We are clearing out space here in the Inkfidome for new designs in 2017 and these bad boys gotta go. Get 'em while the gettin' is good, they won't be restocked.
Glazed, long johns, and of course....jelly. Lock up those foot lockers and head on down to Pyle's Donuts where 'You pay for it. We'll eat it.'
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Your heart races as you blindly fumble your way through your pack past a bag of beef jerky, bbq sunflower seeds, and an empty can of Cope. Frantically you search for your Surefire, praying that the batteries aren't dead. With each passing second he's flexing on you, moving in for the kill. He moves with the smoothness of water flowing down a murky canal, cloaked in the inky darkness of the cloudy Iraqi night. You are in his world and he knows the terrain well, if not for catching a glimpse of him as the moonlight briefly broke through, you would already be dead. Finally you locate your surefire and hit the button. Nothing. Fudgecicles. Just then a blood-curdling squeal tears through the night not ten feet away..It sounds like a 13 year old girl that has just bumped into the Biebs at the mall...You recognize it immediately, McNeil. You rush towards his cries, tripping over your platoon mates as they rise up in their fart sacks. You find McNeil cornered up against one of the vehicles, a small red-lens light in one hand and a half-eaten piece of wheat snack bread clutched in the other. The enemy sits not a foot in front of him, dimly lit in the red light, ready to attack. You motion for McNeil to stay still as you begin to bring your rifle up, but then realizing you are much too close and not wanting to expose your position, you know you must find another way. You remember your training, all of the combatives moves, but you are not about to put hands on this nasty bastard. That's when it hits you, "You can hit him with a bat, you can hit him with a stick. You can poke him in the eye with your eye-pokin' stick'..Killing the Baby Seals! the cadence that taught you everything you need to know about CQB is about to save McNeil's life. You grab a large stick off the ground, and as you begin to rain blows down upon the hapless camel spider the cadence plays in your mind...'Way up north where the cold wind blows we're running out of money and we're running out of gold. So now I earn my living killing the baby seals...or in this case, Camel Spiders...God I hate this place.'
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Your fingers tremble as you range-walk past the ammo point towards the commo truck at the edge of the parking lot. The stillness of the crisp morning air broken only by the occasional crack of a rifle behind you and the crunching of the frozen ground beneath your boots. In the distance you see SFC Goings leaned against the front of his humvee, a cloud of steam rising from his tan paper cup of gritty coffee. You close the distance quickly, SGT Hernandez told you to be back ASAP. 'What's up Private?' SFC Goings asks as he chews on another sip. You snap to parade rest and do your best to relay the message you were given: 'Uh, Sergeant, I need a Pricky Seven and a can of Squelch Juice for our radios'. You exhale, relieved that you were able to remember the details of what you were sent to get. 'What did you call me?' SFC Goings asks. 'Sergeant?' you reply, your pucker factor rising from a very comfortable 1.4 to a concerning 4.6. 'Start pushing Mother F*****!' You immediately drop to the frosty earth and begin to knock 'em out, confused at how your perfect execution of the given order has gone awry. 'So I'm a Prick E-7? Eh, Private!?' SFC Goings hollers with a fresh square dangling from the corner of his mouth. At this moment you realize you've been had. Berghdal'd by SGT H. Led like a lamb to slaughter for the entertainment of the rest of the platoon who were no doubt mocking your struggle from back at lane 6. SFC Goings lectures you on the finer points of customs and courtesies as you knock them out on the frosty grass, and eventually telling you to 'recover' as he finishes his cup. 'Get out of here' he grumbles as you rise to your feet, but instead of range-walking back, you hesitate. 'What Private??' he leans in. 'Sergeant? what about the Squelch Juice?' you don't want to piss off Sergeant H. His eyes open a little wider as he stares at you for a second or two. 'Oh yeah, Squelch Juice...go ask First Sergeant for that, he keeps it in the back of his truck'.....
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You are in line at the PX and the old lady in front of you is digging through her gigantic purse looking for a $.50 off coupon for her 5 cans of cat food. Formation is in 15 minutes all the way across post and school just let out, the route is crawling with MPs. You scan the covers of the Army Times, Navy Times, Marine Corps Times....trying to kill some times while she looks for her military ID card.
This is it, you have to make a choice. What are you going to do? What would Patton Do?
General Patton would push her commie-butt out of the way and buy his Ripits and Funyuns with American Eagle feathers, but you are not Patton. You are a soldier, an airman, a marine, a sailor. You are sworn to uphold the constitution and to protect old ladies, not bust out combatives on them.
You quietly put your pogie bait down and sprint out to your rig. 1SG is waiting...
As you run pass the DFAC the smell of delicious, sizzling bacon excites your nostrils and reminds you how starved you are. A few ranks ahead McNeil is making some weird half-goose, half-trumpet grunting noise as he struggles to stay in formation. Everyone knows that sound, for it is the death cry of the fall-out. Just as McNeil begins to slide to the right for his grand exit, SSG Briggs pops out to call cadence, and SSG Briggs is old-school. 'My girl's a vegetable!' booms Briggs as he begins to call out the most inappropriate cadence in the history of PT, 'She lives in a hospital!’ The company, as if overcome by the power of one million Pixy Stix, echoes the call back with a resounding thunder. The men are energized, alive, the pounding of their feet in perfect rhythm as they pick up the pace. Hell, even McNeil falls back in step, he may be trailing a 7-inch string of snot, but damned if he isn't going to make it. Yes, SSG Briggs gives not one Berghdahl about EO, SHARP or any of that other namby-pamby nonsense, he is a motivator of men, and the men love their vegetables.
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