Halloween Heist

Ok so Halloween is coming up right? My significant other informed me that due to Halloween falling on a Sunday the bible huggers on post have decided to move Halloween to Saturday, while the rest of the city continues to celebrate in on Sunday as planned. This amused me thinking that these people object to celebrating Halloween on Sunday due to it being a religious day. So in other words this it’s ok to cavort and worship this heathen holiday, just not on Sunday because that would be (long constipated silence)….bad. Hmmmm kay…. So my other is really excited about this idea as he star treks his way back 13 years daydreaming about the kind of score he could take in if he were so afforded this opportunity in his youth. Unfortunately for him, his five o clock shadow and Chevy truck idling nearby might cast some doubt on his passing for a 12 year old boy now-days. Attempting to bring him out of his weasly little voyage to the 80’s back into the adult world, I reminded him that it doesn’t mean twice the candy, that people aren’t gonna hand out candy on both days, so the yield remains the same. I could imagine his beady little eyes glistening as he typed to me his would-be plans. Describing in detail the benefits of the time to gathering ratio, he reasoned that with two days times three hours of gathering per day divided by the coverage area, one could get more bang for the buck. It was absolutely adorable and impossible not to be amused by his strategic investment banker approach for raping and pillaging neighborhood candy bowls with the precision of a bank robbing heist. I could imagine him and his little commando’s synchronizing watches and low crawling through fences in the race against the gathering clock. In my days we joked about changing costumes to try and sneak and extra treat in here and there. No, not my little Billy the kid, he was the Godfather of his little crime organization training his little thugs on tricks of the trade: mapping out houses (by rank of the occupant; higher the rank, the better the treat), sprinting from house to house, and studying trends in treat giving per house in previous years. I could imagine him the night after his heist, the neighborhood loan shark, wheeling and dealing, taking candy as collateral. Only a man…..lol

Spam-o-Gram

I have been getting a lot of spam lately, not just the standard farm animal porn and offers to enlarge my penis seem to plague me for some definite unknown reason (seeing as how I seem to have misplaced my penis), but those spams that make you want to grab a voodoo doll and poke away at whoever sent them. Generally I find these little love notes seem to fall into three categories. The first category is the do gooding I love the world/jesus/you crap. It’s not that I have anything in particular against do gooders or people loving peopler’s, but they seem to generate the most skull melting, eyeball gouging, enema level enjoyment crap out of everyone. Some boring story about how some guy passed a homeless person and didn’t help and later at the gates of heaven…I’m sure you see where I’m going with this. I would like nothing better than to head these off at the pass and delete them without ever reading them but like the catch all phrase “based on the needs of the military” that basically takes a big fat crap on the rest of what your promised in your military contract, these too have one of those trap doors always located in the subject line: Delete this and you have no heart; Timmy the one legged boy will die unless... Then once your stupid enough to open it just to shut your screaming catholic pain in the ass conscience up, it has that crap at the bottom about send this to 10 people you love and back to the asshole (oops, did I say that out loud?) that sent it to you so they know you care. It’s like a Chinese finger trap; the only way to get yourself out of it is to go further into the hole. On one hand you don’t want to be the heartless, legless boy hating hell bound non believing friend hater, but on the other hand you know that passing it on is only perpetuating the vicious cycle that has taken 10 minutes of your life that you’ll never get back and casting it onto some other poor soul foolish enough to trust you with their email address. So the second category is of course the pass this on to 5 zillion people or aliens will impregnate your dog, probe your orifices and you will die alone and violated. It’s like someone out there has the uncanny ability to hone in on just the thing that could most F up your life, and dangle it over your head. It will be that day you break up with your boyfriend and along comes the “send this to 10 people and your hearts greatest wish will come true”. Don’t send it along and your boyfriend will marry your best friend…and aliens will impregnate your dog. So in your vulnerable state email is the less sinful alternative to voo doo and you just happened to watch not so unbelievable X-files on what else-anal probing. The third and final type of crap cluttering my inbox even at this very moment are the “Get to know your friends better” emails where you cut and paste and answer a bunch of boring questions and read a bunch of boring questions and then pass along a bunch of boring questions. I mean what a great way to get to know your friends right? Get to know everything there is to know about someone without ever actually having to have a conversation with them. Black Ninja passed me the mother of all of these types of emails just a day ago and then sent me a follow up email asking if I had completed it yet. Yeah as soon as hell freezes over, Osama bin laden is caught and the war in Iraq is won, I will be only too happy to answer questions like the following:

-----------------HAVE YOU EVER------------------
[x] Flown on a plane: no I swam to the Middle East
[x] Cut your hair?: no I’m experimenting with kinky Amish role playing
---------------IN THE LAST 24 HRS------------------
[x] Cried: Yeah when I opened this email
[x] Met someone new online: yep it’s amazing what 3.95$ per minute will get you.
---------------DO YOU BELIEVE IN--------------
[x] Santa Claus: Sure, fat people need love too
-------------------YOU PREFER------------------
[x] Pepsi or coke: crack actually, lots of it.
[x] Single or group dates: Group dates? Is that what you kids are callin them these days?
------------IN THE PAST MONTH DID/HAVE YOU--------------
[x] Stolen anything: Stealing is such a harsh word, I prefer borrowing with the extended option to keep.

So I am still here...

So I am still here, still bored and still with nothing interesting to blog about. I think I’ve run out of things to bitch about…Once I switched sections, CPT Crazy was out of my life, Linda Blair has gone on R&R, no latin night this week so DPDM is missing in action, my roomy is back but torturing another LT at the moment. The only stability I have in my life is Sandwich Man. I find it absolutely amazing how much English these guys actually understand. I mean I can’t understand practically a word of Bob’s English but he is fluent in mine. I came in to the DFAC a couple of days ago after shopping at the PX(post exchange), and he came over to chat and asked me what I had bought him. I laughed and told him that I had bought a t-shirt (yes you guessed it, the whose your baghdaddy t-shirt) but that it was small so I didn’t think it would fit him. He got a mischievous glint in his beady little eyes and made me turn from my normal creamy beige complexion to a fire engine red when he indicated he understood what I was implying when I said that he had no use for a small sized t-shirt. (Insert guilty flashback to the well-fed lawyer comment in Sandwich man blog). I hadn’t really been thinking about him being overweight, more chuckling at the thought of Bob strutting his stuff like a porn star with a skin tight whose your baghdaddy t-shirt on. (Another one of those hippo mating on the discovery channel moments). As my drill sergeant used to say: That’s wronger than two Chinese boy’s f-ing in a broom closet WITH SCUBA GEAR ON! I’m not really sure what could be “wronger” than anything that involves two boys, sex and scuba gear, but I’m sure a half naked gyrating Pakistani in a who’s your baghdaddy t-shirt falls somewhere in that realm. The military has all kinds of stupid sayings that manage to conjure up images that haunt you in so many ways. In honor of this I have decided to share a few…

I’m not going to tell you how to suck the egg. (gee, but we’ve already come this far…why stop now big daddy?)
An Army of One (yeah pretty soon that’s all that’s going to be left)
High speed, low drag (finally they are making a vibrator for the people)
Utilize the latrine (the professional Military way to take a whiz)
Screwed the pooch (I’m quite sure that this violates some military and animal rights laws).

The Dingo at my baby?

Ok just in case my 1.5 fans are not aware therefore rendering the joke impotent, there was a case of a bunch of people out camping in some random state like utah or something and a dingo (which is some type of wild dog) ran into a tent and made off with a womans baby. The sad part is no one believed her and she not only almost went to prison for it, it spurred a made for tv movie and a lot of "the dingo stole my (insert random noun here)" jokes. Kind of the dog ate my homework excuse. I'm not sure the army would buy "the dingo ate my weapon" thing though.

The Dingo ate my weapon

Ok so damn this M16 I have….So they took my 9mm which I carried in a very chic little brown cowboy holster and handed me the big black pain in my ass. They claimed that I was not actually authorized by MTOE (great big military list o’ crap your unit has to lug around) to carry the weapon and they needed to give it to the one of the Military Police soldiers. I think the MTOE should be amended to authorize me one number 1 because I’m entirely too cute to carry around something 2/3rds of my height in such a boring color and number 2 because remembering it is entirely more effort than I wish to put forth at any point during my day. Doesn’t Gucci make a clutcher handgun? Just tonight I went to chow and left my weapon in the vehicle when I came back in to work. I mean this is why I don’t have children. A weapon is like a kid, but without the built-in squall-o-meter that reminds you that its there and you need to not leave it on a bustop. You have to clean a weapon, you have to clean a kid, you have to carry a weapon everywhere or have someone watch it, likewise with a kid. I’m 25 yet somehow I don’t think I’ve quite become attune to those motherly instincts. After the 20th time my dogs carried their dishes and let them drop to the floor with a loud clatter right in front of me I went out and bought one of those godzilla feeders so I could forget about it for weeks at a time (yo quiero-QUIT F-ING BARKING ALREADY!!). I have been dreaming of having children with an alarming frequency for the past few months, but even more disturbing is I seem to be riding the short bus to motherhood in every episode. I leave them in apartments, on buses, I forget to feed them (and in most of the dreams at 2days old they are able to talk and tell me what a crack-head I am). Sometimes I run through a mist screaming the dingo ate my baby. I think I need to cut back on the baked beans (ok the crack too) during midnight chow, I read a cartoon that said you shouldn’t hold in your farts because they will travel up to your brain and that’s where shitty idea’s come from. It makes sense to me, but what do I know I have worked very hard to ensure I am of as little value to anyone here as I can possibly be, so idea’s, shitty or no are not found in abundance on my watch. I bought my significant other a love fern over a year ago (to be cute like kate Hudson in How to lose a guy in 10 days)…yeah I killed it. One last living fern on the entire bush clung to life for these past nine months but finally lost the battle just over a month ago. I can’t even keep plants alive. I am about to be promoted to captain on the 1st of November which is (drum roll) more responsibility. I am living proof of the fact that all you need to do to make Captain is show up and breathe…Attention citizens, breathers wanted! I mean think of it, you could list crank calls on your resume as previous experience. All this and a paycheck too…

Nothing in Particular

Ok so I broke down and did it….I bought a “Whose your Baghdaddy” T-shirt. There was something delightfully white-trash about it and I was weak. I went into the PX and it was one of those days where you need to buy something no matter how useless or ridiculous it is, so this t-shirt won out at 7$. I think you have to be a woman to truly understand this need to purchase, overriding all reason. So later I went to latin night and it was all I thought it was going to be, sans the alcohol and Enrique Iglesias. However, dirty pervert dancing man(DPDM) was there. This is an old guy from Puerto Rico who never misses the opportunity to twirl me across the dance floor as he stares into my eyes and tells me conspiratorially that although there are many lovely girls present, I am still his favorite girl. This might have been flattering in some creepy woody allen sort of way if he hadn’t used the same line on my friend DS2 as well. DPDM is one of those men you kind of watch dance in sick fascination the same sort of way you watch hippo’s trying to mate on the discovery channel, you just can’t seem to look away. There’s something to be said about a man who dances that boldly; but since he hits on women with such vigor, it kinda blew that theory out of the water…He’s offered to help me with my Salsa, and I’m thinking to myself he probably wants to help me shake more than my shimmy. He accidentally elbowed me on the dance floor at one point and I chuckled as the thought crossed my mind as to whether that could be termed child abuse. Ok so he’s not that old, but I was probably still in diapers when he graduated from high school so…On the whole old thing, there’s another thing about the military that has been bothering me for quite some time. It’s the whole military medical structure. I find it slightly disturbing that my initial screening at the TMC is invariably some happy little male specialist (E4, enlisted). I mean, it almost borders on sadistic to have to sit across from some male nurse you don’t know, outrank and discuss with him the date of your last period and how long you have had scary unknown itchy rash symptoms. When I was a wee Lieutenant just freshly commissioned, I spent the summer in the woods running the tactical operations center for the summer camp for soon to be wee Lieutenants. At some point along the way I managed to get a patch of poison ivy on the back of my thigh/behind that was inching its way alarmingly towards my nether regions. Naturally this was a concern for me (insert random image of aunts crazy poodle dragging its butt along the carpet floor, tongue hanging out) so I went to see the medic on site which was of course another happy little male specialist. Not convinced that my case warranted a trip to the hospital in the rear he fidgeted like a little girl unsure of how to verify the seriousness of the situation. With fear of sometime soon giving in to my inner poodle, I chose the shock and awe tactic. I dropped my pants and bent over so he could connect the dots. So the problem out here is that on multiple occasions I found myself running into these TMC specialists in the chow hall, the laundry facility etc. Nothing says Hallmark moment like sharing a dinner table with the guy who wrote the prescription to clear up your (insert unsexy disgusting problem here). I mean people who treat your embarrassing afflictions are supposed to be old geezers well out of the “do-able” age bracket, preferably with 20/40 eyesight and some well placed cataracts, not ricky martin and the rest of menudo pre-puberty.

A boring last few days

Just a warning...nothing even remotely interesting has happened to me the last couple of days so I'm afraid this is all I got:
Ok so I signed into the army chat known as AKO to just see what was going on seeing as I hadn’t logged into this since I was back in the rear. So I sign in and immediately I get messages from two guys with that sexy PFC (private first class) pick-up line “Hey”. Of course I’m always hoping to run into someone I may have gone to basic training or AIT with so I replied; hey do I know you just to be sure. No, I just thought you might want to talk was the response. WTF? I mean I didn’t think it was possible to throw out that you come here often, what is a lovely lady like yourself doing all alone kind of thing except in a bar. He just thought I might like to talk…? I guess my screen name was looking kind of lonely and vulnerable and he thought it needed some company. Of course I was bored so I decided to have a little fun. The conversation went on for the obligatory 2 minutes of bullshit where you from and what do you do till the inevitable dirty perv tell-tale question: So…what do you look like? Translation: Tell me you’re hot and I’ll have to type one handed. Normally I block them and sign out after this question, but I was feeling froggy tonight so I cracked my knuckles and settled in for a quick game of Wheel of Perverts. So the convo went something like this:

Spanky: So what do you look like
Blondie: bout 4’8, 200 pounds hairy little troll
Spanky: Nah I bet you’re hot
Blondie(Apparently trolls are a hot this season) Um well actually I’m very ugly
Spanky: No I have a feeling your hot
Blondie: really? It would be nice to meet a man that doesn’t mind my cleft pallet.
Spanky: I like you you’re funny…
Blondie: well since you said it I know it must be true
Spanky: Are you naked? (a rookie… never pop the naked question so early in the convo junior)
Blondie: No way! You have naked Wednesdays at work too? I think it’s a refreshing change, aloha Fridays are so five minutes ago.
Spanky: so your naked huh….(is this guy serious?)
Blondie: Oh absolutely I’m stretched out on the commanders camel skin rug right now
Spanky: Sounds freaky J (yeah almost like a scary stalker guy who hits on naked 200 pound trolls in military chat rooms)
Blondie: What can I say, pimpin ain’t easy.
Spanky: so what are you doing?
Blondie: (What every naked woman does alone late at night) Typing an operations order.

So the conversation continued till finally I had bored him speechless and probably rendered him impotent. I kept thinking to myself, this guy passed the screening exam at a recruiting station…someone thought it would be a good idea to give him a weapon. I guess the joke was on them, it’s pretty hard to fire an M16 one handed. Now that guys like the dog you lock away from the guests because he won’t quit humping their legs.

Attention Anyone Who Takes Themselves Seriously...

Ok so lately due to extreme boredom I have resumed a type of motivation that consists of whatever there is out there existing that could possibly annoy anyone who takes themselves seriously. My mom and best friend spunky are avid supporters of this, hence the purple feather boa and tiara, light up alien antenna headband, and the light up flip flops that glow electric blue with each strut you take. Even now I sit in my office with ridiculous alien light up head band flashing proudly as I type this drawing the sad nods of all the American red-blooded, ball scratching men around me. The day shift soldier started to walk out for the night so I flipped on the switch and smiled sweetly and said “Whatsa matter? Too manly to say goodnight when I have my pink ears on?”. His response was that it was impossible for him to take me seriously with those things on…hmmm I’d say that means my work here is done. When I worked the other life sucking, skull throbbing staff job I had, my pink ears were banned. I suspect I’m aloud to strut around in this new position due to my location being behind a coded cipher lock door that prevents anyone important from being offended. I’m like the dog you lock away when guests come over because it won’t quit farting. Back in the rear before we deployed I bought a whole bunch of lisa frank pink colorful folders. Nothing gave me greater pleasure than to stick a document that needed to be signed by someone of a distinguished rank into a folder with a pink cartoon girl sitting on a giant ice cream cone, and then imagining this person walking into the secret squirrel big whig office carrying this fruity ass folder. Of course I was unable to get the BN Commander (a LTC…go figure) to buy off on carrying this folder around, he freely admitted he was not secure enough in his manhood to withstand the pressure of the pink. I personally find it an excellent test of character. Nothin says stud like doing the strut of pride with pink folder in tow daring anyone to make your big pink day (insert ball scratch here). I also have ridiculous dogs as well. I have a lhasa ahpsa (which I can’t spell for some reason), and a shitzu. I want to breed them and make a sign that says a whole Lhasa Shitz for sale. It’s the little things that make me smile. So of course they are both cute and undeniably offensive to all that is macho. Even my significant other refuses to walk them during daylight hours and instead does furtive walking in the wee hours of the night. Here is a warning to all those thinking about joining the “Small and offensively cute dogs” club, there is a reason why they call them SHIT-zu’s. I couldn’t get this freaking dog to quit eating the steamy delicatessens of both her and my older dog. I mean she’d practically be butt to nose with Daisy (boo hoo Jessica Simpson I named my ridiculous dog first) catching them as they came out. Then of course she’d want to make out with you after. I think she’s so needy and clingy now because all throughout her puppy hood all she heard was “ewww chloe go away…” It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. So 3 days and unfortunately no alcohol later, I finally got over my cold. Am I the only one who finds it offensive to have the runs, hawk phlegm and still have to dodge mortars? Is it too much to ask that there be some sort of cease fire during flu season? I thought somewhere I read in the Koran; Fear not the toilet in the early hours of the night friends, for the time of the runs are upon us during which none shall harm fellow man. Of course I may have been a little liberal with my interpretation of Ramadan.

The Crud

Ok so I’m sick….I mean really sick. I feel like crap and all I want to do is sleep….hmmm. Ok so that’s the way I feel every day but now I have a sore throat and a cough. I went to the TMC (Troop Medical Clinic) and waited an hour just to hear the doc tell me that I had the “Middle East Crud”. What he really meant was:
“I’m only pretending to care because the military paid for my medical school, I don’t know what’s wrong with you so here’s some Motrin and coughdrops, piss off.” I mean I GUESS it’s possible to be sick and not have any real option other than to wait to die, but way back when I was a civilian I don’t ever remember going to a doctor who told me “Eh, there’s nothing I can do for you, go sweat it out”. Maybe I was just imagining it, (you know grass is greener syndrome), but I seem to remember a time when you were actually given medication and it seemed to work. I know what my problem is; I just need a few days to rest. In a normal world this would be an option, however in the military calling in sick is an urban legend of the old days when people were treated like adults and coming into work piss drunk was the only way to start your morning off right. Instead you first have to drag your pukey, sweaty, diarrhea ravaged body screaming from the toilet to work, to get a sick call slip signed by someone quite possibly that you outrank. Then, drag your dead lifeless body to the TMC itself to wait behind about a gazillion privates who are only there to get out of PT, only to be told what you already know is wrong with you. But still you rot there, for hours stomach rumbling in protest waiting to be seen. I’m convinced that they have designed the sick-call system so no one above SPC would possibly attempt to use it. I have a lifetime supply of motrin thanks multiple worthless trips to the TMC in hopes that one might result in being given quarters so I can go home to do the one thing that might actually make me better…sleep. Back when I was in highschool I went to private catholic school and our nurses in the clinic were nuns, who seemed to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be cured by gargling saltwater and eating soda crackers. Got cramps, here have some soda crackers…Broken wrist…have some crackers…hemorrhoids…have a cracker…in the military it’s motrin. You could have diarrhea and a yeast infection and no matter what else they might prescribe, you can guarantee there’s some motrin in there somewhere. They are like the magic beans jack sold his cow for; maybe if I bury all that motrin it will grow me a beanstalk out of this place. So the incentive to go to the TMC is very low since the likelihood of being sent back to work with your magic beans measures a “sure as sh*t” on the richter scale. Then all the work that you missed from spending the first half of the morning in the TMC, is still there to greet you when you walk in. I hide my mechanical pencils from myself, afraid one day I might actually use them… “Oh, geez LT Blondie stabbed her eyeballs out, better get the Extra Strength motrin”. It’s a great day in the military, all this and a paycheck too! J

Ummmm...I'm telling mom......

Ok just when I thought I had slipped into some sort of comfortable you don’t exist agreement with my roommate yet again she reminds me why I would rather eat dirt and shove splinters under my fingernails than be in this job. I mean I have had bikini waxings less painful than this, and with far better benefits. So I come in and open my email and find that she had written the following to our boss regarding a task that was given to me the previous day by MAJ, which I was supposed to pass along the results of to my roommate the following morning…

“MAJ Such and Such, LT Blondie did not do the below.”

Now what I really saw was “Waah, boo hoo, LT Blondie, wah wah wah.”

I mean seriously WTF? I actually did do the task but it had to be sent back to the original sender due to some corrections that needed to be made. I can take some responsibility for the misunderstanding in that I didn’t read the email close enough to realize it said to give the document to my roommate. But I can’t think of any other way to put it other than “Tattle tail” (although evil b*tch has a nice ring to it). I mean it’s a 3rd grade term, but it definitely applies here. My boss was off the next day, my roommate had the whole day to ask me about it and she didn’t. I mean who knew the military was full of such whiny little brats who go crying to mom every time someone takes their toy. If hell were to freeze over and I made MAJ, I think I would have one of those trap doors installed, you know the kind that make the floor give out beneath whoever is annoying you with their insignificant petty problems? Mine would empty out into that little hole sadaam husseine crawled into, from the way he looked when they dragged his as* out of it, I’d say it would be juuuuuuussst right. Have you ever been asked that question about if you could have any super power that you wanted what would it be? Mine was always the ability to heal people. I mean I used to think wouldn’t that be the greatest thing in the world to be able to relieve someone else’s suffering? Well then I joined the military. Now all I want is to take up voodoo for dummies and poke all day long to the sound of Congo drums. I can’t say I’m proud of this transition, in fact I’m quite sure I’m headed to hell for even thinking about it….(insert longing sigh here). No, I’ll stay away from the voodoo, but I can’t promise anything about the itching powder or super glue…baby steps God, baby steps.

Ok so…It seems out here is like a 24/7 spring break complete with bad pick up lines sans alcohol to make them bearable. I was at Salsa night the other night (Yes I can dance Salsa…latin(o’s, ah’s) of the world beware, the rednecks are infiltrating). My friend DS2 runs up to me in dismay and tells me SSG Stalker (again name is changed to better suit the individual) has shown up and stealthily points in his direction. I find this very amusing since when it comes to being discreet for ME she seems to be the Rain Man of discretion (you know you are you dirty little….:) ). If I want to tell her about someone and I don’t want her head to whip around like in the exorcist the conversation must go something like so:
Me: DS2, ok now don’t look ok? Hey look at me (put both of my hands on either side of her face)…I’m serious, I’m gonna tell you something, but you can’t look ok? Show me you understand the words coming out of my mouth…
DS2: (Insert happy go lucky nod here)
Me: no I mean it….you really have to wait, and NOT Turn around…
DS2: (Slightly more focused nod…I can see I’m getting through)
Me: alright so I’m about to tell you what I’m gonna tell you, and you are not….going….to…
DS2 “Look” (ok now I know I have her)
So then I can tell her. I made the colossal mistake more than once of forgetting the preemptive ritual and a stripper couldn’t have whipped around a pole faster than her bony little butt spun around. I mean I didn’t even get out what I was gonna say and she was already looking! So her creep-dar is off the charts as this guy seems to have attached himself to her. She tells me she’s thinking about telling him to uh…go away and just never talk to her again. That got me to thinking, how many of us poor women here are subjected to the overzealous ardor of inherently booty seeking males? I mean it can’t possibly be because we resemble women in any way shape or form. I know personally if I brush my hair and put on some oxy 10 on the zit on my butt it’s a good day for me. (Always change the underwear though, that’s playing with fire). Is it too much to ask to feel fat, miserable and raunchy without some hairy little troll thinking because of lack of alternatives you might suddenly develop an uncontrollable desire to make his day? So being a career clubber I have come up with some sure fire responses that will send them running…(adapted of course to the current setting). Here are some scenario’s:

Spanky: Wow you seem to be popular tonight, all the guys want to dance with you….
You: Yeah well the prozac I got from mental health has really helped my mood swings and facial tics
Spanky: So you got a man?
You: Why yes several, I keep them chained up in my basement “or” (even better)I used to be one does that count?
Spanky: (upon finding out your married/involved.) Oh well you can have friends right?
You: Oh yes, my psychiatrist will be so pleased
Spanky: Whats your name shorty?
You: Ralph….(no really I used this one, he hasn’t spoken to me since, in fact he all but runs screaming in the opposite direction, and I was just trying to be funny)

So what I told her to do since this guy was kind of a friend…Just go and stand by him and look constipated and toss your hair about in irritation. When he is prompted to inquire about it let loose on him. “I swear if one more loser tries to hit on me over here I’m gonna shove this 9mm up his butt and make him sing. I mean I’m so tired of guys thinking that just because I’m in Iraq….I mean what is it exactly that they DON”T understand about “I’m married? I am SO glad you aren’t like that, I mean it’s so great that we are not even REMOTELY attracted to one another, I mean not even the slightest bit, imagine how awkward that would be” I mean if he didn’t get the hint after all that then chances are he won’t just go away anyway and that’s when it’s time to call in the brute force (a big hairy friend, bout 250 pounds, or the actual husband would work if you have him available, maybe using his large shiny knife to cut the strings off his uniform).

Another shout out to my sisters in uniform who are eye candy for all the trolls out here in hopes of a better Iraq.