The following is an op-ed piece written by Specialist Jason Smith.
No way First Sergeant is keeping us late today, not going to happen. I mean, we got the camo cleaned out and rolled up, the shelters are prepped, and that damn conex is straightened out. Ain't going to happen. It’s been four fucking months since I got home and put this shit in my wife, if you know what I mean - I mean sex.
But for realz, these guys are ridiculous. First Sergeant sits in that damn office all day, wanders out in a fucking Alzheimer’s coma, looks at the numbers on some trucks and then wanders off mumbling to himself. And forget the damn commander, open door policy right? Nah, open-battalion-commander’s-ass-and-insert-head policy is more like. Maybe that’s why we never get off on time. First Sergeant forgot where the hell he was, and the commander is spelunking.
Forget anyone else taking accountability. I don’t think the E-7’s or E-6’s even showed up today. Those fucking dudes know the real deal. They put the most creative shammer to shame. Hell, didn’t Sergeant Swanson get a DUI a couple weeks ago? On a goddamn scooter of all things. He’s still sporting that rocker through, aint he? Real under the rug type shit. Not like he’s going to show up in the next ten minutes and say “Form Up,” in that obnoxious tone all these guys have.
I mean, it’s hard being lower enlisted, and it aint that much easier being me. You cats just don’t know. Sure, I live off post, but I can’t afford the fucking rent. That was my scum bag wife who wanted that place. How the hell am I supposed to afford a four bedroom place which costs two times what I get for BAH? But, noooooooo!, She’s got to have her fucking walk in closet. Lord knows what she puts in there; It’s not like she’s got a goddamn job to buy dresses and shit, and I sure as hell don’t have any money.
Oh look, there comes TOP; oh no, wait. . . he’s looking at his watch, and fumbling in his pockets. Oh nope, he’s turrr. . . ning. . . around, and yup - right back into the Company.
Hooah, go Army, Army strong.
Maybe we’ll get lucky and they forgot they had to account for some 50-year old piece of shit equipment that is the size of a baseball and is somewhere between the left edge of the motor pool and the right edge. That’ll be fun. Because, you know, they couldn’t have possibly figured that one out earlier. Like maybe when they told us we had to shift out for lunch because we were so busy. Yeah, that was classy. So busy, that we just sat in the trucks with kevlars for an hour and a half while some asshole told us the grills weren’t straight enough. But what are you gonna do?
We’ll get home around 18:00. Maybe, I’ll call up Johnson and we’ll go to that trashy strip club where they can’t show their tits. I mean, what the fuck kind of strip club is BYOB? All the cheaper, I guess. Yeah. . . That’s the plan – when we get off at 2100.