We finally left Fort Drum. The weather wasn’t really all that bad the last few days we were there. It’s almost like Fort Drum was telling us, Hey guys, I gave you hell but you did a good job. Here’s a little nice weather for ya, think of it as a going away gift. No hard feelings, right? So we pack all our stuff and move out to the Rapid Deployment Center (which is really just a fancy name for “little airport”). Our ruck sacks are in a truck and have been weighed. Each of us, wearing all the gear we’ll take onto the plane, step onto a scale and the weight of the plane is tallied. Oops. Turns out we were 6000 pounds overweight. So eighteen guys (including me) get bumped from the flight and have to take the next one. Yes, 18 guys and their gear weigh three tons. And that’s not counting water or ammo. We go back to the barracks, shower, check email one last time, masturbate one last time, and take short naps then head back to the RPC. We get weighed, sit around, then get in line to board the plane. But wait! During our delay that old bastard Fort Drum had one last bit of spite in him. The temperature dropped something wicked. And as Matt, who used to be in the Air Force, says, the flight line is ALWAYS windy. So there we are, waiting to board this Champion Air jet (who the hell has heard of them anyways?), getting assailed mercilessly by the cold one last miserable time. Very few guys had any kind of cold weather gear on, so all we could do was stand there and just take it. And Fort Drum was laughing at us uncontrollably, nearly pissing himself he was in such sadistic hysterics: “Hey, remember that stuff I said about the good weather? I lied! I don’t like you, I hate you! Fuck you! Yeah, that’s right soldier, FUCK YOU!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” God, I hate Fort Drum.

Okay, I have to go to bed, so I’m going to make this a speed blog entry. Ready?

You think getting crammed in coach sucks? Try doing it while wearing body armor, a load-bearing vest full of pockets, canteens, bayonets and all manner of G.I. Joe garb while carrying an assault rifle and a carry-on.

Hearing the stewardess (yeah, that’s right, I said stewardess. If they were male, they’d be stewards, dammit!) say, “Please remove all bolts from your weapons. Please place all squad automatic weapons in the overheard compartments and place rifles on the floor or pointed barrel-down by your side please.” was priceless.

Public service announcement: just because your seat on the airplane can recline doesn’t mean it should recline. Leave that shit in the full upright position at all times because the person behind you (*me*) is six-foot-fucking-two and if you recline I’m gonna get really grumpy.

If you live at Fort Polk, drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

My squad is getting smaller and smaller: John, the guy that had a girlfriend that changed the locks to their apartment and cleaned out his bank account (which has since been rectified), is being made part of the second sniper team and will not be with us any longer.

More squad news: Juan is still trying to get his tooth fixed. It got infected after the last break. He feels crappy. Anthony has had a chronic cough since this deployment started and managed to upgrade his sickness to a full-blown hospital-rendering flu. He feels crappy. He’s been gone the last two days and has just now rejoined us. Dan is being made our platoon sniper and will be gone for several days doing advanced marksman training. Dan feels crappy that he wasn’t chosen to be on the second sniper team, but happy that his skills are being recognized on some level at least.

Ray was on the advance party and got to Polk several days before I did. All I know is that he got kicked out of a strip club because he wouldn’t stop reading a book he had brought in the club with him. The girls tried their hardest, insomuch that they even put on some hot cunnil-sappho action, but he was unmoved. Only Steve McQueen could have ever been so desireless.

Kirk looks exactly like Stiffler from American Pie. Therefore, I have been dubbed “Finch”, since Kirk and I interact in a way not unlike Stiffler and Finch. Although I don’t think the comparison is all that accurate, I do enjoy being able to tell Kirk that if I’m Finch (something he finds hilarious), that means that I fucked his mom (something I find hilarious).

At the Rapid Deployment Center waiting for a flight

Boarding a charter jet that no one had heard of.

The view from my bunk at my new home at Fort Polk, LA.

I would insert the photo of the delinquent distended dong here, but I have to draw the line for good taste somewhere, right?