My ‘War’ With Kent was better-natured than it may at firstappear.
No Gods were harmed during this war.
Some mortal egos may have been bruised however.
This post is a chocolate mess.
I once knew a Theist named Kent
Who told me his Joy Heaven Sent
But his mind slipped a gear
His faith fled in fear
So I gave up on Kent for Lent
What do you call a ‘Facebooker’ who accuses another ‘Facebooker’ of hacking his own post and then reports said ‘hacker’ to Facebook for hacking his own post and then posts on his timeline, in excruciating detail how he, using his stellar sleuth skillset, figured all this out?
Take your time…
OK, time’s up.
“A Self-Made Fool, Devoid of Logic, who plays the ‘Pity Me’ card because he wants to become a laughing stock for anyone who knows how Facebook actually works.” (And for some who don’t)
Or succinctly put, you call him “Kent”
But don’t take MY word for it; you can read some samples of his ‘piercing eloquence’ below:
To let everyone get a little good news or good thought or just bring a little happiness on Facebook. I try to be positive and enjoy getting in contact with others old and new friends.
Check my profile I want to share and be friendly with all post and maybe make a positive difference in as many peoples’ lives as I can. Try and let the good things in the world come to light. Every now and then I may post something negative but it is trying to make a positive difference.
This is as good of a world as you want it to be. I choose to try and stay away from the bad things in the world. There really is a lot of good going on out there. I want to enjoy and be as happy as I can. While sharing my happiness with all I can. Happy,happy,happy
“While sharing my happiness with all I can. Happy,happy,happy”
Classic case of ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
Who are you trying to convince of your “happy, happy, happy,” happiness?
You or ‘they’? All of ‘they’?
I think you, as do probably 99.99 percent of posters, just seek validation of your self-worth.
All are just ‘chasing likes’.
And this is fine—human nature, as it were.
I have read a lot of your posts on your timeline and your profile.
And it seems to me your ‘happy happy happiness’ is primarily just a proselytizing form of sausage wrapped in a saccharine pancake smothered in syrup.
Once again, who are you trying to convince?
Does your ‘faith’ require incessant posts requiring the great unwashed mass of the rest of us to “like, type ‘amen’, and share” if we too believe?
I’m actually not sure that I completely discount your sincerity, but it does tax credulity.
But you go Bro!
Keep posting your syrupy praises of God, Jesus, and whomever else gives you that happy,happy,happy.
Why the hell not?
Still a free country, eh?
Peace be unto you Kent.
Or perhaps that should have read,
‘Peace is onto you Kent.’
My friend are you hell bent on trying to make people think you are an arrogant inconsiderate individual that places one under a microscope to disrespect their character coming to a narrow minded hypothesis attempting to destroy or manipulate their actions in such a manner that will somehow give you the feeling of superior intelligence that has no effect or the ability to change the individuals status or manner in which his goal to share and maybe bring a little faith and joy to their likes and beliefs.
I am only trying to stand strong by my spiritual beliefs. Sharing with those that I feel are doing the same. God bless you Lance. Thank you for two things. Bringing attention to others that my self worth and my ability to share my faith with others is of most importance to me.
I want nothing and I give God my Heavenly Father all the Praise and glory. For with out him I nor anyone or anything could be possible or exist. You should get what I have been blessed with.
Yes, you can be happy, happy,happy. Go for it it is a free Country. I truly believe you would have a different perspective on life in general and you can have topics that have a more sense of purpose. You are close what I think of my self is as important to me as what other think also.
I really appreciate your concern. At least you know the content of the majority of my post. This is my purpose to share with and post to my friends that enjoy and appreciate what I have to share. This is Facebook just as you shared your opinion you opened the door where I can share mine.
I hope you are not offended. This is not my intention and it will never be. God bless you Lance thank you for this humbling experience. Remember always give God all the praise and glory. Bless you once again.
Your response is in serious need of an edit. Allow me to distill it down to the salient points:
Lance is a pompous ass
Lance believes (i.e., Lance has ‘Faith’—joke there for ya Kent) that he is the smartest person in the room.
Kent is trying desperately to hang onto his faith by shit-posting endless memes over-expressing same, even though he freely admits that his intended audience already ‘believe’—preaching to the choir, as it were.
Lance needs to ‘find’ God in order to be happy and have a sense of purpose.
Lance needs to give an imaginary friend all the credit for everything Lance ever does. (I assume this includes both good and bad??)
Lance needs to be blessed, and often, and by someone who knows how.
That about cover it?
Lest I forget
I wrote these for you
Added a photo too
Make someone’s day!
*Death Poetry Day*
A post was once written
No one was smitten
I’d call that fittin’
Shit it was named
Its one claim to fame
Now that’s a damn shame
He once wrote a post
Lesser than most
Shit it was called
Comments were stalled
The content was trite
Just didn’t seem right
To waste all my time
Nor even a lime
To drop in my rum
Ho Hum! Ho Hum!Ho Hum!
(The lack of the lime was the least egregious of the sins)
A Cunt of a Man called Osteen
Built a Church so very Pristine
But he refused to let in
Those flooded in sin
“Fuck ‘em! They’re way too Unclean.”
“I know y’all love me. You need to get on social media. But First give Harvey-The–Hurricane the ol’ heave-ho! God Blesses you, but I don’t. Move along. We’re closed.” –Joel Osteen
“My God, they killed them all!”
Here comes the story of the Hurricane.
“WoW! Who would’ve ever thought they’d find me doing God’s work?” –Lance
“Lil Kim’s got the hydrogen bomb” His news bitch announced in singsong “He’ll mount it one day “And launch it your way “Then smartly fuck off to Hong Kong” “So rong!”
There once was a boy name of Kim Who decided to act on a whim He launched a big bomb In the direction of Guam And that was the ending of him!
In a Loon we call Kim Jong-Un The World sees a silly buffoon But he put up his Dukes Oh Fuck me; They’re Nukes! And The World is now singing new tunes! (So soon?)
‘A Celestial North Korea’
Credit: Christopher Hitchens
A full week has passed
Since Jon GOT that ass
Even Dany GOT pleased
By Crow’s bended knees
And now we must fast for Season The Last
(And That’s The GOTcha)
Bonus Content Below:
The Most Lovely and Captivating and Charmingly Endearing Emilia
The Iron Throne – Game of Thrones’ AWFUL final episode
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young, Olongapo City. I had been struck by The Thunderbolt. Rog was buying the beer for the next ten years. Matt was drawing a charcoal portrait on a cocktail napkin of a sweet, young lovely Filipina with a glass eye. Mama-San was not happy.
My Primary Problem:
SNAFU (‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’)
My Secondary Problem:
‘Thunderbolt Smitten Status’
Breaks down like this:
The ‘Smite-he’—Me—couldn’t get close enough to the ‘Smite-er—Her—she proved elusive, un-approachable, un-attainable, closely watched overby Mama-the Big-She-San.
Yes. It was all very confounding, convoluted, and complicated.
Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money—He hoping for good conversation, free billiard lessons, and some Lance Good-Natured Wolf-Ticket Talk.
(Rog had declined my offer of a double-or-nothing eight-ball re-match)
But Matt was willing and ‘free’, as the Filipina ‘model’ for his napkin art had been compelled (by Mama-San) to taxi onto the runway.
He also knew I would take it easy on him and his wallet. I only truly enjoyed taking Rog’s money, no one else’s. Well, except for the occasional Jar-Head’s, even though the fleecing of ‘Marine-Sheeps’ could, and often did prove somewhat problematical, health-wise—my health-wise.
Matt and I both were getting what we wanted until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140, 1986.
Pain was a pain in the ass.
He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about one-hundred and fifty. One-hundred-fifty pounds of attitude. Bad attitude.
He reminded me ofPeanut.
Peanut sans the good to outweigh the bad. I did not appreciate his style.
Nor his presence.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy jus’ walk in, he Naa-bee-steeel.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor pren?”
(Filipinas have some difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘F’)
“Nope. He’s trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it been hangin’?”
“Whaaa?? Hey. Uh…Oh, don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah. Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class One-Forty. You were my roommate for about a week until I got you kicked out of the room for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah, you were a little snitch-bitch. An’ your other roommate was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… Clark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Got ‘hurt’ eh? Whatever. Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors—only. This is Our bar, and we don’t really want any prima-donnas hangin’ out here swillin’ beer and breathin’ air. This bar—MY Bar—is a private bar, so… mosey on The Fuck On.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This joint’s not big e’nuff to house your inflated Navy Spec-War ego; I suggest you SEAL-Flop your fishy-smellin’ ass on down to The California Club. It’s close to Shit River on Magsaysay—can’t miss it—look for the neon that says, ‘Morons Welcome’. The ceilings have high enough clearance for your big head, and there’s lots of girls. You and your ego and your attitude and your money will be welcome there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had unconsciously reversed my grip on the pool cue, turning it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Uh… Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool cue-turned-seal-smasher.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you need sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna pix the purniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
Apparently a light suddenly lit and he, making good use of his ‘situational awareness’ said, “Maybe I’ll check out that California Club after all.” And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said with a belly-laugh,
“Hoo-Ah Squiddy! That guy’s an asshole! Seen him around town.”
“Thanks,” I said, pitching my cue-stick to Matt, who clumsily failed to catch it, spilling his beer in the attempt as he watched the cue bounce off the deck.
I laughed at Matt then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Send me an’ Matt ah coupla beers! I just saw my life flash!”
(Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
Pain was actually a decent enough guy.
In his way.
But still an asshole.
Certainly I can relate,
For the following night I vowed to focus on my ‘Thunderbolt/Mama-San Situation’.
We sucked down a few more beers.
Closed the bar.
The Marine Corps went to wherever it is that marines go (or belong)
Rog and Matt headed back to the ship. (Where sailors belong)
I went home with Mama-San. (Where I probably didn’t belong)
“You can’t hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ Man! Don’t be ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You’re a very lucky fellow.”
– Calo (‘The Godfather’)
Matt, Rogers, and I settled into the bar–after I had paid my respects to Mama-San.
“Mama! Where you been all my life?” I yelled, pulling her up from her chair and kissing her hard on the lips.
She managed to untangle herself from my affections and pushed me away. “You go to sit down and spend some money Sailor-Man,” she said gruffly, trying to conceal the smile that was betraying her true feeling.
Since it was still relatively early and the joint pretty much dead, Rog and I decided to shoot some pool.
Now I must tell you, gentle readers, I am a pool hustler, and Rog was a gambler.
Good for me.
Bad for him.
After about an hour of eight ball, Rog owned me all the beer in Olongapo and his First Born. Wasn’t really interested in the First Born (I had seen the baby pictures and the baby dipped snuff just like his daddy)
So I told him to keep the First Born, but get busy with the beers. We sat back down at the bar next to Matt who was in some kind of deep philosophical discussion with a very petite young bar girl who appeared to have a glass eye.
Matt is a gentleman and this girl had warmed up to him.
Rog and I were not gentlemen so we interrupted their conversation.
“Hey Matt! Rog here’s buyin’ the beer for the next ten years. Name your poison.”
“I’d like a glass of wine,” Matt said softly.
“What?!” Rog and I both exclaimed in unison.
Matt was The Artist. So I suppose this was to be expected: This Un-Naval-Like Bullshit Talk would come out the side of his neck from time to time.
“Mama-San!” I yelled over my shoulder. “Ya got any Pinto Greegee-oh?”
“Goddamn chew!” she yelled back. “Go to fuck you!” I turned to Matt, “Sorry Buddy. Fresh out. How ‘bout a beer? On Rog here. He be buyin’”.
“Sure,” he said softly, not even looking at us.
“Oh shit Rog,” I said. “Matt here done gone off into ‘That Place’ again.”
I glanced over at Matt, now busily drawing on a cocktail napkin what appeared to be a rather flattering portrait of the girl. She had placed her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist.
“Yeah, Rog. I suppose yer right.”
Rogers and I traded wolf tickets for an hour or so, and then aimed our affections at some Marines who had recently shown up. Things were about to grow unpleasant when the regular shift of girls came strolling in. This stopped the impending war between the Navy and the Marine Corps as the music got loud and the girls took to the runway.
I knew all the girls on the evening shift. They were my friends. But I spotted a girl I did not know. ‘Spotted’ is probably not the right word. ‘Witnessed’ (Think ‘Baptist Revival’ here) might be more appropriate. She was the spitting image of my high school sweetheart. (No, I wasn’t really that drunk).
OK, not exactly the spitting image but let us say the Ornamental Version of a spitting image.
I just had to have some ‘chat’ with her.
And By God, I would.
I became useless for the rest of the evening.
I have spent far too much time in the Far East.
This will be continued…
A girl walks into a bar.
I went over to Mama-San, “Hey who’s the new girl?”
“What new girl?”
“The one with the long brown hair,” I said.
“Goddam-chew! They all have long brown hair. Where you think you are Sailor-Boy, Malibu?”
“No. I mean that girl,” I said, pointing.
“Oh ‘That Girl’” she said. “She’s new, and don’t bother her.”
“Yes, I know she’s new. That’s my point, for fuck sake.”
“Leave her alone. She off-you-limits.”
“Bullshit off-limits. She reminds me of someone,” I said.
“Don’t we all? That’s what we do here. We sell the memories. We in the ‘She-reminds-me-of-someone’ sellin’ memory business. But she, that one, she off-you-limits. No for sale.”
“I don’t want to buy her; I just wanna talk to her.”
“Go-to-Fuk-Chew! You want talk? Talk me! You butterfly.” She huffed back toward her desk.
“Butterfly?” I yelled at her back.
She turned on her heel, “You butterfly. You float from flower to flower.”
I stared at ‘New Girl’ while wondering how I was going to get around Mama-San…So I could have my
Interior of a KAF South Park ‘Port-A-Shitter’ in case you have never ‘experienced’ one
This is the continuation of a transcribed letter/email I sent to my Girlfriend (Isn’t she pretty?) while stuck in Kandahar, Afghanistan
1423hrs: South Park DFAC
It was a long and winding road which led me back to South Park home base. As I was trudging along, sweating my ass off, I kept reminding myself of the New Yorker’s directions given to someone looking to get to Texas from NYC:
“Head west until you smell shit. That’s Oklahoma. Go south until you step in it. That’s Texas.”
I found my way back to South Park in similar fashion: Followed my nose to the ‘Poo Pond’ and took a left—ran right into South Park. Easy as Poo Pie.
Poo Pond Song
#1 With A Bullet
Street Cred for Shared Vid: JimmyMisawa
Original Artist Credit: Music and video by Jimmy Moreland
Kandahar the Song
Also #1 With A Bullet
(It was a ‘Foto-Finish’)
“Kandahar the song is about life at Kandahar Air Base in Afghanistan. Everything was filmed, photographed, recorded and edited at Kandahar (KAF) except the stuff that wasn’t. Yep, Rocket Attacks, the Poo Pond and reflective belts are a way of life at KAF. Enjoy”
Street Cred for Vid: HeySargeUSA Spillane
As soon as I got back and kicked yet another Gomer off’n my rack (What’s wrong with these people?), I went to Flight Ops to see if I could fly the hell outta here tomorrow. I’ll tell you what they told me:
“We’ll have to get back to you on that.”
1738hrs: Sitting on my Rack
Shoo’d the Gomes off… again. I sent you an email few minutes ago, telling you my show-time is 0100hrs for my flight back to Dwyer. I believe it’s a Helo this time. They are slower, but it’s a short trip. On Saturday, I could have walked here and gotten to the CAC office same day before they closed.
The computers here have been acting stupid today, so I don’t know if you got my recent posts. Only thing left for me to do is update my time sheet at 1900hrs and eat supper.
I stole a sleeping bag from the Billeting laundry box so I wouldn’t freeze my ass off tonight. (The A/C works really good in this tent starting around midnight). Problem is, not getting to sleep much. I must confess something: I like a routine.
I do much better when I have a routine. You probably would never have guessed that about me.
Hopefullywill not still be there on Dwyer whenever I get home, but I had no email from Shannon, so I suspect he remains. Shannon surely would have told me if he finally did leave. I would hope so anyway.
Ode To An Asshole:
1915hrs: Sitting on my rack
Supper was yummy. Roast pork(?) and a chicken breast. South Park’s population seems to have doubled today. Trying to find a spot to sit in the smoking arena is an exercise in futility. Time for me to leave obviously.
I’m gonna miss this place.
I am really exhausted now. Tomorrow will be another Long Day, but at least at the end of it I’ll be back in my own bed and in my own hooch.
My Classy, Comfy, Cozy, Crib
I’m sad right now a little bit ‘cause I have not heard from you. Hopefully a bit later before I depart for the flight line and most likely another long wait to get on yet another bird… I hope they fed the hamsters this time: “Helicopter Hamsters.” Sounds like a song: ‘Muskrat Love…’ (Lance, you need sleep Son)
Tried to sleep. Failed. Ideas of what to show you and do with you and to you in Dubai race around in my head and look for a place to rest.
31 July Tuesday 0021hrs: DFAC – Strong coffee
Taster’s Choice instant. ‘Twill serve. Just got off the computer a few minutes ago and had several emails from you. Happy Now. Some dude was very vociferous about some folks taking more than their allotted ten minutes (I’m not guilty of that. Not Much). Anyway, I had to go.
Got a couple hours of death-like sleep until a Billeting Gome woke me up (very politely) tapping me on the shoulder, making sure I knew I was scheduled to fly. I assured him that “Yeah Baby! I’m flying outta here.” My alarm was about to go off, but I’m glad he woke me up just in case it didn’t.
They have the Olympics on TV now here in the DFAC. I had forgotten about them and I suppose they are well underway by now. I do hope Texas brings home a lot of gold this time! Gotta go and grab my ‘kit’. See? I can speak Brit. Heading to the rally point.
0315hrs: PAX Terminal KAF
Been successfully herded from South Park.
0348hrs: Taxi Runway
Didn’t even have time to finish my coffee.
Gryphon Airlines exhibited uncharacteristic efficiency today. I did manage to wolf down part of an MRE I had rat-fucked on the 28th. Not on a helo—thought I would be. A/C on this bird no better than the last one.
Waiting to take off… Plane is full and we have two stops before Dwyer. Hopefully I’ll be home in time for DFAC breakfast, but not likely. Oh, plane holds about forty-six in case you’re wondering.
Escape Velocity Breached!
“Once more unto the Breach!”
On our way! Yippee Ki Aye! Captain is female, Michelle. I love her already.
0519hrs: FOB Shindand
Sitting here in Beautiful Shindand. Well, just sittin’ on the plane which is sittin’ on the tarmac in Beautiful Shindand. I have never been to Shindand, so I have no emotions one way or another about Shindand, but apparently I like writing the word ‘Shindand.’
It is just before sunrise here and this time tomorrow I should be back in MY Gym on MY FOB. But for now, next stop FOB Ferah. Shindand Gomes are boarding now…
While they are settling in, I’d like to tell you more about this airplane. As I said, she seats around forty-six. I am semi-comfortably ensconced in a window seat, seated near-the-rear of this DHC-8-300, aka: ‘Dash Eight’ and we just ‘dashed’ from KAF to here at twenty-thousand feet and I must assume at about 250 mph, but I’d have to verify that with Michelle, or her hamsters.
Here is a Dash Eight that ‘Dashed’ to the Scene of the Crash.
For brevity in the local vernacular: a‘Dash Crash’
This is an Eight-Hamster plane: two hamsters per propeller which is in accordance with FAA, ‘Fuckin Afghan Aviation’ regulations. Our Flight Attendant, Gail, is going through her spiel again (poorly) and has informed us that
“No one would like to hear the smoke alarm going off (ya think?), so please don’t smoke Schmuck.”
I added the “Schmuck” because I am in charge of this letter and it made me happy to do so. Well, the hamsters are warming up their little legs, so I reckon, we’ll be departing presently. And… in fact we ARE!
I love my Life!
Airborne now and I see the sun just peeking over a mountain—very romantic. Why does Shindan get to have mountains and Dwyer does not? Shindand looks like Aspen on a bad day, and Dwyer looks like Lubbock on any day.
0613hrs: FOB Farah
Gotta get off here briefly. The hamsters will be taking on Hamster Fuel, probably corn, or corn nuts, or whatever it is that fuels hamsters.
0629hrs: FOB Farah
I love this FOB! Well, what little I have seen of it anyway. It is tiny and nestled in some really cool-looking mountains. As we were landing I was watching for the asphalt runway to appear. It didn’t. We landed on a dirt strip. How cool is that? Not my first dirt strip landing but it caught me pleasantly off guard.
When I first got to Afghanistan, I was hoping to be sent to a small remote FOB such as this, alas, I’ve been stuck at Dwyer for a year.
Now that the hamsters have refueled and I’ve had a taste of my ‘Dream FOB’ nothing left to do but head back to Dwyer, which should begin in a minute or two.
0655hrs: Airborne Again
Gail told us we have thirty-five minutes to Dwyer and I believe her. Shouldn’t get over twelve thousand feet altitude, “And once again, this is a non-smoking flight.”
“Thank you Gail. It’s been at least thirty minutes since I heard that.”
This concludes our Special Broadcast and we now return you to your regularly scheduled emails, already in progress.