Embracing The Suck – Part Four

So by now you all must realize I have come and gone already on my not-so-mid-tour leave. If not, go back to February and repeat. If you’re not a regular here, then why the hell not? Got some better blog to hang out on? Anyway, I have more rantaliciousness that I’ve gathered in that effort. I’m astounded that it took me six full days to go from Kansas City to Kabul, but thank you very much, U.S. Air Force. Dicks. I believe my ass is still molded into the shape of an airplane seat.

On a bright note, they have managed to procure and install an new shower head in my favorite shower stall. Some explanation: being an overly-neat person, I tend to shower in the same stall based on the theory that at least a high percentage of the germs in the given stall are mine. That idea I can halfway live with. Anyway, new shower head and total win! Water actually comes out of it now.

Even better, I found some clothespins at home, so that now I can pin the mildewed curtain to the opening and it will not suck inward and make contact with my flesh. No, I’m not a panzie. Would you want a mildew-encrusted shower curtain teeming with someone else’ wee beasties touching you? I thought not. So I’ll pick my own man-soup over someone else’s any day, no questions asked.

There are already clothespins in the showers, you should know. However, there is an ongoing war over which stall they reside among the denizens of my barracks. Being my typical ranty self, I of course believe that when I reposition them to “my” stall, they ought to stay there. Naturally one of my fellow douche lords has to be That Guy who moves them. No longer. Now I will simply take my own clothespins with me and say ‘fuck all y’all.’ Plus, my germs! More win!

So I’ve been back in lovely Kabul for a few short days so far (as-of this writing). I was shocked to discover Spring-like weather here after being fucking buried by fluffy, frozen water in Kansas. Thanks for that. Not that I’m complaining about the warm weather here, so don’t get me wrong. I only wish I wasn’t so jetlagged that I could better appreciate it all. I have no fucking clue as to what time zone I’m in, circadian rhythm-wise.

I suppose that I shouldn’t complain too much because I have fewer than sixty days left here. Yeah, right – I have to bitch, because I do it so fucking well that I make it an art form.

More to follow.