Dark Butterscotch, Complete

I've spent the better part of the last month trying to write my blogs with better quality. Validate, if not to you, to myself that I have a knack or perhaps niche for writing. I even broke a few rules that I thought I had about posting blogs. The whole experience has been a great way to get my ideas on paper. To express my feelings. I guess somewhat of a pseudo-journal, but open to the public and with feedback and discussion.

I never thought that after I decided to write more seriously, composing sentences and paragraphs better, that I would also take on a more serious tone within my writing. It's not all serious, and you certainly wouldn't consider me a fun Nazi, but the last couple of blogs I wrote, were very uncharacteristic of me. I'm kind of quirky and funny, with jokes that usually are carried with a positive attitude. It has definitely been carried over into my blogs, as my writing style always leaves me looking for the hilarity in anything, and exploiting it.

With that being said, or typed, I am happy to know that I can write seriously, and taken as such, even to be taken serious enough to inspire, or irritate. Today's blog, after this explanation of course, will be something of a hilarious situation. Well maybe just too us, halfway across the globe, in the armpit of hell, COP 763.

If you don't have a very strong stomach, you don't need one for this story so don't worry. But it is kind of sick, and crude, but perhaps you'll still find it funny. Today is our force protection day, or as we refer to it, Forced Probe day. It involves our two shifts of six hours apiece and then it's over, usually only sacrificing a bucket full of sweat, and the concentration a cat gives to a light emitted on the wall. The guard shacks that we are in, are about the size of the computer chair you're sitting in, to the computer and an arm lengths out to your sides. The air conditioning does work in them, but rarely. On top of your claustrophobia and sweating, you are alone.

The shifts usually go by slow or fast, there's no real discrimination towards either. It all depends on the conditions, and the radio conversation, the only liberation of it all. The bullshit we talk about, the opinions and topics are always colorful. They at least keep you awake with constant radio-chatter BS. The end of our shift certainly was the most exciting it had been. I guess I'm kind of coming up short of the bar on the standard I set for myself on this blog, but if you're twisted and kind of have a sick sense of humor, you might enjoy.

B-man and I have a favorite Port-O-Shitter. The seat is the most comfortable to our preferences. The way it smells, the graffiti on the inside, the way the door creaks open and closed are some of the factors that help it to be number one in the hearts of B-man and I. The portable bathrooms, which were manufactured in Wisconsin, are under lock and key here, because we share our base with Iraqi National Police. We sign a key out from our 'front desk' and unlock them when we individually go down, do our business and lock them back up so that the Iraqis don't crap all over the seats. It really happens, believe me. Apparently the idea of toilet seat hasn't come to the far east yet. I guess the Crusades failed to get the message and real meaning across.

It's getting towards the end of shift, and I've been having the bubble gut feeling for too long. I'm holding and waiting though. I could've done the deed like the New Jersey mafia, and wrapped it in a black trash bag to toss in the river later, but I wanted to hold out till the end of shift, to the serenity of shitter three. Not too far after I made my decision to hold what I had, did I hear B-man announce across the radio, that he too had to use the bathroom. I knew the race would be on because B-man has a pension for Shitter #3. He also has to use it, and we even have the same barber cut our hair. My haircut is slightly better though.

I made the challenge official, by letting him know that I also had to utilize the latrine, and that key 3 was mine. At this point, the race beginning, the only leg up is that your relief for guard arrives first. The distance is approximately the same from opposite side of the building guard towers we are in, to the stairs and ramps that lead out of this burned out noodle factory. Duffy, my relief got to me first. I dropped my gear, and thankful to have it off grabbed my rifle and started running for the first obstacle of my descent. The stairs.

The stairs are probably the most dangerous. The are precariously positioned, locked into the cement at the top of the stairs kind of mysteriously. Maybe the ghosts that haunt it hold it up. As I reach the top, I can hear the pounding footsteps of B-man coming behind, with his Screech like voice not far behind. For good sport, I stand at the stairs for a moment and let him see me. Then I rush down the treacherous steps that I can't see because of the dark, and reach the floor below, all while yelling insults and challenges. Whooping like an Indian. Or as they are preferred to be called, Alcoholic Bingo Specialist.

I run down the first ramp. One of three in our building, which could make you think of it as more of a parking structure, and not a noodle factory. This brings you to the Iraqi Police floor. I nearly slipped on the banana peels and urine that they've cleverly placed as traps, their most simplistic guerrilla warfare against us. I stay ahead of him. He's of course being hampered by his panties bunching up. I get to the next ramp, and down it I rush, with the front desk in sight. B-man behind me, I sign the key out as he watches. I have rued the day! Key three is mine!

I don't really know how to end this one. I won, bottom line, should be end of story. Though it's probably not the best blog, but if it were a highlight on ESPN, it might make the top ten. But using that just as a segway, the kind you write on not ride on, in my jealousy of ESPN announcers, I'll at least try out my ambition to do as they do. You probably won't get this, especially if you don't watch Entourage or ESPN, but if you do, try and follow...

Key Three, one before Four, Four is the Number of Brett Favre, Brett Favre is now a Minnesota Viking, Viking like Viking Quest, Viking Quest starred Johnny Drama, Johnny Drama's famous line from that show...VICTORY!

I know, kind of a stretch, and for what? Maybe just to say I could. Even if not for that, at least I had fun doing it, and I've got my fist tight and pumped in the air. So don't blow a gasket you robot! Oh, and by the way, you can certainly tell we are American. No TV the whole time we've been out here at the COP. Football season begins, welcome AFN! It's about damn time!


Tom has a long mustache...