Sailor Really Regrets Putting You Down As A Reference For Top-Secret Clearance
YOUR MOM’S BASEMENT – Sources confirmed today that your long-time childhood friend Mike really regrets listing your pathetic, parasitic excuse for a walking, talking umbilical cord as a reference for a top secret clearance.
“I should have known better, but I’ve known that taint-licking, cum-guzzling dickweed for practically my entire life,” fumed Mike. “Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but did I think for one second that [you] would have disclosed in explicit, unremitting detail the events of Coachella Fuck Fest ‘13 to a federal investigator?”
“Obviously not,” he continued, “but that smegma-dipping, shit-for-brains burnout was more than happy to recount, from start to finish, A to Z, every bit of recreational activity that took place, including everything I didn’t do that he did.”
Mike, an undesignated seaman who requested his last name and command remain undisclosed for fear of being associated with a worthless sack of shit (you), had recently applied for a rating conversion as a network cryptologic technician. Not only would such a prospect guarantee respite from the tediously insignificant, circadian malaise of sweeping, swabbing and chipping paint among knuckle-dragging, booger-eating Philistines, but the possession of a coveted top secret clearance and technical know-how and experience from such a job would have ensured stable, if not lucrative, career opportunities in the private sector.
Having qualified with the requisite ASVAB score and gaining approval for conversion from the enlisted community manager, a thorough background investigation was all that stood between Mike and a promising stint in the United States Navy, so he’d like to sincerely thank you for royally fucking that all up.
“I did ‘shrooms like, one time, okay?” Mike admitted. “And a little weed, but who the hell hasn’t? The proper response to, ‘Has so-and-so experimented with drugs?’ is ‘No,’ not, ‘All of it.’ That doesn't even make fucking sense!”
Indeed, even the federal investigator, Special Agent Kevin Smith, was astounded by your disheveled, slovenly appearance, incriminating ineptitude and blatant undervaluation for the gift of life.
“I knew Seaman [redacted] was fucked the second I saw that dipshit in a rasta beanie and Che Guevara T-shirt,” Smith chuckled with a derisory smirk. “A real goddamn moron, that one.”
At press time, your mom was overheard lamenting the very notion of your wretched, befouled existence, wondering where it all went wrong and what grievance she committed to have been cursed with such contemptible spawn. Mike has since been selected to become a Culinary Specialist.