hello dolly
So they announced the reintroduction of PT shit...
I can scarcely believe it, but there I am in my PT nasties, dragging the ol' Ball-n-Chain along and for the first time thinkin' maybe if some-a-them Raqi tards would lob a few mortars over the wire just about now we could all safely run for cover and call this whole thing off. No such luck.
I see the sarge on my way to formation and I can't help myself and I gotta make an issue out of it. "What gives with the PT retardation sarge?"
"Back to the real army Barley."
"Real army? Real army was that shit we just done wrap up. Stompin' the peanuts outta those goat-lovin' asses back in the 13th century. What's the point-a-this?"
"Keep you fit to fight shitbird."
"Look, sarge, if it's all the same with you, I just rather sleep. You want me to get out there and run circles in the sand and jump up and down like a tard on a string so my cardiovascular is all good-n-shit, then twenty minutes later send me back out into the shooting gallery so some sadass can tattoo my balls to the back of my seat... is THAT the plan? Seriously though, is THAT the plan? Cause honestly, none of it makes any sense to me."
"The PT's for the off off chance that you and those miserable little peas you erroneously refer to as 'balls' make it back to live another day of being a shitbird, shitbird."
"How about this... I'll stay in and just rack out until whenever the next time we head out to do battle with the dumbfucks, OR, I'll do PT faithfully but never go out again, just to make sure the health improvements from all that physical exercise don't go to waste. Makes a lot more sense to me. Waddaya say? Huh sarge?"
He says nothing and ignores me and we join the platoon and he calls us to attention and we launch into it. Gepetto out front pulling our strings, shouting it out, and us flopping around like a bunch a tards, jumping around and kicking dirt and waiving arms and bending knees and flopping up and down like so many wooden puppets and counting along with the cadences. Mind switched off and body pliable as rubber. Thinking of that warm empty cot and missed sleep and much needed rest... and peace and quiet. Not here. Not here ever.
Back in Korea we'd do this shit drunk. Just to make it worth our time. For the entertainment value of it. We'd pop a couple-a-beers just before stumbling out to formation and slam those fuckers down hard and after twenty minutes of jumpin' and floppin' and waiving arms and all the other retarded crap we'd set out on our run and guys would start chuckin' the shit up... and keep on running. Sometimes one guy's upchucks would set off a whole chain reaction of upchucking. Good times... Then as soon as we got back to barracks we'd dive into our fridge and pop more beers. We drink more before 9 a.m. than most people do all month. Yeah. Slap that on your recruiting poster sarge.
Sometimes... I think the whole point of it is to just drive you batshit. I mean... if not that... what's the point?
I'm too short for this shit.
I can scarcely believe it, but there I am in my PT nasties, dragging the ol' Ball-n-Chain along and for the first time thinkin' maybe if some-a-them Raqi tards would lob a few mortars over the wire just about now we could all safely run for cover and call this whole thing off. No such luck.
I see the sarge on my way to formation and I can't help myself and I gotta make an issue out of it. "What gives with the PT retardation sarge?"
"Back to the real army Barley."
"Real army? Real army was that shit we just done wrap up. Stompin' the peanuts outta those goat-lovin' asses back in the 13th century. What's the point-a-this?"
"Keep you fit to fight shitbird."
"Look, sarge, if it's all the same with you, I just rather sleep. You want me to get out there and run circles in the sand and jump up and down like a tard on a string so my cardiovascular is all good-n-shit, then twenty minutes later send me back out into the shooting gallery so some sadass can tattoo my balls to the back of my seat... is THAT the plan? Seriously though, is THAT the plan? Cause honestly, none of it makes any sense to me."
"The PT's for the off off chance that you and those miserable little peas you erroneously refer to as 'balls' make it back to live another day of being a shitbird, shitbird."
"How about this... I'll stay in and just rack out until whenever the next time we head out to do battle with the dumbfucks, OR, I'll do PT faithfully but never go out again, just to make sure the health improvements from all that physical exercise don't go to waste. Makes a lot more sense to me. Waddaya say? Huh sarge?"
He says nothing and ignores me and we join the platoon and he calls us to attention and we launch into it. Gepetto out front pulling our strings, shouting it out, and us flopping around like a bunch a tards, jumping around and kicking dirt and waiving arms and bending knees and flopping up and down like so many wooden puppets and counting along with the cadences. Mind switched off and body pliable as rubber. Thinking of that warm empty cot and missed sleep and much needed rest... and peace and quiet. Not here. Not here ever.
Back in Korea we'd do this shit drunk. Just to make it worth our time. For the entertainment value of it. We'd pop a couple-a-beers just before stumbling out to formation and slam those fuckers down hard and after twenty minutes of jumpin' and floppin' and waiving arms and all the other retarded crap we'd set out on our run and guys would start chuckin' the shit up... and keep on running. Sometimes one guy's upchucks would set off a whole chain reaction of upchucking. Good times... Then as soon as we got back to barracks we'd dive into our fridge and pop more beers. We drink more before 9 a.m. than most people do all month. Yeah. Slap that on your recruiting poster sarge.
Sometimes... I think the whole point of it is to just drive you batshit. I mean... if not that... what's the point?
I'm too short for this shit.
posted by american short-timer at Friday, October 28, 2005
3 Comments:
What IS the point? You don't know, the sarge don't know, I don't know, the Iraqis don't know. The politicians say they know but they don't know what day it is
Beer before 9? Barfffffff!
Charlie
Wonderfully irreverent!
Eee Gads. You aren't archiving this shit? (See snags comment.)
I expect a blook when you got out. You mean there ain't gonna be no steeenking blook?
And hi Charlie! funny how we end up at the same places.
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