Sooooooooo I’m in Africa. And before you ask, no I don’t have the AIDs or Ebola yet. I haven’t had enough time to lick enough sweaty natives yet…… Yet. It is, of course, pretty hot and humid here but not all that unpleasant as I’ve spent the better part of the last three months aboard a Navy ship sailing in circles in the Middle East so it’s nice to have something solid under my boots. I’m on a joint base (which means that more than one service operates out of here) surrounded by an interesting mix of disgusting Army Reservists who are fatter than all hell and wear a reflective belt at all time no matter where they are or what they’re doing.
Aside from the Army are Air Force people who seem to have a patch on their uniform for every fucking little thing they have ever done or thought about including a special patch on their sleeve that people could read from space stating specifically what their job currently is. I can only daydream about a patch that lights up with not only what their job currently is but what they are currently doing. Big capital letter stitching that proclaims, “EATING” or “POOPING”, or “MASTURBATING IN A PORT-A-POTTY.” That last one might be a little wordy but it’s very true.
Then there are Navy folks who are generally good-natured and humble. Then you have Special Ops types who are never ever to be seen in uniform. They just cruise around with sweet hair and board shorts and beards that would make Paul swoon. These guys are pretty nice and invite you out to do stuff with them all the time which is cool. They don’t brag and they keep to themselves. And then you have the Marines who strut around secretly thinking they are better than everyone else here but can’t seem to get any ranges approved because the Army Reservists refuse to share.
The fun part is going to the gym here where they have these mirrors on rollers that you can move around the gym. There, you have two types of people; the really fit people who come into the gym and it’s all business. They are there to get big or fast and make themselves as combat effective as possible. They don’t waste time between sets talking. They have earphones in and just get to work. The other type is the guy who thinks that he’s really fit but is actually kind of dumpy and insists on wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with his shapeless arms displaying a super-white farmer’s tan. His clothes have some overly manly or aggressive slogan or picture on it like, “DEATH FROM YOUR MOTHER’S ASS!” and has a picture of a doberman ripping the throat out of someone’s toddler…. or something like that. He has American flag patches all over him to make him feel like a badass and as he swings his arms wide because his imaginary lats are preventing him walking like not an idiot, he strides over to the dumbbells and picks up a pair of 25’s and starts curling while making faces that suggest he is in fact passing a kidney stone at that very moment. Then he puts down his weights after his impressive set of 3 reps and checks his arms out in the mirror with a Buffalo Bob-esque, “I’d fuck me” face that makes me roll my eyes so hard I almost lose my balance.
I’m somewhat enjoying myself. The Special Ops guys are nice. The rest are useless. I’m getting paid to work out and shoot guns. I really hope I don’t get the Ebola. Wish me luck!
You cannot imagine how depressing this was for me to read. In my mind at night I picture you somewhere warm, dry, and sandy. I won’t say where, but it rhymes with…. Ok its Iraq. Fuck! Nothing rhymes with Iraq. Anyway you are covered head to toe in ridiculous high speed gear (like you are most times you go to the gym or grocery store, gear queer). You have some sort of skull bandana covering your face and a high cut on your head. I believe you may even have grease gun k-bar by your side. You are snooping around calling down death and destruction on ISIS or IS or ISIL or ODIN or whatever the hell we are calling it this week. You keep telling yourself how awesome it is that you are there alone and unafraid controlling all coalition drops and single handedly winning the global war on terror. But secretly, deep down, you know you are spread too thin and you wish, no pray, that they will maybe mobilize some reserve JTACs to go get some with you.
But no! You’re in Africa! I have a feeling deploying rifles to combat Ebola is about as effective as deploying tanks in a COIN fight. Enjoy your grand adventure and try not to make your cammies unserviceable when you start bleeding from the anus.
But if this whole post was all a cover so we don’t suspect the real truth, remember, FCT 5, 3D ANGLICO are the ones to ask for to uhh… “help fight Ebola” wink wink.
Look for further installments of Cap’n Steve’s upcoming bestselling memoir: Why Am I Not Stoned Right Now: Being in The Reserves is Crushing My Soul.