I've recently received some heat from a few of my friends. It seems my post has gotten under their skin, rattled their cage, and exposed some of them a heathens to their fellow church goers and in-laws. Some of the things I put in my story line have been changed/removed due to some accidental disrespect issues and privacy issues. I would like to apologise to my closest friends for that part of the post.
Damn- this is WAY too serious.
I think it's time to offend some people. In the comments section below, enter the most offensive joke you've ever heard. Ever. I don't care if it's vulgar, obscene, dirty, disgusting or any combination of said adjective.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Making Friends and Blowing Up a Desert
Part I
Making friends
On September 4th 2001 I started my first enlistment into our United States Marine Corps. A four year contract in which my ass was obligated, enslaved, owned, and ultimately cared for by Uncle Sam. Maybe “enslaved” is a little extreme. Maybe.
After boot camp, I spent the next nine months traveling from base to base attending school after school up and down the east coast. My Military Occupational Specialty, or MOS, was Marine Aviation Ordnance. I learned how to build rockets, bombs, guns and gun systems that affix and deploy from Marine Rotary Wing Aircraft (helicopters). Once I finally graduated my final school I was permanently stationed on Marine Corps Air Station New River in Jacksonville, NC.
MCAS New River is a small base about fifteen minutes from MCB Camp Lejuene, forty-five minutes north of Wilmington, NC and about two hours north of Myrtle Beach, SC. Aside from all the squadron buildings, offices, and workshops, the place had the basic amenities of any Marine base: a gas station; a small Commissary; a PX; an Enlisted Club (a bar that nobody ever goes to); a tiny marina with paddleboats; a couple soccer/football/baseball fields; and a shit ton of Jarheads, Leathernecks, and Devil Dogs.
There’s something about military bases that I don’t get- why does the plumbing and sewage have to be routed above ground? It’s amazing- all the money allotted to our military can’t buy a better sewage system? Hell, I think it’s sewage anyway. These eighteen-inch-thick rusty, leaking, silver pipes rose from the ground in no apparent pattern or logic. Some would sprout from the earth, crossing over busy roads and some rise out of nowhere ruining, for me, what would otherwise be a pretty scenic piece of land. In the summer, puddles of God-knows-what would form around the base of these things. In the winter, steam spews from random joints and couplings, sometimes clouding sidewalks and intersections. If you’ve ever been on any military base in North Carolina, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
It was on this base that I met my best friend and partner in crime. It was clean-up day at the barracks (field day), all inhabitants of the barracks (single Marines, separated Marines, and even some domestically violent Marines) were congregated in formation awaiting orders on what specific common areas each group was to clean. The following morning, our division Staff NCOs, sometimes accompanied by our squadron SgtMaj, would come to inspect and critique our cleaning effort.
I was new to the unit and really had nobody to talk to, so I eaves dropped on the nearest interesting conversation. This young Marine was talking to another young Marine about a little jam session that was going to be held in his room after field day was over. I interjected in the least hostile, most friendly way I knew how. Earlier I pulled a thread hanging from my shorts and I noticed that the back pocket on my shorts was now coming undone. So I removed the remaining bits of thread and detached the piece of fabric. I still had the fabric in my hand. I tossed it on the ground behind the guy. “Hey, man”, I said, catching his attention. I pointed to the ground behind him, “you dropped your pocket”
“Yeah, like I’m going to fall for that!” the young Marine replied.
“No, really”, I insisted.
He turned and looked, much to his amusement; there was a pocket on the ground. He laughed, as did every Marine around him. An alliance was formed. We joked and laughed until attendance was called. After we finished cleaning I went to the “jam session” and we played bits of songs each other had learned. We were horrible, and there was no “jam” to it, but it was fun nevertheless.
Over the next two years we hung out, partied and chased tail together almost non-stop. I’d like to say we were each others “wingman”, but that’s not true. Se (pronounced See) was my wingman. If you’re reading this, Se, I’m sorry, but this is a true story and I’m not going to pussy foot around shit. Oftentimes, we would go to a party and Se would be the first to make contact with some random hottie, but I would be the one getting the chicks digits. I was a total cock-blocker, but he didn’t have the game to pull it off anyway. Se always ended up in the “friend zone”. Chicks found him cute, but preferred him as only a friend- and I was too charming to be seen by any female as just another harmless guy.
We had this rule- well, maybe not a “rule”, but more of a way things would always turn out. Maybe it was more of a Modus Operandi. No matter who was in our crew, I was always the guy securing a place for us to stay and if I didn’t bring my A-game, we would end up sleeping off our drunken state in my truck. Even though I was a total lady-killer, sometimes booze and good times took precedence over getting laid. If we went to a party that ended up a total sausage-fest or full of prude, snobbish chicks, we would make the best of the cheap alcohol and fuck with the other party-goers till we were banished from the festivities.
One party we attended/crashed immediately comes to mind. When we arrived, we found the apartment full of dudes and very few chicks. Sausage party. The ratio of guys to gals was about 6:1. We were told by some of the other party-goers that more girls were supposed to be coming, so we paid the $5 for our red plastic, all you can drink cups and began socializing.
This one fat, nerdy looking guy was sitting on the couch surrounded by a bunch of other guys who were razzing him. He was bragging about how he’s never been drunk, no matter how much alcohol he’d consume. He told the gang of jokesters that they couldn’t get him drunk and that he’d never puke, because he had such a high tolerance. I knew he was getting himself in deep. The heckling hooligans immediately accepted this as a challenge and began pouring the poor goon shot after shot of E&J.
Before you knew it, the kid had passed out in the recliner. While I was standing next to the chair, talking to one of the few random hotties, I noticed he was out cold. I decided to check on the guy, you know, make sure he wasn’t dead or something. So, I smacked him across his fat face and continued my conversation as if nothing had ever happened. “Wha, who was that? Who the fuck hit me”, the boy asked just before slipping back into his alcohol induced coma.
Nobody even acknowledged his consciousness. Good thing I checked on him, huh? The way I saw it, no matter how mean it was, I was the only one nice enough to check on him. Every five minutes or so, for about 20 minutes, I would smack him again and pretend nothing happened. The girl I was talking to finally told me that what I was doing was mean, so I explained my reasoning to her and the bimbo suddenly found it acceptable. I think the ice in my Koolade may have had a higher I.Q. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
A few minutes later, he was wide awake and in route to the bathroom. The E&J was fighting its way out, and fast. Every move he made caused some regurgitated alcohol to squirt out between his fingers which were covering his mouth, trying to hold it in until he got to the bathroom. He ran into the bedroom, past a guy and some random chick that were in mid fuck, and into the bathroom, pushing a guy off the toilet so he could spew his first ever alcohol induced chunks. When the owner of the apartment heard what was going on, he freaked. He saw the purple stains on his carpet and the couple getting love-juice on his bed and started yelling about, “all this shit is going to be cleaned up, NOW!”
I didn’t get any that night. The girl I was talking to was struck by some of the projectile vomit and left the party immediately. Se, John, and I stuck around until the semi-free alcohol was gone and went out to the truck to sleep it off.
No matter what the crowd, Rule #1 was always in effect: We’ve got each others back and nobody fucks with my boys. If at anytime any of these other hooligans attempted to razz, assault, or harass one of the crew, you’d better check yourself or you will get fucked up. This was as true then as it is now.
This brings me to how Chris (Se) got his name. Being from LouisiMissiBama, he wasn’t given the name Se at birth. He earned it. One night, while drinking and flirting at a party, I approached a chick several times with my A-Game. The first time, I put my arm around her shoulder and introduced myself. Her boyfriend didn’t like this and quickly informed me of their fornicular status. I respectfully disengaged. Later, with a few more drinks in me, I unknowingly found myself with my arm around the same girl. Her boyfriend reinstructed me of where he would relocate his foot if he found me scamming his squirrel again. I again aborted that objective and repositioned myself at the watering hole, a.k.a. the semi-free keg. About an hour later I found and arm around my waist and a vaguely familiar face was getting my A-Game whispered in her ear. A tap on my shoulder confirmed that I was, indeed, a drunken idiot. In my previous attempts to sweet talk this chick, I must have inadvertently made a lasting impression on this little philly. Oops. That shoulder tap was being administered by the trouble brewing hussy’s boyfriend. “Don’t let me catch you outside, or I will fuck you up”, stated the jealous meathead. I respected the guy for standing his ground, but knew I couldn’t hold my own in this drunken state, so I apologized and went about my merry way. I had a few more drinks and went out to the balcony, ignorant to the fact that Mr. Meathead was out there and still redder than a baboon’s left cheek. Chris was also on the balcony, sitting in a plastic chair, drinking semi-free beer and not interacting with any of the bitches or ho’s. He seemed content just watching people walk by and eavesdropping on retarded college-kid-conversations. Meathead grabbed me by the shirt and I tried to talk with the guy, “Look man, you really don’t want to…” Bam! He head butted me right in the nose! I knew it should’ve hurt, but the combination of adrenaline and way too much alcohol numbed most of the pain. I slurred, “Ow, motherfucker! That hurt!”. By the time I finished saying that, Meathead was on his way down and snoring in mid-fall. Apparently, Chris had, without a word spoken, placed his beer on the ground next to his chair, got up, decked this guy with an overhand right, returned to his chair, picked up his beer, and continued to sip the frothy goodness like nothing had ever happened. That night Chris was dubbed “The Silent Enforcer” or Se for short. I could stop this whole story right now and feel satisfied that I did him justice by having his story published. Se, where ever you are, whatever you’re doing, I want you to know that I will tell this story to my kids, my grandkids, and anyone who will listen. You rock. Thanks for being a great friend and may this story go down in history as The Day Se Rocked the Meathead.
Part II
Making foreign friends
During those four years I did as little as possible. I was the antithesis of a motivated warrior. But with brothers like that- it’s hard not to enjoy yourself. I went on an all out “Cooter Crusade”. My mission, subsidized by the USMC, was to find the sweetest tail in every locale I ventured. From Pensacola to California, North Carolina to Illinois, and New Jersey to Iraq. My game was on point. I learned which ones wanted to be sweet-talked and which ones wanted to be treated like dirt. I tried to stay away from them, though. When you treat a female like that, it only leads to drama. I don’t like drama.
By March of 2002, I would’ve licked the bottom of a zoo keepers’ boot for any type of chick willing to send some coitus my way. In early February my squadron was sent to Kuwait in preparation for an invasion of a little oil-rich country, home to the Garden of Eden, Babylon, and God knows what else. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be stuck in some shit hole desert for an untold amount of time just to “pretend we were at war” like in Operation Desert Storm. I was selfish and ignorant/ apathetic to what was going on in anybody else’s little dusty country. I am grateful today for the time I spent in Iraq; seeing the sights, taking in the culture, helping emancipate Iraqis from a vicious dictator, and then bombing the shit out of them.
The funny thing about war is how much fun it is! It sounds sick, but I had a blast hanging out in some foreign land with my closest friends, camping out in the desert and playing with guns and explosives. We worked our asses off, but the good times outweighed the bad.
On March 20th 2002, our invasion was official. We were no longer staged- we were a mobile element, smashing, shooting, and destroying anyone that threatened life, anything that challenged liberty, anything opposed to the pursuit of our happiness. After all- that’s the American Way.
We took every opportunity we could to meet the friendly locals. We threw MRE’s to the Iraqi kids from our Humvee’s when they begged for food and bottles of water when they seemed thirsty. I felt much better about invading their country after seeing that our role was not just to destroy, but to help eradicate a regime that would allow these kids to go hungry and drain their water to gain compliance.
Sometimes giving away food, rations and water would turn violent. On a few occasions kids would fight for the items thrown to them. It’s sad, but it’s a shit ton of fun to watch. Once I threw a packet of M&M’s to some hajji kid thinking I was doing something good for him, but I only made him a target. Other Marines were throwing food items, too, but this kid apparently was the only one to get real candy. Most MRE’s come with Charms (hard candies), but nobody considered them candy. They were cursed. It’s an unofficial Marine Law that Charms are to be discarded as soon as an MRE is opened due to their unlucky properties. Anyone that eats one is shunned from social circles until their next bowel movement. No joke. It wasn’t uncommon to hear an experienced Marine tell a young Marine, “Get the fuck away from me- did you shit yet?”
Anyway- back to the kids. The junior terrorist that caught the M&Ms was about ten years old. He was fucking elated holding his new candy-coated chocolates when out of nowhere some little pot bellied six year old looking kid ran up and popped him right in the jaw with a wild haymaker, snatched up the candy, and walked away cool as a cucumber! I felt horrible… after I finished laughing so hard I had desert dust gathering in my tears.
I’ve seen some fucked up shit, but it made me appreciate life and living in a country that promotes standing up for what you believe in. I returned from Iraq a changed young man.
Part III
Join the Corps; see the world… and its whores
At the completion of our “shift”, my squadron packed up, punched our time card, and hopped on some Navy ships headed for U.S. shores. On our way back to the states we stopped in Rota, Spain. It was my first “Port Call”. For four days Marines and sailors wreaked havoc on this poor Mediterranean city. We had few limits, but as long as we didn’t get arrested and returned to the boat before curfew with our Liberty-Buddies, nobody would care or find out where our shenanigans took us.
Our first day in Rota, we decided to go bar hopping. For the past several months we had been busting our asses in a hot desert with little to spend our hard earned money on, so most of us had thousands of dollars burning holes in our pockets. No expense was spared in our Rota based exploits. $10 for a shot of that brown stuff on the top shelf? No problem. We’d drink a few and move on to the next bar. There were so many Marines and sailors in some of these places, sometimes the barkeep would just start pouring drinks and shots regardless of your requested beverage. We’d drink our fill, throw a twenty over the bar and move on to the next shit hole bar.
On one of our stops, one of my young Marine buddies, Jason, was approached by a six foot middle aged black woman weighing in at around Louis Anderson. She was extremely dark skinned, but you could see that she had even darker freckles and skin-tabs all over her tankini covered body. At least I think they were freckles and skin-tabs… they might have been ticks. It asked Jason for a cigarette. He obliged and was promptly asked by the Tick-Woman, in broken English, to come to her room upstairs. Being Libo-Buddies, we have to stick together and I’ll be damned if I was going to be anywhere near that thing when it took off that tankini. God only knows what was hiding under those sweaty folds of Mediterranean nastiness. Jason was clueless, “what’s up there?” he asked.
She lifted the cigarette to her blistered lips and I noticed she was missing several teeth. The ones that weren’t missing were brown and decaying- one of them looked like pre-microwave popcorn. I told Jason what was awaiting him upstairs as I drew his attention to the shit on her lip that had some additional shit growing on its lip. We paid our tab and departed that fine establishment- right face, march.
I have many more stories about Rota, its cab drivers, its beaches, and its whores but I have kids and a wife, so some things should just be kept between friends and their liquor.
Part IV
It was bound to happen
In the fall of 2003 I met this amazing chick- she fucked up my whole world. I was young, single, having the time of my life and then on night, there she was. In a break from my usual routine, I accepted an invite from my best friend, Se, to go to Wilmington. Apparently his Corporal (later referred to only as The Douche Bag), his Corporal’s girlfriend (later referred to as The Skank), and his Corporal’s girlfriend’s roommate were going out to hit up some clubs. There were a slew of other friends there but they played little to no major role in the whole thing. These people remind me of the Joker’s “henchmen” in the Batman movies. Their roles are so brief and insignificant that nobody ever wonders, “Whatever happened to that guy? Do you think he had a family?”
As a matter of fact- I haven’t thought about them or their existence until I started writing this bullshit that you’re reading. I still don’t care what they’re doing. I don’t wonder what they’re up to and I don’t give a damn where their lives have taken them. Maybe they’re locked up? Maybe they’re having the time of their lives, sipping icy mojitos on some beach while unbeknownst to them, they are each carrying some weed-head Rasta’s love children? Maybe they’re dead- who gives a fuck? I don’t.
Anyway- back to the story. Where was I? Oh yeah… So my buddy, Se, introduces me to this chick on the dance floor- the roommate. My best friends’ corporals’ girlfriends’ roommate. Wow. She was hot- very hot. Not just your garden variety “hot” either. There was something special about this chick. She had a glow like the clouds had parted and let in just one single little ray of light come down and it chose to illuminate only her. I broke out my “A” game. We danced, we laughed, we ground our pelvises together in a rhythmic fashion, and all I got was a peck on the cheek. She was in my head.
I’m not sure if it was the next night or the following weekend, but she called me and asked if I wanted to come hang out with her the Skank, the Douche Bag, and the henchmen. Of course I accepted the invite. Se and I showed up to the apartment as the sun was going down. It was November, so it was probable around seven thirty. I entered the apartment and expected her to do what a chick usually does when I get myself stuck in her head- they make sure they are the first girl to talk to me as if to “claim” me as hers- “back off you scavenging bitches- this one’s mine until I say you can screw him”. But alas- she didn’t say anything until I lost patience and approached her. Stupid move- I know. That was very unlike me. My mindset back then was, “she should come to me”. Chauvinistic? Maybe. But it worked. This chick was already changing me and I was confused. “What is this? Why am I trying so hard? Man-o-man she’s hot!!!”
We proceeded from her apartment to the same club we’d gone to the last time we got together. The place had a Caribbean theme to it; complete with palm trees, bamboo chutes and shitty music. The DJ always played the same stuff; a mix of Lil’ Jon, Akon, remixed 80’s tunes and that poppy junk everybody’s little sister would sing into a hairbrush microphone.
As the night went on, I gained her undivided attention. I was back on top of my game. I was in charge of the situation and I knew what was going to happen. After dancing nonstop for almost an hour, we went to the bar. Being underage and in a college town, acquiring an alcoholic bev bev was out of the question. I drank Red Bull all night and still got carded by A.L.E.!
I was standing by the bar drinking my Red Bull when this forty-something, penny loafers and Dockers wearing guy walks up to me and flashed his badge. “Lemme see some I.D.”
“Why?”
“Are you under age?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“I’m A.L.E. and I’m checking I.D.’s”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here; go bother somebody else.”
“Put your hands behind your back, please”
“I’m drinking a fucking Red Bull… sir.”
With an extremely confused look on his face he turned and approached another patron as if the conversation never even happened. I guess it happens all the time.
Back to the story- Kristie and I (right around this time I asked the Douche Bag what this chicks name is) order another round. An Amoretto Sour for her and Red Bull for me. As I pop the top, I turned and asked her, knowing that I was going to tap that ass, “So, am I going to need more of these?”
“Maybe”, Kristie said with a smile.
Fucking tease, I thought to myself with a smile. The DJ announced last call a little before 2am and we made our way out to the rain soaked parking lot. As we all climbed into my two door hatchback, I gave Se the look- you know that cocky I’m getting laid tonight look. If you don’t know, close your eyes and picture what you think it looks like and that’s probably it. We got to the house and unloaded all eight passengers from my two-door Focus. Just as I was about to get out, I noticed Kristie was frantically searching my car.
“What are you looking for?”
“My cell phone… Shit! I left it in my jacket… at the club.”
“Well, let’s go get it”
“Really? You don’t have to. I can get it tomorrow.”
“No- It’s cool. Let’s go.”
We talked all the way there and back. We sat in the car after we pulled up and we talked and flirted even more. Amazing! A chick that I could have a decent conversation with! Of course the Douche Bag, the Skank, and the henchmen all gave us the third degree when we finally came in. Nosy fuckers. I could hear the girls talking in the kitchen, “What were you guys doing?” (squawk, squawk, squawk)
Douche Bag just had to open his mouth, “Was she giving you head out there? You pulled up, like, twenty minutes ago”
After answering a barrage of questions, we made our way upstairs. Kristie told the girls that she was tired and going to bed… and she gave them the look!!! I saw it! She gave them the look!!! I told the boys I was tired, too, and with a huge grin on my face, I followed her up the stairs to her room. I made sure to flash that grin at Skank and Douche Bag before going completely out of view up the stairs. I’m such an asshole.
We barely made it in the door before our clothes were flung across the room. I picked her up and threw her on the bed. Damn she’s so hot. We went at it for like an hour straight! After we, uh, finished, I still felt so into this chick. That’s never happened before, I thought. Usually, I finish, wipe myself off, and pass out. It was like an out of body experience! I just started asking her questions about herself. I couldn’t help it- I wasn’t in control of my own mouth! This conversation crap, combined with the cell phone thing and my anxiousness to speak to her when I first walked in the apartment was NOT ME!
A couple weeks later, we were an item. All of Kristie’s’ friends were so jealous. Skank was still dating Douche Bag and he had recently learned that love wasn’t the only thing Skank had given him. He got burned. She had contracted herpes from a previous fling with whoredom. They say “it only takes that one time”, but when you’re a skank, it’s part of the job requirements. It’s right there on the list with missing teeth, poor hygiene, and welfare abuse. Anyway, Skank was uber-jealous of Kristie and me. It may sound stupid, but we definitely had everything she wanted in her relationship with Douche Bag- including a clean bill of health. Get over it bitch- you’re a dirty ho and destined to piss fire and rot from the inside out.
Soon the house had turned into a war zone and fuel was being poured over the flames in buckets. One of Kristie’s friends, we’ll call her the Madam Pestilence, was kicked out of her apartment for some convenient reason. Well, Skank decided that her “friend” wasn’t going to do what every other college kid does when evicted and move back in with her parents; she was going to move in “temporarily”. She also said she’d pay her part of the rent, so Kristie didn’t really think it was such a terrible idea, either.
Madam Pestilence never paid any part of the rent as agreed. But since her and this dude "Cosmo" were the only two singles in our group, aside from the henchmen, they started hooking up on the sneak. Madam Pestilence started leaving her shit all over the house; dishes, clothes, used tissues, and never made her bed, which was located in the living room. Kristie, being the neat freak she is, did not like this one bit. The house had become a war zone. Kristie’s friendship with Skank was over. Between the jealousy and the nastiness, the house was completely divided. Luckily, the lease was almost up.
Then came the icing on the cake. Kristie and I were lying in bed one night, post-coitus, talking about moving in together when our conversation turned into us talking shit about Skank and Madam Pestilence. Kristie told me, “I can’t stand living with two girls carrying herpes”
I was amazed! I knew Skank had it, but Madam Pestilence, too? We talked shit for a few more minutes and then it hit me, “Holy shit! [Madam Pestilence] has herpes, too? FUCK! I need to call Cosmo!”
Apparently, they had done such a good job of keeping their little fling on the D.L., that Kristie had never heard a word about it. Now I know why it had to be a secret- she didn’t want anybody to tell Cosmo about her little love-bumps. I informed Kristie of their ugly-bumping and her face turned redder than a cardinal’s dick. She was pissed and that was the straw that stomped the camel into a bloody lump of flesh squirming in a puddle of its own feces.
I called Cosmo and told him about Madam Pestilence’s venereal diseaseliness. He immediately left work and headed straight to medical. He had to get his bore punched and wait a week or two for the results, but he tested negative. His momma must’ve taught him well- a free condom from the on-base planned parenthood saved his nuts. For those of you who don’t know what “getting your bore punched” means; a doctor jams a cotton swab and then a rod with a tiny hook on the end into the end of the urethra (pee hole) until it’s about an inch in. When the rod is removed, a tiny piece of flesh torn from inside the penis comes out with it on that little hook. It’s fucking scary but I’d rather do that than get some germ in my thing-thing and have it go without the proper treatment.
Within days we were out looking for a new place for Kristie and me to move into together. Within days of beginning the search, Kristie found the apartment we would call home for the next two years.
Part V
Friendly fire and boobies
A few months after moving in together, we were engaged. For the next several months we pretty much settled into our relationship, planned our wedding and spent every waking minute groping each other, making love and partying.
When we moved into the new apartment, we met a couple from across the hall that would soon become our closest friends. "Slim" and "Red" were newly married and had just recently popped out their first kid. We spent most of our nights and weekends hanging out with them. Many good times were had just sitting out in the breezeway between our apartments drinking and acting like a bunch of teenagers.
I had acquired a slingshot on one of my trips to Walmart. I don’t know why I bought it; I should’ve known it was going to get me in trouble. We sat in the breezeway that night and drank our usual concoction: Everclear and Koolade. It was a good drink to get you shitfaced quick and still have enough alcohol left to continue drinking throughout the weekend.
So there we were- shitfaced and fucking around with a slingshot in a breezeway. At first we flung cigarette butts from the balcony, but one of us had the genius idea of shooting lit M-80’s across the street. We would take turns holding the slingshot while one of lit the loaded M-80 and with a whip, it was sent sparking across the night sky, exploding just before it landed on the other side of the road. It lasted all of about five minutes before I almost hit a police car with one of these explosive projectiles. As the thing went flying through the air, we watched in frozen amusement as the squad car turned a corner and headed straight for the rapidly descending firecracker. Just as the car neared the blast zone, it exploded with a brilliant flash inches from the drivers side window.
We all panicked. We didn’t know weather we should flee to another building or just suck it up and sit tight, awaiting the pissed off cop to come and arrest me. I sat tight. I know the last thing a cop wants to do is chase my ass down and the last thing I wanted to do was piss him off even more.
As the car approached our building, a million excuses ran through my head- none of them would get me out of it. The officer ascended the stairs and my heart was in my throat. As he approached our group of shitfaced delinquents, he asked for I.D.’s. As I produced mine, I told him that I was the one threw the firecracker. I figured he had only seen one go off, so why take the heat for more than I got caught with? He dismissed everybody else but me. “What the fuck were you thinking, son?”
“I didn’t see your car coming, I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re lucky I’m on my way home- I could easily take you to jail right now for criminal mischief. What if that thing had caused an accident?”
“I was just trying to scare one of my friends that were out here. I really apologize, sir.”
He looked me up and down and asked, “Are you a Marine, son?”
I squared my shoulders and straightened my posture, “Yes, sir, I am.”
Just then, a security officer from the apartment complex showed up- he must’ve seen the car out front with its lights on. The cop told him, “It’s ok. I’ve got this, thanks”. The rent-a-cop took that as a dismissal and went on his merry way.
“Consider this your lucky break, Devil Dog. Think before you get somebody hurt. Semper Fi.”
“Oorah, sir.”
And with that he left. Holy shit! He was a former Marine! If it weren’t for that, I think I could’ve been in some serious shit. I probably could’ve been kicked out of my apartment, but the cop saved me from that when he dismissed the security guy. I don’t think any of us will ever forget that night.
We were always up to something and it always involved booze. Every weekend somebody was either vomiting blue or red Koolade or exposing themselves in a fit of drunken joy.
On my 21st birthday we went out to a little club in downtown Wilmington called Olive-or-Twist. One of our neighbors in the apartment building happened to work there and said he would take care of my tab. We arrived at midnight exactly, showed the door monkey our I.D.’s, and began the boozefest. About two hours, six Jaeger-Bombs, eight shots of Goldschlagger, two shots of “Liquid Cocaine” (Everclear, Bacardi 151, Goldschlagger, and Jagermeister), and one beer later I found myself craving pizza and blowing chunks in an alley next to the pizza place. The crew caught up to me just as some random homeless guy came over to me. He was patting me on the back and telling me, “It’s alright, bro. Let it out. You’ll feel much better”.
Kristie, Slim and Red were laughing hysterically. They sent the old bum away, but thanked him for his concern. Soon, I was back at the apartment, lying in the bathtub with cold water running from the shower head. The cold water made my muscles contract and more puke followed.
While completely naked and lying in the cold shower, Red came into the bathroom to assist my drunk ass. She reached in the shower and, with her hand, swept the puke chunks from between my legs and into the drain by my feet. That’s a true friend right there! To this day, I still ask her if she likes what she saw and she still insists that she didn’t look. Her hand was way too close to my pecker for her to have “not looked”. Whatever. Maybe she won’t admit that she saw anything because she doesn’t want to embarrass me- it was an extremely cold shower, so don’t hold it against me. If you’re reading this, Red, you know you saw my pee-pee.
Speaking of nudity; one New Years Eve, Red had a hook up through a friend of hers and acquired a free nights stay at their beach house in Wrightsville Beach. We invited another couple that we had only hung out with one time before, Curtis and his wife Ginny. Once inebriated, the girls went into the bathroom together. While us guys were sitting there talking, we realized the girls had been in the bathroom for a long time. As we approached the door, I noticed it was cracked and we could hear them talking about each others breasts! We peeked through the crack in the door and there they were! Six beautiful boobies completely exposed! It was amazing and I will never forget it. Thank you, Kristie, Red and Ginny.
That was the last time Curtis and Ginny ever hung out with us. I think we scared them away because they didn’t even stay the night. After the ball dropped they left. Ginny said they had to hurry back to their house because they “needed to let their dog out”. I think Curtis just wanted to go home and nail his wife while picturing Kristie’s sweater-puppies.
Part VI
Kristie in New Jersey
She’ll never forget it and neither will my parents. We went to a 4th of July party at this yacht club in Jersey. My parents invited us and their neighbor was a member there. My cousin, Chris, came with us as our DD. The party, aside from the husband/wife cover band, was great! We went from boat to boat drinking free booze and eating free food. The party was catered by a little Portuguese restaurant and Kristie and I were both devouring the lobster tail and garlic shrimp. I never had that much lobster in my life!
They even had a Liquor Louge. A Liquor Louge is a huge block of ice propped up at an angle with a half inch deep gouge cut into it from the top end to the bottom end. Your liquor of choice is poured into the top of the Louge and as it travels through the gouge, it gets ice-cold before pouring off the bottom edge and into your waiting mouth. There’s not much of a point to it, it’s just fun.
Through out the day and into the night, we drank all sorts of concoctions, but one of them had us hooked. It was a Peach Kamikaze. This lady just kept making them for us over and over and over again. We probably had about ten each before we realized what damage we had done to ourselves. I tried to stand up and found it to be a lot less of a struggle that I was afraid it would be. But then I tried to walk. Kristie and I damn near crawled our way to my car and Chris hopped in the drivers’ seat. As we neared my parents house, Kristie’s nausea induced moaning grew louder and louder. We arrived and she damn near fell out of the car.
Kristie kept saying things like, “I can’t let your parents see me like this”, and, “I need to throw up, but I can’t. I never throw up from drinking”. I reassured her that it’s ok and tried to help her get it out. Then, all of a sudden, Chris lit an entire block of Black Cat firecrackers. Bambambambambambambambam! This, combined with my chanting, “Lobster tail! Garlic shrimp!” in her ear, finally popped the top. There it was and there it would stay on the curb until the next rain. Lumps of lobster tail and even a few shrimp, still intact from being swallowed whole.
The reason my parents even knew this was going on was because when my little brother, Travis saw Kristie yacking, he ran and told, “Them there is something wrong with Kristie”. They came outside just in time to see Kristie blowing chunks.
I added this bit to show that I wasn’t the only one that ever drank too much. We all did at one time or another… it’s just that it was usually me. There you go, Kristie. Love ya!
Part VII
The plunge
We were married in Kristie’s fathers’ church and her father married us. It was an awesome ceremony. The parishioners helped pull it all together and saved her dad a bunch of money. There were so many people helping with everything, it was unbelievable. Most of it is a blur to me, but what I remember most was Kristie. When the door opened and she started walking down that isle, I swear the whole world froze except for her. She floated slowly towards me and it took all my strength and concentration to remain conscious. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen- that dress, that hair, and oh-my-God that gorgeous face!
I knew right then and there I was a sucker for life. As long as I was waking up next to that face, I would have no control over any of my actions. She had me wrapped around her finger and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
My parents flew us to St. Thomas where we stayed in a condo using my Grandpa’s timeshare. All we had to pay for was our food, drink and entertainment. We spent $2,000 that week on whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it. You only get one honeymoon, right?
The Room with a View is a restaurant at Blue Beards Castle. This place was incredible… and expensive, but when I looked at the menu, there was only one thing I wanted and I had to get Kristie to try it. When the appetizer came, I wouldn’t tell her what it was. Ten little curled up pieces of meat that looked like scallops were floating in a creamy wine sauce with a couple pieces of French bread. “What is it?” she asked.
“Just try it before I tell you” I said.
I fed Kristie her first bite, ever, of Escargot (snails) and with a surprised look on her face asked for another one before I could tell her what it was. And when I did tell her, she didn’t care. She just wanted more. I had told her about Escargot before and she was disgusted that such a delicacy even existed. The moral of the story; don’t knock it until you try it.
We went to the beach, shopped at the shops, and dined at whatever restaurant or shack we happened upon. All too soon it was over and we made tracks back to North fucking Carolina. It was a depressing trip back. It was mid January and we were leaving paradise for a cold shithole of a state. Next time, I think we’ll stay in paradise just a little bit longer.
Part VIII
Big Daddy
After I’d burned up all of my vacation, I had to go back to work. It was about a month later when I was presented with my orders. My unit was to take part in a training exercise out in Arizona called Operation Desert Talon. It was a month long exercise in the blistering hot Arizona sun. During the day, the temperature reached 120 degrees. They say it’s a dry heat, so it’s not that bad. That’s bullshit, 120 degrees is 120 degrees no matter how you slice it.
When we first arrived, it was pretty sweet. We’d work until 1630 and head to the base pool. It was my second week there and I was sitting by the pool with some friends when Kristie called. “Hey, Princess! How are you?”
“I’m ok. How are things out there?”
“Fucking hot. What’s going on?”
“Well…”
I didn’t want to hear whatever she was about to say. The tone of her voice was telling me something bad was about to come out of her mouth. All I could think was, “This bitch cheated on me. It’s just what you always hear about; a young Marine gets deployed and his wife immediately fucks around on him”. My worst nightmare was already starting and she hadn’t even told me the good news. It was, in fact, good news.
“Well… are you sitting down?”
“No. Not yet, why?” I was already pissed.
“Well… what kind of mood are you in?”
“It’s getting worse. Just tell me- what is it?”
“We’re pregnant.”
I was stunned! We were fucking like prepubescent Mexicans for over a year before we got married and now we get pregnant?! Our sex life had slowed down due to my work load and stressing about my upcoming discharge from the Marine Corps. I had just a few more months to find a job before I got out, and packing for this exercise has been wearing on me. But we never got pregnant or even had a scare back when we were having sex two to three times a day!!!
Of course, I was happy. So happy, I went to the PX and bought a bottle of Tequila. I drank the whole thing in 3 hours and shared with nobody. When I awoke, I was sitting on the floor of a community shower butt naked and puking. The shower was in the barracks I was staying in and was an open shower with no stalls, no curtain, nothing. Anybody could walk in and see you in your birthday suit. Somebody did just that.
There was a newly promoted sergeant that stayed across the hall from me. He must’ve seen me passed out in there and thought he had a chance to exercise his new authority. “Hey, Devil Dog! What the fuck are you doing? I’m going to call the MP’s and get your ass NJP’d!”
An NJP is Non Judicial Punishment, military jargon for getting chewed out by the Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and anybody else high in the food chain that wants to exercise their authority over you. In an NJP the C.O. or X.O. can punish you in several ways; demotion, forfeiture of pay, extra punitive duties, or restriction (being grounded to the base or barracks). But since I didn’t do anything wrong and I had no clue who this guy was, I called him on his bluff.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a Sergeant, Devil Dog, and you’re in some shit now”
“Well, Sergeant, I’m 21 years old, so I’m not going to get hit for underage drinking and I’m drunk in the barracks, so what am I doing wrong?”
“You’re fucked up, Devil Dog! Who is your Staff Sergeant?”
I then told him who my Staff Sergeant was and where he could be reached. As soon as he left, I resumed my unconscious state. A few minutes later, he returned with SSgt Gray, Cpl Godfrey, and Cpl Burch. I worked for all of these guys for the past 3 years and, in my current inebriated state, I didn’t give a half a shit if they saw my twig and giggleberries.
When SSgt Gray saw me, he asked the dipshit sergeant what the problem was. Sgt Dipshit tried to explain his side of why I was in the wrong, but it wasn’t working out too well for him.
SSgt Gray kept interrupting him, “So what’s the real problem here, Sgt?”
“Well, SSgt, uh… he’s naked and uh… drunk.”
“He’s of legal drinking age and he’s in the barracks! Why are you bothering him? What is he doing wrong? Why the fuck did you bring me over here?” This went on for a few minutes and Sgt Dipshit got more and more frustrated as my SSgt continued to chew him out for being a douche bag.
Cpl Godfrey and Cpl Burch carried my drunk ass back to my room, put a blanket over me and set a trashcan next to my bed.
“We’re not leaving till you fall asleep. If you wake up, stay in here until you need to get ready for work”, Cpl Godfrey said.
“Aye, Cpl. I’m sorry that dude made you guys come over here.”
“Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. This shit never happened.”
“Roger that, Cpl.”
I then passed out. When I went to work the next morning, nobody said a damn thing about it. I still can’t drink tequila without laughing a little inside.
A few very hot weeks later the exercise was over and we returned to North Carolina. Kristie was waiting for me when our bus pulled up and gave me the biggest, tightest hug she’s ever given me. We “did the deed” 5 times that day. It was a personal best for me and I was actually sore the next day.
Over the next few months I just tried to keep a low profile and enjoy the last little while I had in the Corps. On September 3rd, 2005, I attended my very last muster with my unit. I was presented with a plaque that showed my rank, shop, deployments, nickname, and a little quote Cpl Burch used to say when somebody called me that nickname: “LCpl Nitro- Ptsssss!”
I was asked to give a little speech and, since it was my last day with the people I’d been so close to for the past 3 years, I felt I had to. “The past 3 years has been a blast. We’ve been through some shit together and I’m going to miss you guys- well most of you anyway. Some- not so much. You guys take care of each other”.
When I said that, they all knew who I was talking about. Everybody looked at Sgt Forest (name changed for privacy- but you know who you are. No hard feelings). The guy just couldn't stand me. He’d tell you all sorts of crap about his firefighting classes, which made him feel like a bad ass. He'd also tell cheesy jokes and think they were hilarious. Everyone has worked with somebody like this before. All in all, he was a nice guy with good intentions. He just couln't stand ME.
I continued loud and proud with the Marine Aviation Ordnance motto, “IF YOU AIN’T ORDNANCE...”
And my fellow Marines responded in unison with the final three word of the motivating phrase, “YOU AIN’T SHIT!!!”
I then shook hands and said individual good byes and left. My eyes welled up as I watched my unit disappear in my rearview mirror. I was excited about being a free man, but I knew I’d miss my Marine Corps. Who knows what the future holds for me and my little family? I will always cherish the memories of those four years… of making friends and blowing up a desert.
Sincerely,
E. J. Nieto III
Not as lean,
Still as mean,
And always a United States Marine.
Making friends
On September 4th 2001 I started my first enlistment into our United States Marine Corps. A four year contract in which my ass was obligated, enslaved, owned, and ultimately cared for by Uncle Sam. Maybe “enslaved” is a little extreme. Maybe.
After boot camp, I spent the next nine months traveling from base to base attending school after school up and down the east coast. My Military Occupational Specialty, or MOS, was Marine Aviation Ordnance. I learned how to build rockets, bombs, guns and gun systems that affix and deploy from Marine Rotary Wing Aircraft (helicopters). Once I finally graduated my final school I was permanently stationed on Marine Corps Air Station New River in Jacksonville, NC.
MCAS New River is a small base about fifteen minutes from MCB Camp Lejuene, forty-five minutes north of Wilmington, NC and about two hours north of Myrtle Beach, SC. Aside from all the squadron buildings, offices, and workshops, the place had the basic amenities of any Marine base: a gas station; a small Commissary; a PX; an Enlisted Club (a bar that nobody ever goes to); a tiny marina with paddleboats; a couple soccer/football/baseball fields; and a shit ton of Jarheads, Leathernecks, and Devil Dogs.
There’s something about military bases that I don’t get- why does the plumbing and sewage have to be routed above ground? It’s amazing- all the money allotted to our military can’t buy a better sewage system? Hell, I think it’s sewage anyway. These eighteen-inch-thick rusty, leaking, silver pipes rose from the ground in no apparent pattern or logic. Some would sprout from the earth, crossing over busy roads and some rise out of nowhere ruining, for me, what would otherwise be a pretty scenic piece of land. In the summer, puddles of God-knows-what would form around the base of these things. In the winter, steam spews from random joints and couplings, sometimes clouding sidewalks and intersections. If you’ve ever been on any military base in North Carolina, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
It was on this base that I met my best friend and partner in crime. It was clean-up day at the barracks (field day), all inhabitants of the barracks (single Marines, separated Marines, and even some domestically violent Marines) were congregated in formation awaiting orders on what specific common areas each group was to clean. The following morning, our division Staff NCOs, sometimes accompanied by our squadron SgtMaj, would come to inspect and critique our cleaning effort.
I was new to the unit and really had nobody to talk to, so I eaves dropped on the nearest interesting conversation. This young Marine was talking to another young Marine about a little jam session that was going to be held in his room after field day was over. I interjected in the least hostile, most friendly way I knew how. Earlier I pulled a thread hanging from my shorts and I noticed that the back pocket on my shorts was now coming undone. So I removed the remaining bits of thread and detached the piece of fabric. I still had the fabric in my hand. I tossed it on the ground behind the guy. “Hey, man”, I said, catching his attention. I pointed to the ground behind him, “you dropped your pocket”
“Yeah, like I’m going to fall for that!” the young Marine replied.
“No, really”, I insisted.
He turned and looked, much to his amusement; there was a pocket on the ground. He laughed, as did every Marine around him. An alliance was formed. We joked and laughed until attendance was called. After we finished cleaning I went to the “jam session” and we played bits of songs each other had learned. We were horrible, and there was no “jam” to it, but it was fun nevertheless.
Over the next two years we hung out, partied and chased tail together almost non-stop. I’d like to say we were each others “wingman”, but that’s not true. Se (pronounced See) was my wingman. If you’re reading this, Se, I’m sorry, but this is a true story and I’m not going to pussy foot around shit. Oftentimes, we would go to a party and Se would be the first to make contact with some random hottie, but I would be the one getting the chicks digits. I was a total cock-blocker, but he didn’t have the game to pull it off anyway. Se always ended up in the “friend zone”. Chicks found him cute, but preferred him as only a friend- and I was too charming to be seen by any female as just another harmless guy.
We had this rule- well, maybe not a “rule”, but more of a way things would always turn out. Maybe it was more of a Modus Operandi. No matter who was in our crew, I was always the guy securing a place for us to stay and if I didn’t bring my A-game, we would end up sleeping off our drunken state in my truck. Even though I was a total lady-killer, sometimes booze and good times took precedence over getting laid. If we went to a party that ended up a total sausage-fest or full of prude, snobbish chicks, we would make the best of the cheap alcohol and fuck with the other party-goers till we were banished from the festivities.
One party we attended/crashed immediately comes to mind. When we arrived, we found the apartment full of dudes and very few chicks. Sausage party. The ratio of guys to gals was about 6:1. We were told by some of the other party-goers that more girls were supposed to be coming, so we paid the $5 for our red plastic, all you can drink cups and began socializing.
This one fat, nerdy looking guy was sitting on the couch surrounded by a bunch of other guys who were razzing him. He was bragging about how he’s never been drunk, no matter how much alcohol he’d consume. He told the gang of jokesters that they couldn’t get him drunk and that he’d never puke, because he had such a high tolerance. I knew he was getting himself in deep. The heckling hooligans immediately accepted this as a challenge and began pouring the poor goon shot after shot of E&J.
Before you knew it, the kid had passed out in the recliner. While I was standing next to the chair, talking to one of the few random hotties, I noticed he was out cold. I decided to check on the guy, you know, make sure he wasn’t dead or something. So, I smacked him across his fat face and continued my conversation as if nothing had ever happened. “Wha, who was that? Who the fuck hit me”, the boy asked just before slipping back into his alcohol induced coma.
Nobody even acknowledged his consciousness. Good thing I checked on him, huh? The way I saw it, no matter how mean it was, I was the only one nice enough to check on him. Every five minutes or so, for about 20 minutes, I would smack him again and pretend nothing happened. The girl I was talking to finally told me that what I was doing was mean, so I explained my reasoning to her and the bimbo suddenly found it acceptable. I think the ice in my Koolade may have had a higher I.Q. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
A few minutes later, he was wide awake and in route to the bathroom. The E&J was fighting its way out, and fast. Every move he made caused some regurgitated alcohol to squirt out between his fingers which were covering his mouth, trying to hold it in until he got to the bathroom. He ran into the bedroom, past a guy and some random chick that were in mid fuck, and into the bathroom, pushing a guy off the toilet so he could spew his first ever alcohol induced chunks. When the owner of the apartment heard what was going on, he freaked. He saw the purple stains on his carpet and the couple getting love-juice on his bed and started yelling about, “all this shit is going to be cleaned up, NOW!”
I didn’t get any that night. The girl I was talking to was struck by some of the projectile vomit and left the party immediately. Se, John, and I stuck around until the semi-free alcohol was gone and went out to the truck to sleep it off.
No matter what the crowd, Rule #1 was always in effect: We’ve got each others back and nobody fucks with my boys. If at anytime any of these other hooligans attempted to razz, assault, or harass one of the crew, you’d better check yourself or you will get fucked up. This was as true then as it is now.
This brings me to how Chris (Se) got his name. Being from LouisiMissiBama, he wasn’t given the name Se at birth. He earned it. One night, while drinking and flirting at a party, I approached a chick several times with my A-Game. The first time, I put my arm around her shoulder and introduced myself. Her boyfriend didn’t like this and quickly informed me of their fornicular status. I respectfully disengaged. Later, with a few more drinks in me, I unknowingly found myself with my arm around the same girl. Her boyfriend reinstructed me of where he would relocate his foot if he found me scamming his squirrel again. I again aborted that objective and repositioned myself at the watering hole, a.k.a. the semi-free keg. About an hour later I found and arm around my waist and a vaguely familiar face was getting my A-Game whispered in her ear. A tap on my shoulder confirmed that I was, indeed, a drunken idiot. In my previous attempts to sweet talk this chick, I must have inadvertently made a lasting impression on this little philly. Oops. That shoulder tap was being administered by the trouble brewing hussy’s boyfriend. “Don’t let me catch you outside, or I will fuck you up”, stated the jealous meathead. I respected the guy for standing his ground, but knew I couldn’t hold my own in this drunken state, so I apologized and went about my merry way. I had a few more drinks and went out to the balcony, ignorant to the fact that Mr. Meathead was out there and still redder than a baboon’s left cheek. Chris was also on the balcony, sitting in a plastic chair, drinking semi-free beer and not interacting with any of the bitches or ho’s. He seemed content just watching people walk by and eavesdropping on retarded college-kid-conversations. Meathead grabbed me by the shirt and I tried to talk with the guy, “Look man, you really don’t want to…” Bam! He head butted me right in the nose! I knew it should’ve hurt, but the combination of adrenaline and way too much alcohol numbed most of the pain. I slurred, “Ow, motherfucker! That hurt!”. By the time I finished saying that, Meathead was on his way down and snoring in mid-fall. Apparently, Chris had, without a word spoken, placed his beer on the ground next to his chair, got up, decked this guy with an overhand right, returned to his chair, picked up his beer, and continued to sip the frothy goodness like nothing had ever happened. That night Chris was dubbed “The Silent Enforcer” or Se for short. I could stop this whole story right now and feel satisfied that I did him justice by having his story published. Se, where ever you are, whatever you’re doing, I want you to know that I will tell this story to my kids, my grandkids, and anyone who will listen. You rock. Thanks for being a great friend and may this story go down in history as The Day Se Rocked the Meathead.
Part II
Making foreign friends
During those four years I did as little as possible. I was the antithesis of a motivated warrior. But with brothers like that- it’s hard not to enjoy yourself. I went on an all out “Cooter Crusade”. My mission, subsidized by the USMC, was to find the sweetest tail in every locale I ventured. From Pensacola to California, North Carolina to Illinois, and New Jersey to Iraq. My game was on point. I learned which ones wanted to be sweet-talked and which ones wanted to be treated like dirt. I tried to stay away from them, though. When you treat a female like that, it only leads to drama. I don’t like drama.
By March of 2002, I would’ve licked the bottom of a zoo keepers’ boot for any type of chick willing to send some coitus my way. In early February my squadron was sent to Kuwait in preparation for an invasion of a little oil-rich country, home to the Garden of Eden, Babylon, and God knows what else. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be stuck in some shit hole desert for an untold amount of time just to “pretend we were at war” like in Operation Desert Storm. I was selfish and ignorant/ apathetic to what was going on in anybody else’s little dusty country. I am grateful today for the time I spent in Iraq; seeing the sights, taking in the culture, helping emancipate Iraqis from a vicious dictator, and then bombing the shit out of them.
The funny thing about war is how much fun it is! It sounds sick, but I had a blast hanging out in some foreign land with my closest friends, camping out in the desert and playing with guns and explosives. We worked our asses off, but the good times outweighed the bad.
On March 20th 2002, our invasion was official. We were no longer staged- we were a mobile element, smashing, shooting, and destroying anyone that threatened life, anything that challenged liberty, anything opposed to the pursuit of our happiness. After all- that’s the American Way.
We took every opportunity we could to meet the friendly locals. We threw MRE’s to the Iraqi kids from our Humvee’s when they begged for food and bottles of water when they seemed thirsty. I felt much better about invading their country after seeing that our role was not just to destroy, but to help eradicate a regime that would allow these kids to go hungry and drain their water to gain compliance.
Sometimes giving away food, rations and water would turn violent. On a few occasions kids would fight for the items thrown to them. It’s sad, but it’s a shit ton of fun to watch. Once I threw a packet of M&M’s to some hajji kid thinking I was doing something good for him, but I only made him a target. Other Marines were throwing food items, too, but this kid apparently was the only one to get real candy. Most MRE’s come with Charms (hard candies), but nobody considered them candy. They were cursed. It’s an unofficial Marine Law that Charms are to be discarded as soon as an MRE is opened due to their unlucky properties. Anyone that eats one is shunned from social circles until their next bowel movement. No joke. It wasn’t uncommon to hear an experienced Marine tell a young Marine, “Get the fuck away from me- did you shit yet?”
Anyway- back to the kids. The junior terrorist that caught the M&Ms was about ten years old. He was fucking elated holding his new candy-coated chocolates when out of nowhere some little pot bellied six year old looking kid ran up and popped him right in the jaw with a wild haymaker, snatched up the candy, and walked away cool as a cucumber! I felt horrible… after I finished laughing so hard I had desert dust gathering in my tears.
I’ve seen some fucked up shit, but it made me appreciate life and living in a country that promotes standing up for what you believe in. I returned from Iraq a changed young man.
Part III
Join the Corps; see the world… and its whores
At the completion of our “shift”, my squadron packed up, punched our time card, and hopped on some Navy ships headed for U.S. shores. On our way back to the states we stopped in Rota, Spain. It was my first “Port Call”. For four days Marines and sailors wreaked havoc on this poor Mediterranean city. We had few limits, but as long as we didn’t get arrested and returned to the boat before curfew with our Liberty-Buddies, nobody would care or find out where our shenanigans took us.
Our first day in Rota, we decided to go bar hopping. For the past several months we had been busting our asses in a hot desert with little to spend our hard earned money on, so most of us had thousands of dollars burning holes in our pockets. No expense was spared in our Rota based exploits. $10 for a shot of that brown stuff on the top shelf? No problem. We’d drink a few and move on to the next bar. There were so many Marines and sailors in some of these places, sometimes the barkeep would just start pouring drinks and shots regardless of your requested beverage. We’d drink our fill, throw a twenty over the bar and move on to the next shit hole bar.
On one of our stops, one of my young Marine buddies, Jason, was approached by a six foot middle aged black woman weighing in at around Louis Anderson. She was extremely dark skinned, but you could see that she had even darker freckles and skin-tabs all over her tankini covered body. At least I think they were freckles and skin-tabs… they might have been ticks. It asked Jason for a cigarette. He obliged and was promptly asked by the Tick-Woman, in broken English, to come to her room upstairs. Being Libo-Buddies, we have to stick together and I’ll be damned if I was going to be anywhere near that thing when it took off that tankini. God only knows what was hiding under those sweaty folds of Mediterranean nastiness. Jason was clueless, “what’s up there?” he asked.
She lifted the cigarette to her blistered lips and I noticed she was missing several teeth. The ones that weren’t missing were brown and decaying- one of them looked like pre-microwave popcorn. I told Jason what was awaiting him upstairs as I drew his attention to the shit on her lip that had some additional shit growing on its lip. We paid our tab and departed that fine establishment- right face, march.
I have many more stories about Rota, its cab drivers, its beaches, and its whores but I have kids and a wife, so some things should just be kept between friends and their liquor.
Part IV
It was bound to happen
In the fall of 2003 I met this amazing chick- she fucked up my whole world. I was young, single, having the time of my life and then on night, there she was. In a break from my usual routine, I accepted an invite from my best friend, Se, to go to Wilmington. Apparently his Corporal (later referred to only as The Douche Bag), his Corporal’s girlfriend (later referred to as The Skank), and his Corporal’s girlfriend’s roommate were going out to hit up some clubs. There were a slew of other friends there but they played little to no major role in the whole thing. These people remind me of the Joker’s “henchmen” in the Batman movies. Their roles are so brief and insignificant that nobody ever wonders, “Whatever happened to that guy? Do you think he had a family?”
As a matter of fact- I haven’t thought about them or their existence until I started writing this bullshit that you’re reading. I still don’t care what they’re doing. I don’t wonder what they’re up to and I don’t give a damn where their lives have taken them. Maybe they’re locked up? Maybe they’re having the time of their lives, sipping icy mojitos on some beach while unbeknownst to them, they are each carrying some weed-head Rasta’s love children? Maybe they’re dead- who gives a fuck? I don’t.
Anyway- back to the story. Where was I? Oh yeah… So my buddy, Se, introduces me to this chick on the dance floor- the roommate. My best friends’ corporals’ girlfriends’ roommate. Wow. She was hot- very hot. Not just your garden variety “hot” either. There was something special about this chick. She had a glow like the clouds had parted and let in just one single little ray of light come down and it chose to illuminate only her. I broke out my “A” game. We danced, we laughed, we ground our pelvises together in a rhythmic fashion, and all I got was a peck on the cheek. She was in my head.
I’m not sure if it was the next night or the following weekend, but she called me and asked if I wanted to come hang out with her the Skank, the Douche Bag, and the henchmen. Of course I accepted the invite. Se and I showed up to the apartment as the sun was going down. It was November, so it was probable around seven thirty. I entered the apartment and expected her to do what a chick usually does when I get myself stuck in her head- they make sure they are the first girl to talk to me as if to “claim” me as hers- “back off you scavenging bitches- this one’s mine until I say you can screw him”. But alas- she didn’t say anything until I lost patience and approached her. Stupid move- I know. That was very unlike me. My mindset back then was, “she should come to me”. Chauvinistic? Maybe. But it worked. This chick was already changing me and I was confused. “What is this? Why am I trying so hard? Man-o-man she’s hot!!!”
We proceeded from her apartment to the same club we’d gone to the last time we got together. The place had a Caribbean theme to it; complete with palm trees, bamboo chutes and shitty music. The DJ always played the same stuff; a mix of Lil’ Jon, Akon, remixed 80’s tunes and that poppy junk everybody’s little sister would sing into a hairbrush microphone.
As the night went on, I gained her undivided attention. I was back on top of my game. I was in charge of the situation and I knew what was going to happen. After dancing nonstop for almost an hour, we went to the bar. Being underage and in a college town, acquiring an alcoholic bev bev was out of the question. I drank Red Bull all night and still got carded by A.L.E.!
I was standing by the bar drinking my Red Bull when this forty-something, penny loafers and Dockers wearing guy walks up to me and flashed his badge. “Lemme see some I.D.”
“Why?”
“Are you under age?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“I’m A.L.E. and I’m checking I.D.’s”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here; go bother somebody else.”
“Put your hands behind your back, please”
“I’m drinking a fucking Red Bull… sir.”
With an extremely confused look on his face he turned and approached another patron as if the conversation never even happened. I guess it happens all the time.
Back to the story- Kristie and I (right around this time I asked the Douche Bag what this chicks name is) order another round. An Amoretto Sour for her and Red Bull for me. As I pop the top, I turned and asked her, knowing that I was going to tap that ass, “So, am I going to need more of these?”
“Maybe”, Kristie said with a smile.
Fucking tease, I thought to myself with a smile. The DJ announced last call a little before 2am and we made our way out to the rain soaked parking lot. As we all climbed into my two door hatchback, I gave Se the look- you know that cocky I’m getting laid tonight look. If you don’t know, close your eyes and picture what you think it looks like and that’s probably it. We got to the house and unloaded all eight passengers from my two-door Focus. Just as I was about to get out, I noticed Kristie was frantically searching my car.
“What are you looking for?”
“My cell phone… Shit! I left it in my jacket… at the club.”
“Well, let’s go get it”
“Really? You don’t have to. I can get it tomorrow.”
“No- It’s cool. Let’s go.”
We talked all the way there and back. We sat in the car after we pulled up and we talked and flirted even more. Amazing! A chick that I could have a decent conversation with! Of course the Douche Bag, the Skank, and the henchmen all gave us the third degree when we finally came in. Nosy fuckers. I could hear the girls talking in the kitchen, “What were you guys doing?” (squawk, squawk, squawk)
Douche Bag just had to open his mouth, “Was she giving you head out there? You pulled up, like, twenty minutes ago”
After answering a barrage of questions, we made our way upstairs. Kristie told the girls that she was tired and going to bed… and she gave them the look!!! I saw it! She gave them the look!!! I told the boys I was tired, too, and with a huge grin on my face, I followed her up the stairs to her room. I made sure to flash that grin at Skank and Douche Bag before going completely out of view up the stairs. I’m such an asshole.
We barely made it in the door before our clothes were flung across the room. I picked her up and threw her on the bed. Damn she’s so hot. We went at it for like an hour straight! After we, uh, finished, I still felt so into this chick. That’s never happened before, I thought. Usually, I finish, wipe myself off, and pass out. It was like an out of body experience! I just started asking her questions about herself. I couldn’t help it- I wasn’t in control of my own mouth! This conversation crap, combined with the cell phone thing and my anxiousness to speak to her when I first walked in the apartment was NOT ME!
A couple weeks later, we were an item. All of Kristie’s’ friends were so jealous. Skank was still dating Douche Bag and he had recently learned that love wasn’t the only thing Skank had given him. He got burned. She had contracted herpes from a previous fling with whoredom. They say “it only takes that one time”, but when you’re a skank, it’s part of the job requirements. It’s right there on the list with missing teeth, poor hygiene, and welfare abuse. Anyway, Skank was uber-jealous of Kristie and me. It may sound stupid, but we definitely had everything she wanted in her relationship with Douche Bag- including a clean bill of health. Get over it bitch- you’re a dirty ho and destined to piss fire and rot from the inside out.
Soon the house had turned into a war zone and fuel was being poured over the flames in buckets. One of Kristie’s friends, we’ll call her the Madam Pestilence, was kicked out of her apartment for some convenient reason. Well, Skank decided that her “friend” wasn’t going to do what every other college kid does when evicted and move back in with her parents; she was going to move in “temporarily”. She also said she’d pay her part of the rent, so Kristie didn’t really think it was such a terrible idea, either.
Madam Pestilence never paid any part of the rent as agreed. But since her and this dude "Cosmo" were the only two singles in our group, aside from the henchmen, they started hooking up on the sneak. Madam Pestilence started leaving her shit all over the house; dishes, clothes, used tissues, and never made her bed, which was located in the living room. Kristie, being the neat freak she is, did not like this one bit. The house had become a war zone. Kristie’s friendship with Skank was over. Between the jealousy and the nastiness, the house was completely divided. Luckily, the lease was almost up.
Then came the icing on the cake. Kristie and I were lying in bed one night, post-coitus, talking about moving in together when our conversation turned into us talking shit about Skank and Madam Pestilence. Kristie told me, “I can’t stand living with two girls carrying herpes”
I was amazed! I knew Skank had it, but Madam Pestilence, too? We talked shit for a few more minutes and then it hit me, “Holy shit! [Madam Pestilence] has herpes, too? FUCK! I need to call Cosmo!”
Apparently, they had done such a good job of keeping their little fling on the D.L., that Kristie had never heard a word about it. Now I know why it had to be a secret- she didn’t want anybody to tell Cosmo about her little love-bumps. I informed Kristie of their ugly-bumping and her face turned redder than a cardinal’s dick. She was pissed and that was the straw that stomped the camel into a bloody lump of flesh squirming in a puddle of its own feces.
I called Cosmo and told him about Madam Pestilence’s venereal diseaseliness. He immediately left work and headed straight to medical. He had to get his bore punched and wait a week or two for the results, but he tested negative. His momma must’ve taught him well- a free condom from the on-base planned parenthood saved his nuts. For those of you who don’t know what “getting your bore punched” means; a doctor jams a cotton swab and then a rod with a tiny hook on the end into the end of the urethra (pee hole) until it’s about an inch in. When the rod is removed, a tiny piece of flesh torn from inside the penis comes out with it on that little hook. It’s fucking scary but I’d rather do that than get some germ in my thing-thing and have it go without the proper treatment.
Within days we were out looking for a new place for Kristie and me to move into together. Within days of beginning the search, Kristie found the apartment we would call home for the next two years.
Part V
Friendly fire and boobies
A few months after moving in together, we were engaged. For the next several months we pretty much settled into our relationship, planned our wedding and spent every waking minute groping each other, making love and partying.
When we moved into the new apartment, we met a couple from across the hall that would soon become our closest friends. "Slim" and "Red" were newly married and had just recently popped out their first kid. We spent most of our nights and weekends hanging out with them. Many good times were had just sitting out in the breezeway between our apartments drinking and acting like a bunch of teenagers.
I had acquired a slingshot on one of my trips to Walmart. I don’t know why I bought it; I should’ve known it was going to get me in trouble. We sat in the breezeway that night and drank our usual concoction: Everclear and Koolade. It was a good drink to get you shitfaced quick and still have enough alcohol left to continue drinking throughout the weekend.
So there we were- shitfaced and fucking around with a slingshot in a breezeway. At first we flung cigarette butts from the balcony, but one of us had the genius idea of shooting lit M-80’s across the street. We would take turns holding the slingshot while one of lit the loaded M-80 and with a whip, it was sent sparking across the night sky, exploding just before it landed on the other side of the road. It lasted all of about five minutes before I almost hit a police car with one of these explosive projectiles. As the thing went flying through the air, we watched in frozen amusement as the squad car turned a corner and headed straight for the rapidly descending firecracker. Just as the car neared the blast zone, it exploded with a brilliant flash inches from the drivers side window.
We all panicked. We didn’t know weather we should flee to another building or just suck it up and sit tight, awaiting the pissed off cop to come and arrest me. I sat tight. I know the last thing a cop wants to do is chase my ass down and the last thing I wanted to do was piss him off even more.
As the car approached our building, a million excuses ran through my head- none of them would get me out of it. The officer ascended the stairs and my heart was in my throat. As he approached our group of shitfaced delinquents, he asked for I.D.’s. As I produced mine, I told him that I was the one threw the firecracker. I figured he had only seen one go off, so why take the heat for more than I got caught with? He dismissed everybody else but me. “What the fuck were you thinking, son?”
“I didn’t see your car coming, I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re lucky I’m on my way home- I could easily take you to jail right now for criminal mischief. What if that thing had caused an accident?”
“I was just trying to scare one of my friends that were out here. I really apologize, sir.”
He looked me up and down and asked, “Are you a Marine, son?”
I squared my shoulders and straightened my posture, “Yes, sir, I am.”
Just then, a security officer from the apartment complex showed up- he must’ve seen the car out front with its lights on. The cop told him, “It’s ok. I’ve got this, thanks”. The rent-a-cop took that as a dismissal and went on his merry way.
“Consider this your lucky break, Devil Dog. Think before you get somebody hurt. Semper Fi.”
“Oorah, sir.”
And with that he left. Holy shit! He was a former Marine! If it weren’t for that, I think I could’ve been in some serious shit. I probably could’ve been kicked out of my apartment, but the cop saved me from that when he dismissed the security guy. I don’t think any of us will ever forget that night.
We were always up to something and it always involved booze. Every weekend somebody was either vomiting blue or red Koolade or exposing themselves in a fit of drunken joy.
On my 21st birthday we went out to a little club in downtown Wilmington called Olive-or-Twist. One of our neighbors in the apartment building happened to work there and said he would take care of my tab. We arrived at midnight exactly, showed the door monkey our I.D.’s, and began the boozefest. About two hours, six Jaeger-Bombs, eight shots of Goldschlagger, two shots of “Liquid Cocaine” (Everclear, Bacardi 151, Goldschlagger, and Jagermeister), and one beer later I found myself craving pizza and blowing chunks in an alley next to the pizza place. The crew caught up to me just as some random homeless guy came over to me. He was patting me on the back and telling me, “It’s alright, bro. Let it out. You’ll feel much better”.
Kristie, Slim and Red were laughing hysterically. They sent the old bum away, but thanked him for his concern. Soon, I was back at the apartment, lying in the bathtub with cold water running from the shower head. The cold water made my muscles contract and more puke followed.
While completely naked and lying in the cold shower, Red came into the bathroom to assist my drunk ass. She reached in the shower and, with her hand, swept the puke chunks from between my legs and into the drain by my feet. That’s a true friend right there! To this day, I still ask her if she likes what she saw and she still insists that she didn’t look. Her hand was way too close to my pecker for her to have “not looked”. Whatever. Maybe she won’t admit that she saw anything because she doesn’t want to embarrass me- it was an extremely cold shower, so don’t hold it against me. If you’re reading this, Red, you know you saw my pee-pee.
Speaking of nudity; one New Years Eve, Red had a hook up through a friend of hers and acquired a free nights stay at their beach house in Wrightsville Beach. We invited another couple that we had only hung out with one time before, Curtis and his wife Ginny. Once inebriated, the girls went into the bathroom together. While us guys were sitting there talking, we realized the girls had been in the bathroom for a long time. As we approached the door, I noticed it was cracked and we could hear them talking about each others breasts! We peeked through the crack in the door and there they were! Six beautiful boobies completely exposed! It was amazing and I will never forget it. Thank you, Kristie, Red and Ginny.
That was the last time Curtis and Ginny ever hung out with us. I think we scared them away because they didn’t even stay the night. After the ball dropped they left. Ginny said they had to hurry back to their house because they “needed to let their dog out”. I think Curtis just wanted to go home and nail his wife while picturing Kristie’s sweater-puppies.
Part VI
Kristie in New Jersey
She’ll never forget it and neither will my parents. We went to a 4th of July party at this yacht club in Jersey. My parents invited us and their neighbor was a member there. My cousin, Chris, came with us as our DD. The party, aside from the husband/wife cover band, was great! We went from boat to boat drinking free booze and eating free food. The party was catered by a little Portuguese restaurant and Kristie and I were both devouring the lobster tail and garlic shrimp. I never had that much lobster in my life!
They even had a Liquor Louge. A Liquor Louge is a huge block of ice propped up at an angle with a half inch deep gouge cut into it from the top end to the bottom end. Your liquor of choice is poured into the top of the Louge and as it travels through the gouge, it gets ice-cold before pouring off the bottom edge and into your waiting mouth. There’s not much of a point to it, it’s just fun.
Through out the day and into the night, we drank all sorts of concoctions, but one of them had us hooked. It was a Peach Kamikaze. This lady just kept making them for us over and over and over again. We probably had about ten each before we realized what damage we had done to ourselves. I tried to stand up and found it to be a lot less of a struggle that I was afraid it would be. But then I tried to walk. Kristie and I damn near crawled our way to my car and Chris hopped in the drivers’ seat. As we neared my parents house, Kristie’s nausea induced moaning grew louder and louder. We arrived and she damn near fell out of the car.
Kristie kept saying things like, “I can’t let your parents see me like this”, and, “I need to throw up, but I can’t. I never throw up from drinking”. I reassured her that it’s ok and tried to help her get it out. Then, all of a sudden, Chris lit an entire block of Black Cat firecrackers. Bambambambambambambambam! This, combined with my chanting, “Lobster tail! Garlic shrimp!” in her ear, finally popped the top. There it was and there it would stay on the curb until the next rain. Lumps of lobster tail and even a few shrimp, still intact from being swallowed whole.
The reason my parents even knew this was going on was because when my little brother, Travis saw Kristie yacking, he ran and told, “Them there is something wrong with Kristie”. They came outside just in time to see Kristie blowing chunks.
I added this bit to show that I wasn’t the only one that ever drank too much. We all did at one time or another… it’s just that it was usually me. There you go, Kristie. Love ya!
Part VII
The plunge
We were married in Kristie’s fathers’ church and her father married us. It was an awesome ceremony. The parishioners helped pull it all together and saved her dad a bunch of money. There were so many people helping with everything, it was unbelievable. Most of it is a blur to me, but what I remember most was Kristie. When the door opened and she started walking down that isle, I swear the whole world froze except for her. She floated slowly towards me and it took all my strength and concentration to remain conscious. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen- that dress, that hair, and oh-my-God that gorgeous face!
I knew right then and there I was a sucker for life. As long as I was waking up next to that face, I would have no control over any of my actions. She had me wrapped around her finger and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
My parents flew us to St. Thomas where we stayed in a condo using my Grandpa’s timeshare. All we had to pay for was our food, drink and entertainment. We spent $2,000 that week on whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it. You only get one honeymoon, right?
The Room with a View is a restaurant at Blue Beards Castle. This place was incredible… and expensive, but when I looked at the menu, there was only one thing I wanted and I had to get Kristie to try it. When the appetizer came, I wouldn’t tell her what it was. Ten little curled up pieces of meat that looked like scallops were floating in a creamy wine sauce with a couple pieces of French bread. “What is it?” she asked.
“Just try it before I tell you” I said.
I fed Kristie her first bite, ever, of Escargot (snails) and with a surprised look on her face asked for another one before I could tell her what it was. And when I did tell her, she didn’t care. She just wanted more. I had told her about Escargot before and she was disgusted that such a delicacy even existed. The moral of the story; don’t knock it until you try it.
We went to the beach, shopped at the shops, and dined at whatever restaurant or shack we happened upon. All too soon it was over and we made tracks back to North fucking Carolina. It was a depressing trip back. It was mid January and we were leaving paradise for a cold shithole of a state. Next time, I think we’ll stay in paradise just a little bit longer.
Part VIII
Big Daddy
After I’d burned up all of my vacation, I had to go back to work. It was about a month later when I was presented with my orders. My unit was to take part in a training exercise out in Arizona called Operation Desert Talon. It was a month long exercise in the blistering hot Arizona sun. During the day, the temperature reached 120 degrees. They say it’s a dry heat, so it’s not that bad. That’s bullshit, 120 degrees is 120 degrees no matter how you slice it.
When we first arrived, it was pretty sweet. We’d work until 1630 and head to the base pool. It was my second week there and I was sitting by the pool with some friends when Kristie called. “Hey, Princess! How are you?”
“I’m ok. How are things out there?”
“Fucking hot. What’s going on?”
“Well…”
I didn’t want to hear whatever she was about to say. The tone of her voice was telling me something bad was about to come out of her mouth. All I could think was, “This bitch cheated on me. It’s just what you always hear about; a young Marine gets deployed and his wife immediately fucks around on him”. My worst nightmare was already starting and she hadn’t even told me the good news. It was, in fact, good news.
“Well… are you sitting down?”
“No. Not yet, why?” I was already pissed.
“Well… what kind of mood are you in?”
“It’s getting worse. Just tell me- what is it?”
“We’re pregnant.”
I was stunned! We were fucking like prepubescent Mexicans for over a year before we got married and now we get pregnant?! Our sex life had slowed down due to my work load and stressing about my upcoming discharge from the Marine Corps. I had just a few more months to find a job before I got out, and packing for this exercise has been wearing on me. But we never got pregnant or even had a scare back when we were having sex two to three times a day!!!
Of course, I was happy. So happy, I went to the PX and bought a bottle of Tequila. I drank the whole thing in 3 hours and shared with nobody. When I awoke, I was sitting on the floor of a community shower butt naked and puking. The shower was in the barracks I was staying in and was an open shower with no stalls, no curtain, nothing. Anybody could walk in and see you in your birthday suit. Somebody did just that.
There was a newly promoted sergeant that stayed across the hall from me. He must’ve seen me passed out in there and thought he had a chance to exercise his new authority. “Hey, Devil Dog! What the fuck are you doing? I’m going to call the MP’s and get your ass NJP’d!”
An NJP is Non Judicial Punishment, military jargon for getting chewed out by the Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and anybody else high in the food chain that wants to exercise their authority over you. In an NJP the C.O. or X.O. can punish you in several ways; demotion, forfeiture of pay, extra punitive duties, or restriction (being grounded to the base or barracks). But since I didn’t do anything wrong and I had no clue who this guy was, I called him on his bluff.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a Sergeant, Devil Dog, and you’re in some shit now”
“Well, Sergeant, I’m 21 years old, so I’m not going to get hit for underage drinking and I’m drunk in the barracks, so what am I doing wrong?”
“You’re fucked up, Devil Dog! Who is your Staff Sergeant?”
I then told him who my Staff Sergeant was and where he could be reached. As soon as he left, I resumed my unconscious state. A few minutes later, he returned with SSgt Gray, Cpl Godfrey, and Cpl Burch. I worked for all of these guys for the past 3 years and, in my current inebriated state, I didn’t give a half a shit if they saw my twig and giggleberries.
When SSgt Gray saw me, he asked the dipshit sergeant what the problem was. Sgt Dipshit tried to explain his side of why I was in the wrong, but it wasn’t working out too well for him.
SSgt Gray kept interrupting him, “So what’s the real problem here, Sgt?”
“Well, SSgt, uh… he’s naked and uh… drunk.”
“He’s of legal drinking age and he’s in the barracks! Why are you bothering him? What is he doing wrong? Why the fuck did you bring me over here?” This went on for a few minutes and Sgt Dipshit got more and more frustrated as my SSgt continued to chew him out for being a douche bag.
Cpl Godfrey and Cpl Burch carried my drunk ass back to my room, put a blanket over me and set a trashcan next to my bed.
“We’re not leaving till you fall asleep. If you wake up, stay in here until you need to get ready for work”, Cpl Godfrey said.
“Aye, Cpl. I’m sorry that dude made you guys come over here.”
“Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. This shit never happened.”
“Roger that, Cpl.”
I then passed out. When I went to work the next morning, nobody said a damn thing about it. I still can’t drink tequila without laughing a little inside.
A few very hot weeks later the exercise was over and we returned to North Carolina. Kristie was waiting for me when our bus pulled up and gave me the biggest, tightest hug she’s ever given me. We “did the deed” 5 times that day. It was a personal best for me and I was actually sore the next day.
Over the next few months I just tried to keep a low profile and enjoy the last little while I had in the Corps. On September 3rd, 2005, I attended my very last muster with my unit. I was presented with a plaque that showed my rank, shop, deployments, nickname, and a little quote Cpl Burch used to say when somebody called me that nickname: “LCpl Nitro- Ptsssss!”
I was asked to give a little speech and, since it was my last day with the people I’d been so close to for the past 3 years, I felt I had to. “The past 3 years has been a blast. We’ve been through some shit together and I’m going to miss you guys- well most of you anyway. Some- not so much. You guys take care of each other”.
When I said that, they all knew who I was talking about. Everybody looked at Sgt Forest (name changed for privacy- but you know who you are. No hard feelings). The guy just couldn't stand me. He’d tell you all sorts of crap about his firefighting classes, which made him feel like a bad ass. He'd also tell cheesy jokes and think they were hilarious. Everyone has worked with somebody like this before. All in all, he was a nice guy with good intentions. He just couln't stand ME.
I continued loud and proud with the Marine Aviation Ordnance motto, “IF YOU AIN’T ORDNANCE...”
And my fellow Marines responded in unison with the final three word of the motivating phrase, “YOU AIN’T SHIT!!!”
I then shook hands and said individual good byes and left. My eyes welled up as I watched my unit disappear in my rearview mirror. I was excited about being a free man, but I knew I’d miss my Marine Corps. Who knows what the future holds for me and my little family? I will always cherish the memories of those four years… of making friends and blowing up a desert.
Sincerely,
E. J. Nieto III
Not as lean,
Still as mean,
And always a United States Marine.
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