Sideburns-A-Go-Go

So I guess I’ve been going on a road rage rampage lately. I smashed 2 more cars before lunch today and then ran a $400,000 CIA super-secret-james-bond bullshit mobile into a guardrail. I got a call on my cell that they know who I am and they are pursuing the matter at the highest levels. I think this might go down on my permanent record (oh no!). So anyway, Noah and I are still pissed off about the same old shit, I mean yeah we make a ton of cash over here and get to do all sorts of topsecret coolstuff, but .. we’ll i better make this a little list.

Rant List 4000:

1 – They made us trim down our sideburns (I mean come on people, we’re not bankers and lawyers and shit.. let the boys have the chops!)

2 – We are being forced to wear a blue collared polo shirt every day as our “uniform”. I feel like a fucking golfer or something. I think my genetic make-up somehow causes these shirts to give me added irritation and anger throughout the day. These shirts are the same kind that cause your soul to die when you put them on too many times.

3 – There is a large contingent of men here that have not been paid (including me – to a certain extent) and there is no standardized pay schedule or system. My conspiracy brain tells me that the company is delaying payment until the last possible moment so then can max out the time they have our money. They get our timecards, submit them to the fed-gov and then get a huge load of cash. Then they sit on it and collect interest off the millions each month until they eventually fork it over to the working dogs. Just a theory though.

4 – Our tactics are not aggressive enough.. Ive seen too much shit over here to be pussy-footing around. Its like we have to go through the whole evolution that leads up to the working methods every time I come here because people just don’t get the point of what it means to stay alive in fucking Iraq.

5 – I have to piss every 5 minutes because of all the water I have to drink to stay hydrated, every 5 minutes.. you know I think Im going to make a journal of all my pisses for the next few days and post it here so you fuckers might actually believe me.

6 – We live in a tent. I mean, yes.. I do have my own personal space – it extends the 6″ x 3″ of my bunkbed. I stole a bunch of blankets and sheets and shit from the laundry room and I made these like ‘curtains’ that I can drop down around my rack when I want to hide away. Noah keeps writing graffitti on my pillows and sheets. My pillow has a giant penis on it and my sheets proclaim the terretory as “my bum nest” (with 2 cute little hearts). I actually coined the phrase ‘bum nest’ when describing the inside of Matt’s van when we were back at sealteam. Now my loving creation is being used against me. There is also a beautiful mural of a man giving another man a blowjob just above where I lay my head at night so I have the warming images to inspire my dreams as I lay my head down to sleep. Fighting back is not difficult though, I notated the stains of Noah’s sheets with excrutiating detail and I made sure that I grabbed HIS sheets for him when I picked up my laundry today just to make sure that they didn’t “accidentally” get lost. I don’t need to explain all the many stains, Ill just let your imaginations run with that for a while. So between 30 other guys turning on and off the lights and A/C throughout the day and night (a neverending battle between two bitterly divided factions: the darkies vs the light-boys, and the freezers vs the hotties), and the ceaseless but strangely arousing smell of burnt potatoes all the time (or is it potatos.. where is dan quayle when you need him) tent life pretty much sucks.

So this rant is starting to spin out of control a little bit.

6 – This web page looks like SHIT and I am too retarded to figure out how to make the program do all the cool stuff I want to!

7 – I’m burning away my precious life surrounded by assholes telling the same tired war stories like losers at an AA meeting who all feed off me like Im laying in a bathtub of leeches because I play guitar and don’t give a fuck, all the while the stress and fighting and shit conditions of a 3rd world shithole turn whatever good looks and youth I once had into a dilapidated afterthought (and I was never that young and goodlooking to start out with). These guys talk to me like they’re on their first date and in confessional all at once and I can’t even hear it anymore. I just kinda zone out and all I hear is this high pitched ringing in my ears like after I saw Slayer in concert or like after those firefights back in Diwo.. I didn’t wear earpro because it was so fast and violent back then.. these guys would prolly chop off a nut to go do that and Im just thankful that Im deaf enough to not hear all the gravy that leaks out from their eat-holes. I feel like a cigarette that was lit and then just set on an ashtray in some greasy little lounge off the main strip in Vegas where I was forgotten and just quietly smoldered out my life alone. Sitting there barely smoking in the sour air next to toothpicks, chewed up gum, and boogers that the scumbags didnt have the common courtesy to wipe under the chairs. I mean I could have been smoked by anyone, but just to be left to burn…

8 – aw fuck it .. Im going to bed.

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