This same fucking bed. Same cramped little cubicle I've built for myself. My head rests against the shelf "cubby" of my neighbor. He has one of those plastic sets of drawers as well, right next to my head. And he's always opening and closing it. All the fucking time. You know how when you're hung over, you're really sensitive to sound? Maybe I'm dehydrated.

Either way, I'm going to kill that motherfucker.

These shitty floors bend and balk under footsteps. So when people walk past my pitiful little area of operations, my neighbor's shitty wooden shelf "cubby" wobbles and hits the back of my head. I'm going to kill those motherfuckers too.

Mission's cancelled, and you'd think you'd be excited about that. But that wears off as soon as you look around and find that you don't have a fucking thing to do. Nothing but time. Time lets you think too much. Time lets your buddies' wives forsake their moral fortitude. It shoves ugly little bastard thoughts in your head, like what you COULD be doing instead of this, were you only in a civilized location, and not the "Cradle of Civilization."


The kids chase the Strykers down, they're coming in droves. We made the mistake of handing a couple out. Word travels faster than bullets in this fucking place. It was like Dawn of the Dead, with the superfast sprinting zombies, except instead, they were little bastards. Loud, obnoxious, demanding little fucks, always holding their hands up as you pass by and demanding shit. Always wanting handouts.

My friend takes an A&W root beer (he hates them) and shakes it violently.

"Why you doing that?" I ask him.

"I'm saving it. For that ONE little fucker, the ONE kid that just REALLY pisses me off someday. He's gonna be like 'Mista! FOOTBALL!', and he'll be more of a little dick than the rest, and I'm just going to rear back and chuck this fucking soda at him and its going to explode. In fact, I hope it soaks his little dickface friends, too," he explains, having carefully thought this out.

We're out there again, and three dogs are feasting on one dead dog. The Boss grabs a paintball gun, and in the rear left air guard hatch, I grab the other one. We let loose a barrage. And this is the most fun I'll have until my friend gets a giant summer sausage in the mail. It's labeled "Big N Meaty".

Big N Meaty comes with me for a little walk to another friend's little section of the tent. He's playing Xbox 360 with headphones on, and he's not hurting anything. Completely innocent. So in the spirit of the way this world works, I choose him. I bounce Big N Meaty off of his forehead like I'm endowed with a cellophane-sealed donkey dick. I then flop it on the table, making a loud thud. And when the cock jokes begin to get old, I punt it across the tent and it smacks the far wall. You can take our freedom and our sanity and our spare time and ability to function with normal human beings, but dick jokes are something we'll always have.

So I ask myself, "If this is Purgatory, what am I paying for today?"

[EDIT: I'm trying to get into Heaven, thanks.]


  1. LL said...
    Dude, that was both sick and hysterical at the same time.
    wakingdaydreams said...
    Is there such thing as male PMS?

    'Cause if there is, you've got it!!

    BTW- You're evil. Just for the record. :D
    Anonymous said...
    Note to self -- Some chapters a mom should just skip. ~~(*_*)~~

    Anonymous said...
    That does not even deserve an OMG. OH MY GOD!!! Now I'm afraid for all those girls when you get home.

    Aunt Sandy
    Anonymous said...
    I actually stopped reading about a third of the way through. I'm not going to finish it, and you can't make me.
    Anonymous said...
    Anonymous said...
    DUDE -- R&R = rubbers!
    Red said...
    doing some catching up here-

    AAHAHAHAHAHA!!! That was both hilarious and wrong. You win. Forever.

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