Follow me, don't follow me
Oct. 9th, 2001 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thejunipertreenewsflash from the Wee One:
Our mutual friend, let's call him Chester,
has decided to re-enlist in the military.
Because he really wants to go out and kill
some Arabs for truth, justice, and the
American Way (TM).
Chester, by the way, has been through the
Army before. But, never made it through boot
camp. His nick name was 'Buddyfucker'. And
according to HIM, he bitched so much and
at such length, his drill instructor finally
gave him walking papers.
I remember this. I remember it all.
Today, I had the Wee One's voice in my ear,
from a payphone, telling me that Chester is
talking about re-enlistment.
This is the sillest thing I've heard in
a long, long time.
He didn't make it through once. What makes him
think that he can do it this time? Temporary
fervor to get Middle Eastern blood on his hands
isn't exactly the thing that will keep you
bullet-free when you're infantry. Which he will
most definitely be. Because new en-listing
grunts don't especially get dropped into peachy
keen, sekrit gubmint missions.
It distresses me. Mostly because he is so
goddamn blind right now. Blind to everything
around him.
What the hell is he thinking?!
On another note: I am on crutches. I got
into a tangle with a wood chip and the wood
chip won. This has borne all sorts of new songs
in my beady little pinskull.
"I Shot the WoodChip."
"I Fought the WoodChip and the WoodChip won."
"Happiness is a Warm WoodChip."
Hey. It was a BIG one, damnit. And of course,
in my Scarecrow way, I stepped square on it.
And it rolled, causing me to twist and shout.
BAM!
Papaver on the ground, filling the air blue with
profanity. One of the village idiots (this was
at the Renn Faire, o heap upon me more humilation,
please. I do so love it.) ran over to assist.
Completely dropping from character, he held my
booted foot in the air and spoke words of
comfort. He was a cute little village idiot and
did soothe me. My ankle still hurt like a
bitch on fire, however.
Hospital trip (one of the shortest of my
emergency room tours), x-rays, wheel chair
race challenges to the Engineer, and a fifty
dollar co-pay later...I am informed that I have
a sprained ankle.
A gel cast (what Dark Age torture chief
came up with THIS brilliant device?) and a
set of gun metal gray crutches later, I am
looking like a three legged Corky crane
strung out on goofballs and cheap beer.
Bah, I say!
I hate being an invalid.
And I'm sick to death of explaining to the
Dilberts in the office what happened to me.
I've begun telling them that my mother pushed
me down a flight of stairs during a sinister
argument.
heh.
I'm funny.
Our mutual friend, let's call him Chester,
has decided to re-enlist in the military.
Because he really wants to go out and kill
some Arabs for truth, justice, and the
American Way (TM).
Chester, by the way, has been through the
Army before. But, never made it through boot
camp. His nick name was 'Buddyfucker'. And
according to HIM, he bitched so much and
at such length, his drill instructor finally
gave him walking papers.
I remember this. I remember it all.
Today, I had the Wee One's voice in my ear,
from a payphone, telling me that Chester is
talking about re-enlistment.
This is the sillest thing I've heard in
a long, long time.
He didn't make it through once. What makes him
think that he can do it this time? Temporary
fervor to get Middle Eastern blood on his hands
isn't exactly the thing that will keep you
bullet-free when you're infantry. Which he will
most definitely be. Because new en-listing
grunts don't especially get dropped into peachy
keen, sekrit gubmint missions.
It distresses me. Mostly because he is so
goddamn blind right now. Blind to everything
around him.
What the hell is he thinking?!
On another note: I am on crutches. I got
into a tangle with a wood chip and the wood
chip won. This has borne all sorts of new songs
in my beady little pinskull.
"I Shot the WoodChip."
"I Fought the WoodChip and the WoodChip won."
"Happiness is a Warm WoodChip."
Hey. It was a BIG one, damnit. And of course,
in my Scarecrow way, I stepped square on it.
And it rolled, causing me to twist and shout.
BAM!
Papaver on the ground, filling the air blue with
profanity. One of the village idiots (this was
at the Renn Faire, o heap upon me more humilation,
please. I do so love it.) ran over to assist.
Completely dropping from character, he held my
booted foot in the air and spoke words of
comfort. He was a cute little village idiot and
did soothe me. My ankle still hurt like a
bitch on fire, however.
Hospital trip (one of the shortest of my
emergency room tours), x-rays, wheel chair
race challenges to the Engineer, and a fifty
dollar co-pay later...I am informed that I have
a sprained ankle.
A gel cast (what Dark Age torture chief
came up with THIS brilliant device?) and a
set of gun metal gray crutches later, I am
looking like a three legged Corky crane
strung out on goofballs and cheap beer.
Bah, I say!
I hate being an invalid.
And I'm sick to death of explaining to the
Dilberts in the office what happened to me.
I've begun telling them that my mother pushed
me down a flight of stairs during a sinister
argument.
heh.
I'm funny.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2001-10-20 05:35 pm (UTC)This filth was brought to you by bad people who disgust yummy-mummies everywhere.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
Date: 2001-10-21 01:29 pm (UTC)YOU SHUT UP!
Re: Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
My witty tags didn't show up!
Stupid fucking HTML.
What if people need to use the > and < symbols?
Grrrr.
stab.