you could run. I tried it. Fear will only compensate for so much anaerobic exercise in an eight year old little body. They got you when you ran out of breath. Cue flashing feet, cue fists rising and falling, a little rifling through pockets, and no more dollar, no more pride. If you weren’t mobile it was better to stay in your own yard.
Not this time, motherfuckers. I pedaled out, and made Seven Eleven without incident. Halfway done. Before long, I realized my dithering between a Charleston Chew and a Snickers was symptomatic of my building fear. Reluctantly, I paid my dollar and unlocked my bike. The touch of my rusty red salvation steadied me, so I headed for home.
While whizzing and squeaking back, I saw an old enemy, and experienced that sweetest of feelings – invulnerability.
“Come here, boy! Boy, I said come here!” shouted he of the many beatings.
“Fuck you, bitch! Come get me!” I replied helpfully.
The joy of that moment, the drawing back of years of terror, was indescribable.
I never noticed him running into his garage.
As I circled back for another round of revenge, a gleam caught my eye in the Saturday afternoon sun. I should have suspected from the look on his face, but who would guess he could throw a wrench so far and fast?
It was a Craftsman, I’ll bet, since his step-dad was a handyman. The guy may have been a drunk, but he always had nice tools.
Time slowed. The wrench turned in the sun, on a direct path to my skull. I pumped the pedals….once…twice….
It really was a beautiful throw. I’ll bet he couldn’t make it again in a million years. The wrench connected with my head right behind my ear. It didn’t really hurt; it was more of a puzzling dislocation. What did hurt was me crashing the bike. I went ass over teakettle, and when the dust settled I was partially under a parked car, dazed, bleeding, and struggling to breathe. Did you ever notice how dirty mufflers on old Chryslers tend to get?
What hurt the worst was watching that fucker ride off with my bike. That’s why I cried, not the stitches.

Cat story

2007-07-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

“You smell like a cat person. Make a lap, I’m coming up,” Pushkin said. “What’s on the table?” he asked, trying to sound bored. I can always tell if he’s lying about being interested. His tail flicks a bit. One day I’ll tell him, just to see how he pretends being easily read doesn’t bother him.
“Shrimp and chicken? Oh good.” He licked his chops. The cat will eat almost anything, but seafood is definitely his favorite. The vet says I don’t have to worry about mercury poisoning, as cats don’t live long enough for the heavy metal to accumulate.
“You may feed me some chicken now,” he said. My dinner date didn’t seem to mind, although we were still in the awkward first stages of getting to know each other. You know, the best foot forward thing. As I’m feeding the cat, I wonder what the weirdest thing I can say to her without her running screaming from the room is. I wasn’t that into her, and I guess I was getting bored. First dinners are veritable minefields, padded with the mutual understanding that we are both feeling nervous. You get that two faced forced politeness – a faux pas would be ignored on it’s face, but gossiped about endlessly with girlfriends. I had no desire to be the subject of “Hey! Remember that guy who…” but I was tempted. It’s bad enough being a man who is owned by a cat. I couldn’t think of anything to say or do before the cat bugged me again though.
“Slow down with the chicken. If I want it faster I’ll let you know.” What is the difference between arrogance and just being sure you are the absolute center of the Universe? Is one more polite than the other? The cat had never even entertained the question.
My date was looking at me strangely. She asked some question about if I let the cat eat my food all the time.
“Shut up, wench,” Pushkin the cat said, not sparing her a glance. “If you’re lucky I’ll consent to letting you pet me later.” He doesn’t mince words, does he? Lucky for me, she didn’t hear. I guess she might have heard, but chose to ignore it. Maybe the politeness factor at work. I sighed, and gave her a noncommittal answer.
“I want shrimp now. Feed them to me one at a time. You may save the last one for yourself.” I could feel the bulge of Pushkin’s belly now. He was getting pretty full. My date and I made more inane conversation. She went to great pains to let me know how much she liked being invited over for dinner. How she hated men who tried to wine and dine at expensive places, and the pressure she felt to put out after a two hundred dollar dinner.
“She doesn’t know you’re broke as a joke, does she?” Pushkin asked sneeringly. That cat’s command of body language was amazing. Contempt and lordliness all while cleaning his face of the butter sauce from my store bought shrimp. “Well, if you do put out I don’t know where you’re going to do it. I won’t have it on my couch, and I’ll be going for my nap in the bed soon.” That cat has a bit of the misogynist in him. I guess it comes from being neutered. Probably tasting some sour grapes when I bring a lady friend around.
My date and I talked some more. I told her about being a student, and the veteran’s benefits not being enough to try that kind of impressiveness. I think I worked that into the conversation okay, not seeming to make excuses or anything. You’ve got to be careful about being poor around most women. Make it seem like a choice, almost. All the while I was grousing mentally about how Pushkin used to have a pair, and should be sympathetic. That cat always tries to pull my punk card. Ungrateful bastard.
“Hmm…I found dinner to be adequate. Now, I will hunt bugs.” Pushkin hopped off my lap, and went over to the table lamp. I had once questioned the logic of hunting after a meal. He just sniffed and stalked off.
Later, we were sitting on the couch, with my date babbling on about how her mom always questions her, doesn’t respect her as a woman in her own right. I made the expected sympathetic noises. After awhile, these first date conversations seem rehearsed. Say the right thing, nod at the appropriate times, and be told you are a great listener, that we have a connection.
Eventually, my date went off to the bathroom. I had a brief heart to heart with the cat. Told him how I hated when he torpedoed my game like he was doing. Told him to fix it or I’d buy the Purina he hated for the next month.
“Don’t threaten me, Ace. You don’t question a mighty hunter’s actions. You might get the jugular pinch, or a disemboweling claw in your sleep.” I could tell he wasn’t serious, though. Cats just can’t admit when they are wrong. Some people are like that, too.
My date came back out and we got settled again. The boring movie ended, and I resisted my urge for the History Channel. My date might mistake my interest in Hitler as some racist leaning. She might even be Jewish!
We talked about religion then. You know the drill – no serious questions until you figure out how wacky the girl is. A buddy and I once scared the only two cute girls in a bar away by means of an inappropriate Jesus joke. Smile and nod, treat it like you’ve never met anyone so deep and spiritual before.
Halfway way through this watered down milktoast of a conversation Pushkin jumps into her lap. I know this is his way of apologizing, making amends. He even forces a purr.
“Oh, he’s so cute!” my date exclaims gleefully.
Ever see a cat sneer?

Foray into newspapers

2007-05-06T13:33:00.000-07:00

I didn't understand what it was to love and hate something at the same time until I had been out of the Marines for a few years.

I was reading the paper this morning when I came upon an article about Prince Harry's desire to serve in Iraq with his troops. The tone of the article was fine, but the writer made a comment about how the Falklands wasn't a serious war. I had one of those flashback moments like you see in movies, and thought about my friends who died or were crippled in events that didn't make ninth page news while they were going on. Me and my guys would get back to the U.S. and I would call my dad to check in. Inevitably he would ask what I was up to, and when told, could rarely find them as they were buried in the World Affairs section in small print. Months of being hungry, scared, smelly and bleeding would be a 50 word blurb nobody cared about.

I hated it, so I got out. The funny thing is, as I got older, I realized it wasn't the USMC I hated, it was the fact that it's needed I hated. Whenever I hear something about Marines, my ears pick up and my back straightens a little. I feel proud that I was a part of it once. I too, did a difficult, dangerous job that needed doing.

I felt so strongly about it, that I emailed the writer about the sacrifice people make every day in service to their countries. If the guy replies, I'll post the article with the letter and response.

As corny as it sounds, I sleep better knowing there are a bunch of young, very tough guys out there on our side and swinging.

Semper Fidelis

Real Life CPR vs. what George Clooney would do

2007-05-03T18:17:00.000-07:00

I have just finished my CPR for health care professionals certification. Now, I realize I'm still in school, and have no idea what it will be like to work in the industry. I do have far more real life first aid experience than I ever wanted to get, however.

BLS for healthcare professionals is a feelgood timewaster.

At no point were we instructed to look for signs of injury. How much sense does it make to do chest compressions on someone who is missing a limb or bleedin g out? Whats the deal with seizures? Hypothermia? Heat injury? Diabetic problems?

I guess the biggest bitch I have is the amount of time it took to learn the paltry amount of skills. I learned more lifesaving in 2 hours in bootcamp than in the 14 mandatory classroom hours I just had. Another disturbing moment occured when I chatted to my classmates about what they learned. False confidence can be more damaging than ignorance, in my opinion. They feel like they are equipped to save the world now. I hope they will be everything they think they are when the blood, noise, and screaming starts.

I'd love to hear from somebody who has taken the BLS class and used it for something other than messing with a dying person.

Voluntold

2007-05-02T18:32:00.000-07:00

One thing I like about reading other people's blogs is seeing slices of daily life. I seem to be drawn to people who get very involved in minutiae I had no idea even existed, or people who deal with very broad issues that affect everyone. In a patently obvious attemp to connect to the vast number of people who read this blog (0), I have decided to write about a moment everyone has had. I call it "The Realization". Check it out:

You apply you palm to your forehead, sometimes producing an audible "smack". The decibel level of the smack depends on the severity, and the context of the situation. You sigh, rub your eyes, and gaze with either poisonous hate or abject misery at the person who has just asked a perfectly reasonable question.

Then it hits you: You have Volunteered for something. Now you have to actually Do It.

This is "The Realization".

I've had "The Realization" many times in my life, from standing on the yellow footprints at MCRD San Diego when I joined the Marines, to dragging my hung over carcass over to some friend's (read: girl I barely know but go to class with) house to help them move. I don't know why I never learn. I was looking at the people in the latest "Realization" factory I'm involved in and I came to a disturbing, although still somewhat tentative conclusion. Allow me to elucidate....

The people in the group include:
-A self-obsessesed narcissistic jackass with a toilet sense of humor, who on a good day is roughly one third as cool as he thinks he is (that's me)
-a man so gay and lonely that he had to work himself up for half an hour to show me an anime sketch of a naked male he made (not bad actually)
-A loud, LOUD woman who "gets pneumonia" if she gets rained on walking the one hundred yards back and forth from the bus stop, and who's hygiene left me aghast at the realization she has a kid. Seriously...someone at one time said nice things to her, took her clothes off, and EJACULATED IN HER VAGINA!!!! He must have put earplugs and noseplugs in, and then laid a flag over her face to reproduce for his country. (Duty is heavier than a mountain)

A dimestore statistical analysis left me quite disturbed. I think most people volunteer for selfish reasons, and have things about them they find repugnant about themselves, and use this masochistic activity to compensate so they don't feel so bad.

I wonder what Mother Theresa was hiding, then?

How to Murder a sixteen year old girl and keep your job as a judge

2007-05-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

It was exactly 6am August 15th, 2004 and the start of another blisteringly hot summer day. Sixteen year old Atefeh Rajabi was dragged from her prison cell and taken to be executed. Every step of the way the troubled teenager plagued by mental problems shouted "repentance, repentance" as the militiamen marched her to Neka, Iran’s Railway Square. The Iranian judge who had sentenced Atefeh to death was left unmoved as he personally put the noose around her neck and signaled to the crane driver. Kicking and screaming, Atefeh was left dangling for 45 minutes from the arm of the crane. She had been found guilty of "acts incompatible with chastity" by having sex with an unmarried man, even though friends say Atefeh was in such a fragile mental state that she wasn't in a position to say no. A Western reader of this account would probably recoil in horror, as teenage girls having sex is not viewed as a crime, and in the Western view what happened to her could be construed as sexual assault. This example illustrates the subjective definition of the term deviance. A deviant person is defined as someone who violates or opposes society’s norms. Through deviant behavior, individuals can become disvalued people that provoke hostile reactions in the societies they inhabit. What is considered deviant varies considerably depending on the permissiveness of the culture, as do the social controls used to punish deviance.
In the United States, considered widely to be fairly permissive, Atefeh Rajabi’s case would have been handled in a much different manner. For example, if the man who had sexual relations with her had been older than twenty one, the man could have been charged with statutory rape, or possibly rape, depending on the jurisdiction. In that case, it would have been the man who was considered deviant. He would have been considered a sexual predator and been incarcerated for a period of years. In some cases, he would have been forced to register as a sexual criminal, and notify his neighbors of that. This stigma is one way Western society protects children from people who would do harm to them. Other deviant behaviors have different consequences ranging from the death penalty for pre-meditated murder, to mild social rebuke in the case of adultery. Only in severe cases is violence done to the offender.
Unfortunately, that is not the case in countries governed by Shariah law, such as Iran. Iranian society cannot rightly be termed a permissive society. Power isn’t held by groups elected by the populace, but by an elite group of mullahs. Acts considered as minor infractions in the West, such as shoplifting, are grounds for permanent crippling injury in Iran. A shoplifter in the U.S. could expect a misdemeanor conviction, coupled with a monetary penalty and a short term of incarceration or community service. An Iranian so convicted could look forward to a life with no hands, as they would be hacked off in public. Homosexuality carries a mild social stigma in the U.S., while in Iran the penalty for even a homosexual kiss is sixty lashes delivered in public. Rubbing another man’s thighs or buttocks can be seen on American television almost every evening, whether for comic effect or to illustrate a homosexual lifestyle. In Iran, this carries a penalty of ninety nine lashes. If a man is convicted of this four times, he is killed. The brutal end to Atefeh's short life illustrates Iran's Shariah law, where adultery, theft and rape all carry the same punishment - death. Officially around 100 people - some just children like Atefeh - are executed each year. Human rights groups say the true figure could be much higher in a country where only half of the women can read, only one in 10 have a job and two-thirds are beaten in their homes.

Al Sharpton accepts your apology

2007-05-02T18:22:00.000-07:00

People who are invested in keeping racial tensions alive in this country do much to hinder true understanding and tolerance between ethnic groups. In biology, race is termed “an inbreeding population that develops distinctive physical characteristics that are hereditary.”[1] While there are differences in appearance among human beings, such as Caucasoid, whose people have pale skin and ample body hair, or Negroids who have broad facial features and tightly curled hair, these are not true biological differences. The specific physical characteristics that are used to assign people to these groups are meaningless from a biologist’s perspective. All humans can interbreed, and all are classified as Homo sapiens. What have become important in so called “race relations” are the things the cultures and sub-cultures define as meaningful. In American society today, great personal wealth and power can be gained from exaggerating and sensationalizing the normal conflict between people. If one can sell oneself to society as a champion of a culture, and be seen as “looking out for you”, someone who has little worthwhile to say can gain notoriety and gravitas. Two examples in American society from opposite ends of the spectrum are Luis Farrakhan and David Duke.
Luis Farrakhan is seen as a leader by many African-Americans. He reached prominence as the leader of the Nation of Islam and is by many accounts a great orator. In the past, his speeches have been thronged by many looking for enlightenment and entertainment. Farrakhan has made several controversial statements about race as recently as March, 2000, including "White people are potential humans — they haven't evolved yet"[2] and "Murder and lying comes easy for white people"[3]. According to Farrakhan's mentor, Elijah Muhammad, blacks were "born righteous and turned to unrighteousness," while the white race was "made unrighteous by the God who made them. In comments regarding the destruction of New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, Louis Farrakhan stated that there was a 25-foot hole under one of the key levees that failed, and implied that the levee's destruction was a deliberate attempt to wipe out the population of largely Black sections within the city. Farrakhan later claimed that the informant was current New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin, who allegedly told him of the crater during a meeting in Dallas, Texas.[4] Farrakhan further claimed the fact that the levee broke the day after Hurricane Katrina was proof that the destruction of the levee was not a natural occurrence. Farrakhan has raised additional questions and has called for federal investigations into the source of the levee break.
These accusations, however, are countered by many experts, including the Independent Levee Investigation Team from the University of California, Berkeley. The findings of this panel are that the overtopping of the levees by flood waters, the often sub-standard materials used to shore up the levees, and the age of the levees contributed to these "scour holes" found at many of the sites of levee breaks after Hurricane Katrina. What possesses a man to make such comments in that fly in the face of facts? Perhaps it is a hungering for the spotlight, or the need to feel relevant and respected. The comments about Hurricane Katrina may have struck a chord with some residents of New Orleans, allowing them to feel that the death and chaos was in fact man made, and not an intractible force of nature that no man has control over. A conspiracy of men may allow the devastated denizens to feel they could have some control over this in the future, if they can just root out the racists in government and elsewhere. These types of comments, however, engender resentment with many European Americans, as evidenced by the views of David Duke.
In 1974, David Duke founded the Louisiana-based Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, a Ku Klux Klan group, shortly after graduating from LSU. He first received broad public attention during this time, as he successfully marketed himself in the mid-1970s as a new brand of Klansman — well-groomed, engaged, and professional. Duke also reformed the organization, promoting nonviolence and legality, and, for the first time in the Klan's history, women were accepted as equal members and Catholics were encouraged to apply for membership[5]. He is a prolific author, with twelve books written under his name and several more under various pseudonyms. In the first paragraph on his official website he says,” I could make quite a good living just from the royalties of these books, which are now available in fourteen languages around the world — except for the fact that I personally keep little money from the book sales; those funds go directly into our operating fund for our work and activism.” This statement alludes to the huge amount of money it is possible to make exploiting racial tensions. One wonders how truthful Duke is being regarding the amount of money he actually puts into his organizations, as he is a convicted tax evader[6]. In his literature, one can find quotes such as “[America] has a high rate of violent crime because it has a large number of violent black criminals”[7].
When reading the above comment, it is appropriate to apply one’s palm to one’s forehead fast enough to make an audible smack and ask, ”how does that help solve the crime problem in America?” In truth, it does nothing of the sort. It does, however, tap into the basic human trait of blaming others for misfortunes. It allows a believer to ameliorate any responsibility for their part in the crime problem. People will pay a premium for validation of their basic desire to have crime be someone else’s fault. As can be seen in given examples, so called “race relations” in large part have moved beyond an honest desire to bring two subcultures together in the spirit of tolerance. The key players in this realm of our culture have hijacked the causes and turned them into vehicles of personal gain, whether the gain is monetary or more a intangible element, like fame or respect.
[2] http://www-cgi.cnn.com/US/9510/megamarch/10-17/notebook/
[3] http://www.wpunj.edu/~newpol/issue22/chajua22.htm
[4] http://www.finalcall.com/artman/publish/article_2197.shtml
[5] http://www.adl.org/learn/ext_us/duke.asp
[6] http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/davidduke1.html
[7] http://www.davidduke.com/index.php?p=30

A God that kills kittens

2007-05-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

By now I'm sure you're familiar with the age-old adage, "Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten." When a doctor swore this was true to me the other day, it made me think: can the statement really be true? An M.D. or PhD guarantees correctness, I've been told. Although the idiom implies a causal link, let's take it at face value and assume that it is merely observing a correlation between the kitten mortality rate and the masturbation rate. Does such a correlation exist? Approximately 70,000 dogs and cats are born in the U.S. each day, or 25,567,500 each year. Of these, roughly 54%, or 13,806,450, are cats. Since 34.5% of cats don't live to see their first birthday, we can assume that about 4,763,225 kittens die each year in the United States alone. We'll take for granted that God in His divine Wisdom purposely smote each of these kittens.Let's assume that the idiom is talking only about male masturbation. Let's further assume, highly conservatively, that males do not start masturbating until they reach age 15. Of the total U.S. male population, 107,199,356 would then be masturbation-age males. Again, let's conservatively estimate that teenagers masturbate no more frequently than adults, and that all men masturbate an average of 20 times each month or 240 times per year. This means that each man in the United States masturbates approximately every 1.5 days. It also means that there are approximately 25,727,845,440 male masturbation sessions in the United States each year.There are nearly 26 billion male masturbation sessions in the U.S., yet there are fewer than five million kitten deaths annually. Far from a one-to-one correlation, there are 5401.5 masturbation sessions for every single kitten death. This means that the average American man can masturbate regularly for 22.5 years before he is responsible for the death of a single kitten. Indeed, with a life expectancy of less than 75 years, the average man will be responsible for only two or three kitten deaths in a lifetime of vigorous masturbation.

Phew. Looking forward to Cinemax tonight.

First Post

2007-05-02T18:00:00.000-07:00

As our good friend Eyeore the Depressed Jackass has been wont to say,:"Thanks for noticin' me." I am a new writer and will use this blog to hone my writing skills. A half-assed attempt will be made to keep this from being a self indulgent emo diahreah spray. I intend to post on things that interest me, and welcome the any feedback there is. Especially if the feedback has no big words and lots of pictures.