German Cliffhanger

Being a Navy medic allows for few benifits

one of the best, being the Patient Escort.

Lucky me.

So I am currently in Germany freezing my balls off waiting for my flight back.

When I tell the airport personnel that I want their soonest flight to back to hell they pretend to have no idea as to where I am referring.

I intend to undo my compiled list of deprivation TONIGHT.

Sorry about the cliffhanger of suspense there but I will fill you in at the conclusion of my German episode.

Military Time

0300, Wednesday morning.
Sleep.
She is the womb of wombs.

Once you’ve entered her dark belly, it is very hard to tear away from such dark happiness. However, if you’ve recently found evidence that your wife may be cheating on you . . . sleep is a razor studded djinn supplanting your stasis with visions that gouge into your soul with lightning sharp brutality.

2300, the previous night.
You can’t shake the feeling. It’s something you haven’t felt in years since that one girlfriend, who had a knack for blow jobs, slept with that fuckhead while you sat in jail wondering where she was with that food she promised to bring by.

That feeling should be a foreigner in your domesticated brain but Mrs. Suspicion enters sudden, as though she’d never been gone, making her house a comfortable palace of intrigue.

You always struggle to remember your own passwords to private accounts and hers are even harder to remember.

Back in the states, it was “Well I’m going to get on the internet to see what the show times are for that movie . . . even though I know it’s gonna suck.”

“Can you check my email babe” she asks from the bathroom mirror.

“What’s your password again?”

“You know my fucking code you shit” water is running and she pokes her head around the corner to taunt you with a lone boob pointing at you accusingly.

“It’s so complicated. Why do you make your codes so complex? It’s just email. I can never remember your passwords.”

This time, in Kuwait, on desert deployment, is different.

This time, you need information. This time you need piece of mind.

Yesterday’s conversation threw up flags. Alarms screeched, tumbling your insides out and now your synaptic fires gleam white hot in a storm of precision and calling up her codes becomes effortless.

The day before
“Do you think we’re compatible” she asks out of the blue.

Quickly, you raise defensive “of course I think we’re compatible, we wouldn’t be married if I thought otherwise. Would we?”

“I know but sometimes I feel like you need someone more intelligent who can handle conversations with you. Sometimes I feel so stupid around you. Even though you’re not trying to make me feel that way, I do. Maybe you need someone on your level.”

Later in the conversation and equally out of the blue “How do you do it?”

“Do what” you ask.

“Go so long without acting on your attractions to the females around you? I wouldn’t know it if you did do something.”

“I’m surrounded by Army. There are no attractions out here for me.”

“Don’t lie to me. Even if it’s true, there is this way about you that good looking women flock to. I know Army women aren’t the best but if there’s only one model there, she’s a friend of yours.”

For a strange reason, these two questions ring alarm bells.

You need to know the flags were only flukes.

First you try her yahoo. You rifle through her account with the abandon of a desperate thief. Nothing.

Then you try her myspace account. You type in the password.

A small piece of time, waiting for the screen to load on your slow military computer elongates into a humble moment of what the fuck is wrong with you? Stop overreacting. You’re being childish.

There we go. You check her inbox, searching a few pages of messages but nothing stands out shiny with that stink you’re looking for.

You drag the cursor over the sign out link as you register the sent and trash. Don’t forget the sent and trash you tell yourself.

Sent is nada city.

Opening the trash you see a black metropolis of stank. Adrenalin waves break against the shores of your eyes.

Your heartbeat reverberates through your rib cage, your finger bones, your eyes pound—you vibrate a bit.

Opening up the nearest message of six, from a guy in oversized shades by the name Tino, you hope you are wrong.

Not wrong.

The vibrations turn to unfettered mini convulsions threatening to undo something as you read the message written in special-illiterate, myspace cheater’s font . . .

Well i think its awsome that we are hooking up. and i promise that i will behave, or try to. I enjoy the times we have spent talking on the phone, and hope that you never forget my number. I cant wait to see those pretty lips of yours, and your sexy eyes. I am sure it will bring one of those smiles to my face the first time i see you again. Stacy, I know the situation that you are in, and i respect that, but one thing you need to know, is that im here when you need someone to talk to. I have always had a thing for you, and you never were forgotten. Its been a long time, and im like you, I really cant wait to see you again. Take care..........mmmmmuuuuuuuuuuuaa
aaaaa aaaahhhhhhhhh
hhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Over and over you read the message aiming to unlock its secrets. Are you being too hasty? Maybe there’s less here than you are actually seeing.

What does he mean by hooking up?

Who the fuck is this guy and why is there no apparent flirtation limitation even though they’ve been talking on the phone? Why does he feel free to speak that way to my wife?

Can’t call her now. She’s at work and she never answers the phone at work. Besides, you want to use volume and language not conducive to the office environment.

Somehow you manage to sleep through the adrenalin, heart bleats and the sound of your marriage cracking open.

Wednesday Morning

WAKE THE FUCK UP screams your body at 0400 on the dark dot.

Time to call the wife. . .

The Mexican's Weapon

"OH MY GOD!! I can't believe you just said that to me!"

That piercing shriek you hear is Robison and it raises the hairs at the nape of the neck and makes you want to turn around but she's got the keys to the gun locker and you need to get your guns so you can leave.

So you plunge head long into her domain of attention seeking histrionics called The Front Desk.

She swivels her chair, looks you provacatively in the eyes (as always) and says, "Can you believe what that guy just said to me?" She points to a drooling soldier blushing behind the raised counter of The Front Desk.

It seems obvious what's going on here. Robison is a very attractive woman. Attractive women are rare creatures in the world of the military. In the canon of military beauty the different branches fall into, a strictly adhered to, order; Air Force is the pantheon of hotness, Navy/Marines are tied for a distant silver medal and last, finishing weeks after the race was called off on a count of fugly-the Army.

So where ever you find a cute mamasita, you're bound to see the vultures circling. This soldier looks like a buzzard caught in the crosshairs after trying to pick at something more alive than he expected.

The soldier stands motionless under the point of her accusing finger.

"What did he do to you?" you ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

"He called me a Mexican" she spits out every single word as though each is shaped by it's own level of elevating disgust. She's a Puerto Rican Princessa and you don't even have to ask. You can see it all around her.

"That's quite a fucking insult" you say, holding back a smile.

"For real! I mean it's the same as . . . like . . . well, what race are you?" everyone asks because they can never tell.

"Mexican. I'm a dirty, greazy Mexican."

Her eyes and mouth stand open and motionless for several, long, drawn out seconds.

"Can I get my guns now?"

Laid Back Attack

So many people describe themselves as laid back when this is simply. Not. So.

I know this because most people think I'm laid back.

They think this because I tell them "I'm very laid back."

I’ve been a surfer for years thinking this afforded me a certain bankroll of laidbackness—a sort of superiority of ‘this shit doesn’t affect me’.

I’ve realized as I’ve become an older man, that I am probably the opposite. Silly, tiny, almost laughable things have a way of neutralizing my mental processes, igniting them a burning anathema.

As I sit and write this, an overweight Commander sits to my left chewing with his mouth open, smack smack smacking his existence into my thirst for revenge. This small habit has always been something that liquefies my eyeballs into mental magma. Not only is my tubby superior not using his mouth considerately, he has opted to gorge on single kernels of popcorn at a time thus actively protracting the flood drowning my body in serious amounts of cortisol.

This post was supposed to be about something different, meaningful and poignant maybe. Now all I can think about is chubby cheeks and pudgy fingers and insistent chomping.

If I was laid back, I wouldn’t care about his eating habits. If I was laid back, I’d say to myself ‘Hey, its only food. Even fat people have to eat. Who cares if it’s an incredibly annoying way to masticate?’

Yet, instead of thinking these carefree thoughts, I’m stewing in blood soaked words.

‘Fucking tubby buttplugger! Eat like a normal person or grab some handfuls like a real man and take control of that Goddamned bag. Fucking eat already! Jesus Christ on a Fucking Cracker with cheese! Didn’t some wild west outlaw Killy the Shit put a bullet through someone for eating like that? Or was it snoring? Why did the military give me a gun and then stick me with this flatulent turder? Fuck a gun. I want to slap. I wish to issue an open hand whack of retribution upon the maws of infidels insistent upon annoying mouth misuse!’