Logistician Discrimination

Not long ago, someone else from my section and I were reading Stars & Stripes. Now, there may not be a lot of people who know what Stars & Stripes is, and for them I will elaborate.

Stars & Stripes is a well intentioned newspaper designed for U.S. service members assigned to overseas locations. Since we don’t occupy (read “assign soldiers in,” a less anger-inducing term) a lot of foreign countries that produce native English speakers, Stars & Stripes is usually the only paper that prints its articles in English. Thereby, it is the only newspaper of choice, and owns a monopoly on what the service members read (less they use the internet, ah ha!).

Stars & Stripes are usually abused by liberal non-military members of being too far to the right in order to cater to their military demographics. Also, they probably more so abused from conservative service members of being too far to the left in order to recruit more liberals to destroy America. In addition to all this, they are abused by me of being a half-assed publication, whose only worthwhile articles are usually those stripped from the Associated Press. Basically, everybody thinks they suck, we just read from them because we have no other choice, as pretty much no papers printed in the U.S. are willing to set up a press overseas for soldiers, sailors, and marines. Cool. Way to support the troops.

Now that’s out of the way. Being in the middle east, I am forced to read the middle east edition. It came to the attention of another in my section (mentioned earlier) that a lot of the writers in “To The Editor” were from Kuwait. Now, I’m in Kuwait, and I really don’t even consider it being deployed. There’s only two things that truly suck about being here: No booze and slow-as-fuck internet. That being said, there’s not a ton of people stationed in Kuwait to begin with, especially when compared to Iraq and Germany. (Germany has over 60,000 service members, Iraq peaked with over 170,000 troops, while Kuwait houses a few tens of thousands.) He said “Somebody needs to write in to these guys and say ‘If you’re from Kuwait, enjoy the amenities and shut the fuck up.'” I said the person who writes that should be from Kuwait themselves, and should write “Stop publishing letters from Kuwait. Sincerely, Sergeant Douchebag, Camp Arifjan, Kuwait.” He laughed and said I should do that. Then I did. What follows is the letter I had planned to send into Stars & Stripes.

—

Dear Stars & Stripes:

It seems to me that an awful lot of the letters in Opinion/To the Editor are coming from people stationed/”deployed” to Kuwait. And I mean “an awful lot” in both senses; that is to say there are many of them, and they are all terrible.

Most of the letters from people in Kuwait are filled with complaints and do not really hold any significant value. Nothing is remarkable about them or their authors. They write little tedious nothings and they still get published. I think everybody stationed in Kuwait should simply count their blessings and shut their “pie holes”. Or maybe they should fill them with desserts, such as pie.

I don’t want to hear or read the expressed opinions of some logistics and administration “experts” located on some beachside Kuwait resort that they call a camp. Some people might say, “Well just don’t read that part of the newspaper then.” If only it was that simple. It’s not so much that these worthless notes from Kuwait appear in the newspaper; the problem is really that they take away space for letters from the warfighters.

Anybody with a high IQ who is reading this is agreeing with me right now. Stars & Stripes, we want to hear from infanteers, scoutsmen, and an assortment of knights who are all fighting from places like Baghdad, Karbala, and the 15^th century. That brings up another point I want to make: flails are cool. Buy one, or three.

We want to get the opinions from these skilled warfighters. We don’t really care for the opinions of some lackluster logisticians. I’m not saying logisticians aren’t important, but when I’m reading about a war, I want to hear from the guy fighting it, not the guy who shuffles paperwork and fills trucks with food, fuel, or both. Yes, both jobs are critical and very important, but whose opinion is more important?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the opinions coming from service members in Kuwait don’t count. They certainly do count. But it’s just like voting for the president: Sure your vote counts, but does it matter? I usually vote just so I can say, “Don’t look at me, I voted for the other guy,” a phrase which has been invaluable as of late.

Stars & Stripes, I can’t tell you what to do, but I can definitely give you some advice. The next time you get some cumbersome, tediously whiney letter from a service member in Kuwait who is overflowing with opinions, think twice about publishing it. They are probably just trying to feel important or get some attention.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Logistician
Camp Arifjan, Kuwait

—

Now I gave a copy of this to pretty much everybody in my section and they liked it. They encouraged me. Even the people who I thought would be total douchebags and downers; they gave me praise, too. Then I took it to the Public Affairs Office. It’s suggested that any letters we send into the paper goes through the Public Affairs Office just to make sure it’s kosher.

Well, they thought it fucking sucked. The lady in charge told me “Uh, a logistician would find this offensive. They work very hard at their jobs, and they would be offended by this.” I pointed out how I mentioned the logistician’s job is just as important as the line-man’s job. She said “Yeah, uh, they’d find this offensive.” She kept pointing out how hard they work at their jobs, and how very important those jobs are, no matter how much I told her that I and my letter agreed with her. I also mentioned that the intent of my letter was to create irony by poking fun at people writing from Kuwait, not to poke fun solely at logisticians. This concept was beyond her. Way, way beyond.

Furthermore, she said The Command would be embarrassed by it. I would be an embarrassment to the command. Holy shit. With this she then warned “PAO will not endorse or support this. You still have to right to freedom of speech, but just be ready to accept to consequences coming down from the command regarding your letter… It will not be pretty, and you will not like it.”

So basically, you have the right to free speech; You just have to pay for that right, that’s all. Or at least I do.

Post Script: Why do people refuse to re-enlist again?

Slow Loris: Parenting Genius

The slow loris is an arboreal primate that lives in southeast Asia. It is notable because it is the only poisonous primate. It bears remark that I say “poisonous” and not “venomous.”

The slow loris secretes toxins from the inside part of its elbows. That is fucking stupid. It’s probably the least advantageous place to secrete toxins from, other than behind the knee and the penis. Even the wrist would be better than the elbow. What if all I had to do was rub my wrist on somebody to slowly poison them? I can pass that off as an encouraging pat on the back or shoulder. Now imagine if I had to rub my elbow on them instead. That’s not only much more noticeable, but it warrants a punch in the face. If I’m wanting to spread toxins on others, I’m going to want to do it stealthily, without suffering injury myself.

The only thing a poison elbow gland does is deter your predators from eating your elbows. I’m sure that’s a great survival technique against snakes. That’s it. Just snakes. Not birds, or lizards, or other mammals, just snakes. Fucking idiot slow loris.

Stupid and Creepy as Fuck

There are things we can learn from the slow loris, however. The slow lorises raise their young for about nine months before they boot them to the curbside and make them get a “real” job. Whatever, mom and dad. Anyway, during the initial nine months, the slow loris mother is providing milk for the toddler loris, but it still needs to go about foraging. What to do with the unattended child? Leave it with the deadbeat father? Not a chance. Lorises are not risk takers, people. They suck on their elbows to gather the toxin in their mouth (good idea #1) and then lick the poison onto the baby loris (good idea #2). That way, mommy loris can park her kid on a branch, and no predatory animals will try to eat it when ma is out looking for food. Nice. Bonus points because the toxin smells like sweaty socks.

Why don’t humans do this? Instead of calling for a sitter the next time you want to go grocery shopping without the pesky child dropping unwanted items into your cart or screaming bloody murder in the middle of the aisle, simply cover him or her with a fine coat of chalky dust ala arsenic. (Or, if you don’t want to get dust all over your house or furniture, mix the arsenic powder with peanut butter, and spread liberally.) Tired of paying for that stupid nanny just so you can hit the club scene with your newest fling, Jose, on the weeknights? Cyanide + Jelly = Drunk and Abused Wednesday for you! I guarantee your kids will be sound asleep by the time you get home.

But humans are innovators. When we invented the airplane, we didn’t want to fly just as fast as birds, we wanted to fly faster, to show God that we can make better stuff than He can. Well, stick it to The Man again, and take it a step further than the slow loris. Why stop with poison when you can graduate to killer bees. Now your kids will be safe from kidnappers and learn about nature while they’re covered with thousands of apis mellifera scutellata. You just extinguished the need for a baby sitter and a tutor, all with one simple solution.

Mankind wins again.

Camp Entertainment Earns Gold Medal, Kills Itself

Recently, the USO hit a metaphorical home run so far that the ball was launched into orbit, destroyed a nearby galaxy, and physically distorted the shape of the universe. It was that good. The only other USO show I’ve been witness to that could possibly be juxtaposed in its own rite would be the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders… maybe.

You can find brief synopses in this tolerable Air Force article or in this extra-gay edition of DefenseLink. The show featured Miss USA, Lewis Black, Lance Armstrong, Robin Williams, and Kid Rock (in that order). Fuckin’ A, Cotton.

Normally I could give a shit less about somebody who I presume to be a narcissistic, insecure egocentric concerned with little else other than her looks or the daily print regarding celebrities and the iPhone, but I’ve been stuck out here in the desert for a long enough period of time that Miss USA was a welcome sight to have. Even better was that she took minimal stage time, appearing only long enough to thank the troops and give them all something to dwell on later.

Next up was Lewis Black. If you are not sure who this is, kill yourself immediately. He didn’t exceed my expectations, but he didn’t fail them, either. He was followed by a Mr. Lance Armstrong, who made a few musings, which were, somewhat surprisingly, actually funny. He then babbled about how heroism and the like, and soon he was off.

Then came Robin Williams. Now, let me first say that Williams has done some terribly shitty movies. Alternatively, he has completely destroyed any doubts as to his acting versatility. He can do it all. What do you need his character to be? Sappy father cross-dressing to stay in his kids’ lives after his ex-wife gets child custody? Done. Awkward college professor who develops an absurd concoction that saves his relationship, work life, and college basketball team? Been there. Surreal role requiring him to rescue his suicide wife from the depths of hell? Of course he can do that. Voice act for some dumb Disney cartoons? Child’s play. Let me give you a list: Good Morning Vietnam; Dead Poets Society; Hook; The Fisher King; Aladdin; Hamlet; Good Will Hunting; Flubber; Death to Smoochy; One Hour Photo, and about a million other films. And those are just his films. There’s still his television and stage careers. But this night was of course going to be a one-man show, some great Williams stand-up.

And there are few stand-up comedians that can do it better. Don’t let your kids watch him. It’s not because he swears or that it’s too raunchy, it’s just plain too awesome for the little fuckers. Make them wait and earn it. It’s like saving ice cream for after dinner, duh.

Williams gave an epic performance. I’m not going to write about it, because it’d only bring shame unto its hollowed recollection. Plus it’d take way too long to describe.

And in the end, there was Kid Rock, of whom I am not a fan. I’m not going to badmouth him here, however. If anything, he deserves at least some level of praise for coming out on so many USO shows and not being a huge douche by using it as a selling point.

A True Fucking Badass

“Boots! Asses! American flags! Buy my new cd!”

Well all of that took place on Monday. Great way to start the week. Thank you, USO.

And, it appeared things would improve from there on. On Tuesday there was all sorts of hubba-baloo over something called “Operation Christmas”. It sounded innocent enough, except for the whole “Operation” part, which gayified it. Word spread quickly over it, and this was the rumor rundown: All lower enlisted were entitled to free gifts, all we had to do was go to the Operation Christmas staging area and pick up the free gifts. Excellent, I can do that. I’m not one to turn down free shit, especially in a shopping environment as poor as this.

So I rode the bus down to where Operation Christmas was being held. I got all ready to receive free shit, and, on top of that, I could see piles, nay, mountains of the gifts that were soon to be handed out. Or so I thought.

Let me lay out the environment for you. I am standing in a huge gravel laden plain with 800 other people. Inside the area are two piles of bags, filled with gifts for the people. Set aside is a semi-trailer filled with more bags and gifts to give to the people. Tons of free shit. Also there is a stage. On the stage sat some apparently distinguished people, who were responsible for Operation Christmas.

It was clear that the people on stage were going to say some stuff, maybe thank the troopies for their service, and then give them all the free shit they could carry. Things started that way. First, one person talked about Operation Christmas. Then another. Then another. This kept repeating. Then— some really bad “entertainment” began. I left to get dinner in the middle a magician’s routine, about 45 minutes into the whole crap-a-thon. I came back after an hour; The magician was still on stage. Fuck.

Then people on stage started talking about Operation Christmas again. At this point, I was in despair. I wanted to kill things, like Christmas. What made the already unbearable presentation even more painful was the sheer irony that filled the spaces betwixt the air itself. They kept promulgating how much they appreciated the troopies’ service, and that Operation Christmas was organized for all of those who had to spend the winter holidays overseas.

But they were the ones keeping us from enjoying Christmas now, not our geographic disposition. They had provided us with a pseudo-Christmas, then they withheld it from us, apparently because they loved us so much. How fucking twisted is that? I hope these guys go to hell. Have fun performing Operation Dicksuck down there with hot coals up your ass.

By the way, I left after two hours of waiting for the free gifts to be handed out. Of course, they were still talking about the history of Operation Christmas, something the rest of the crowd must have been much more interested in. I wish everyone would have walked off like I did. Maybe they thought Robin Williams was secretly hiding back stage and would save us from the shitfest. Fuck.

Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

Tuberculosis Under the Christmas Tree

Another article posting; This one was special because it concerned patients escaping from a hospital that was not a mental institution or a secret prison disguised as a hospital.

To quote the articles’ headlines (which are here and here), “49 Highly Infectious Tuberculosis Patients Escape From South African Isolation Unit,” and “23 Escaped TB Patients Remain at Large.” I must credit the newsfolk: They know how to grab my attention with their headlines.

According to the articles, there is something of an isolated building that does nothing but house people with extremely brutal tuberculosis. This building is surrounded by a metal fence, and the patients somehow cut gaps in the fence to escape. The impressive thing is that 49 patients did not escape together, but rather 49 people in all escaped between Wednesday and Friday. So, for three days, somebody at the hospital was definitely not doing their fucking job. This disease is scary enough for you to resort to building a mini-prison on your hospital lot, but not scary enough for you to conduct an at least once daily headcount of the patients. Bravo, South African hospitals.

Apparently, these patients escaped from the hospital (I can’t stress those words enough) to go see their families for the holidays. If that sounds insane to you, then maybe you should’ve been infected with tuberculosis, not them (you wouldn’t escape, right?).

I can see the holiday festivities now.

Stephen: Merry Christmas, mom!
Stephen’s Mom: Stephen! Oh what a great surprise! (Hugs her son and kisses him on the cheek.) I thought they weren’t going to let you out of the hospital…?
Stephen: Oh, they weren’t! I had to escape from the isolation unit they were keeping me in!
Stephen’s Mom: Isolation uni-
Stephen: Yeah! They didn’t want us to leave because of our highly infectious extremely multi-drug resistant incurable tuberculosis infections!
Stephen’s Mom: (Shocked silence)
Stephen: Where’s the gingerbread cookies? Mom? Hell-o?

So far, 23 of the crazies are “still at large,” a term I might have considered using if they were horse thieves or bank robbers. Now the South African authorities are threatening to use door-to-door searches to find them. Why waste time? Go to their families’ houses, dumbasses. On top of that, what policeman is going to want to arrest somebody in that condition? You might as well try to get them to subdue someone who has an airborne-contagious HIV infection. Fuck.

Have a deadly New Year. Tuberculosis.

Santa Fucked

When at work, I sometimes tend to overuse the internet a bit. Today I happened across an article concerning one mall Santa and one very horny lady (with crutches). You can read it here, or, if you hate liberals, you can find the exact same article on FOXNews.com here. (Thank you, Associated Press.) Apparently this woman groped Santa in front of a bunch of kids. Big whoop. Grow up, Santa, and fuck the fuckin’ fuck out of this chick.

This is not what he did. Instead, Crybaby Kris Kringle reported her… to the cops. They found her because, well, she was using crutches. Big mistake, lady. I’ve learned my lesson: Never sexually assault someone if you are currently crippled.

Naturally, when I read this I exclaimed to my coworkers, “Oh my God, guys, Santa was RAPED earlier today.” Of course, my boss had to chime in. “That’s not true; Don’t say that.” She was right, however. According to my “organization,” rape is described something to the effect of “an object forcibly entering a vagina without consent of the vagina-holder” or something ridiculous like that. So, technically, men cannot be raped, because they lack the “necessary equipment” to suffer rapage. Interesting to note, however, that it does not say a “penis forcibly entering a vagina,” it just says “object.” So, if a woman is gardening in the buff (some people like that sort of thing), and she happens to fall just the right way, she has been officially raped, according to the definition above. Awesome.

I adjusted my statement accordingly. “Oh, uh, Santa has been forcibly sodomized… with a crutch.” Still, my boss would have none of it. Apparently, Miss Fancypants read the article earlier and said, “No, he was just groped.” My cries of “Don’t debate me!” only fell on deaf ears. Whatever.

The story did end on a high note, however. “Santa Tim” Connaghan, president of RealSantas.com (so you know his credentials are the fuckin’ shit), gave some encouraging tidbits to all of those who aspire to be groped by women while dressed like Santa in front of countless naïve children. “I’ve had some very nice ladies sit on my lap. Once in a while they’ll say ‘I hope Mrs. Claus isn’t going to be upset.’ You have to be discreet and kind and say ‘Oh, no, she’ll be OK. You can sit here, but only for one photo.'”

Only for my dick.

Everybody Hates Jill

I hardly know a soul who doesn’t hate Jill already, or at least wouldn’t hate Jill if they did know her. Is it my fault she’s so hate-able? She enables my rage – Technically, I’m the victim.

Pff, just knocked out blog #1. Too easy. Whatever.