Triangles & Rhombuses

Right. Four days in the field. Fuck. It should have been fun. Land navigation. Weapon qualifying. Gas chamber. It is all fun and easy shit. Except these fucking ROTC kids are killing me. Three lost their gas masks. One lost his 80-pound flack jacket. I ask you. Wouldn't you realize that it wasn't on you anymore? He didn't. One lost his weapon. Which is sort of a big deal. I mean they only lock the entire fucking post down when that happens. It was awful. I am searching in the middle of the thickest mess of thorns I have ever seen to find this lost weapon. It was only 107 degrees. No big deal. Four hours. He is being processed out of the Army. Dipshit. I am going to buy him a pair of shoes and a dildo. If he doesn't like the shoes he can fuck himself.
Then it took some people 11 hours to qualify. 11 hours? To hit 23 out of 40 fucking targets? Are you kidding me? No. These people suck balls.
I got home Friday and was all set to blog my ass off and drink my insides raisin dry. However, my mother's surgery went bad or something. So my father, instead of calling the Red Cross and getting me out of the field and home to see her, did nothing. I found out about it Friday and got home as fast as I could on Saturday. Mom will be fine though. She's a tough old broad.
My Sunday night plan? Shower. Done. Blog. Efforting it as we speak. Add music to the old I Tunes. Done. Watch Bubba Ho-Tep. Watching it. Find some computer porno and jerk off. I doubt I will. I don't even have the energy to fuck myself.