Retardidment: The Army Shit

I mentioned here recently that I’m retiring from the military.  I promised to write something entertaining about the three big muscle movements involved, and “Army Shit” is the first.  Before I dive into that, let me reiterate the more salient points of my retirement thoughts:

• Selected to retire = not my choice
• It’s all up to me
• Fuck… fuckitty fuck-fuck prison sex
• Nobody cares

How retirement works on the receiving end

Now you’re ready to understand what I have to endure to get out of the Army, for the Army.  This doesn’t cover my favorite, medical stuff.  It doesn’t cover the job search, which to date has been like masturbating with steel wool.

No, people, the admin shit the Army wants you to cover involves important things like:

“Do you owe the PX any money?”

“Do you have all the shit we handed you over the years that’s technically still ours, and therefore owe us money?”

“Are you under investigation for anything… anything at all… perhaps about money you owe the Army?”

The first two I sailed through.  A type-5-A like myself never throws away anything, so all of the gear the Army gave me over 23 years, I had.  This process involved emptying my five – yes five – duffle bags of shit in the middle of the garage and sorting it into an “Army Pile” and a “Rants Pile.”

I had five of these. Now I have three.

Five hours later, I had two bags that I owed the Army.  I came home with some awesome goggles they didn’t want.  Because goggles.  I can use them while woodworking, grinding metal, or hacking apart… dead things.

I didn’t owe anyone in the Army money, which is great of course.  Also, anyone as boring as I am couldn’t possibly be under investigation, so the big points were covered.  I still had to collect signatures on a piece of paper from other folks.

One stop was the Army Substance Abuse office.  Now, common sense ought to tell you that if you’re successfully retiring, you’ve never abused drugs.  Of course I had to have fun with the poor lady.

Lady: “Can I help you?”

Me: “Yes, I’m retiring, and up front, I will admit to abusing Army Substances.”

Lady: “Sir?”

Me: “I once threw a can of 30-weight oil across a motor pool, and I’ve kicked dirt in anger on every Army installation I’ve been on.  Sorry.”

Lady: “Oh, you’re one of the funny ones.  Give me your damn papers…”

The gentleman at the Security Office had a less refined sense of humor.

Man: “Thank you for your service.” *hands back papers*

Me: “That’s it?”

Man: “Pretty much.”

Me: “I thought I could get some security.  You know, like an entourage.”

Man: *cold, unamused stare*

All of these offices I had to either walk around to and visit or drive myself somewhere in order to secure the sought-after signature.  No, I don’t get to invoice the Army for gas.  Like I said, this whole process is nothing but discovery learning comparable to walking naked in a broken glass shard store.

Everyone of course was courteous to me in spite of my inappropriate jokes.  Most of them left me with the statement, “Congratulations on your retirement.”  Now and then, depending on my level of assed-upedness, I’d say, “Thanks, it wasn’t my choice.”  Sour grapes, yeah, I read that fable.

Stay tuned for my adventures with the military medical community and the story of how thrilling it is to not find a job to replace the one you’re in.