The Not Too Naughty Tales: Mr. Pink-nylons

Carrie Costantini - Friend, Marine Wife & Mom and ever the Lovely Southern Lady, had this to share on Facebook today:

WOODBRIDGE, Va. — A Woodbridge man has been charged with burglary and destruction of property after he was arrested in the closet of an adult video store with a blowup doll.

Prince William County police say the man, 28-year-old Justin Dale Little Jim, is an officer in the Army.

Police responded to a burglary at the MVC Late Night adult store in Woodbridge about 2:45 a.m. Tuesday and found the glass front door shattered and unlocked.

A police dog was sent in and led officers to a closet. Prosecutors told the News & Messenger of Manassas that Little Jim was attempting to have sexual relations with the doll.

An initial court appearance was continued Wednesday. Court records show that Little Jim remained in custody Wednesday and did not list a lawyer.

http://www.marinecorpstimes.com/news/2011/07/ap-soldier-arrested-in-adult-store-070611/

So I promised her I’d put on a pot of coffee and make it my mission today to share at least one of my tales from my tenure at “Not Too Naughty”.  Many moons ago, circa 1995, I “took time off” from college and then took a job as an assistant manager in a porn shop.  Given I was an open-minded, sexually-liberated, confident young woman, I saw it as an awesome opportunity for adventure.  I decided, “What the heck, I’ll do it ‘till it’s not fun anymore.”  That took a little less than a year but I’ve never regretted taking the job; it was one heck of a life experience.

Some important back-story on Not Too Naughty...

In the first weeks of my new job, I was, of course, expected to familiarize myself with our inventory.  In addition to the seemingly endless shelves of VHS boxes, there was the “novelty wall” upon which hung battery operated delights in every plastic-fantastic color under the rainbow, shelves with every variation on human anatomy you can possibly think of --and some you probably never have- every lotion, potion and safe sex supply in the western hemisphere and, of course, the requisite party supplies like inflatable sheep and anatomically correct suckers and candies.

My education, however, did not stop there.  I was also learning some of the history of our fine establishment.  It was explained to me that the corporate office (yes, we had a corporate office; porn is big business) was in a never ending battle with the city and the neighbors around the shop over zoning laws. 

It seems when the store had first opened, it was in full compliance with the zoning laws.  As the demographics of the residents in the immediate area became increasingly more "upscale" however, things changed and the shop was now “grandfathered” in.  Sometime during all this "growth" the business next door had closed and NTN knocked down a wall and expanded.  The big question now was whether they had violated code by doing so.  Corporate insisted we had all the right permits, the neighbors were screaming we didn’t.

As I understood it, this had been going on for some time and the neighbors would go through phases where they got all riled up, organized and started screaming that NTN was the reason their neighborhood was a tad on the shady side.  The ever growing meth trade, apparently, had nothing to do with it; it was us perverts that were the real problem by God!

I got hired right around the time the neighbors were ramping up again.  This led to all sorts of fun antics.  Every weekend they were out there waving signs and ringing cow bells.  I almost felt sorry for them the day all the TV’s and TS’s got together (all three of them) and mounted a counter-protest.  That was a good day, a very good day.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertained.

Unfortunately for Pleasant Valley PD, all this controversy meant they had to take time away from real police work and come patrol our humble little establishment 2-3 times a night on Fridays and Saturdays.  They also had a tendency to just “pop-in” randomly during the day and throughout the week.  The overwhelming majority of our clientele were decent folks; mid-30's to middle-aged white males fairly equally divided between very much straight and very much in the closet.  We did have a few freakbats though and the increased police presence meant we kept an even closer eye on them.  Enter…

Mr. Pink-nylons

It was my turn to take the Sunday morning shift.  Yes.  Porn shops are open on Sunday mornings.  We opened at 8am, 7 days a week.  Sunday mornings could usually be counted on to be relatively quiet though and we didn’t often see a customer until at least 9am.  Not today.

8:01am

I’d been up until 3am the night before covering someone else’s shift.  I was making do with gas station coffee.  I had just unlocked the front door, and was ducking down behind the counter to retrieve change, when the “bing-bong” chime went off.

Shit.  Who the f*ck?   

I stand up, look around, and at first don’t see anybody.  Then I realize, whoever it is, has already made it to the back of the store and is on his way up to the counter.  As he makes a bee-line straight for me, I realize he is wearing nothing, NO-thing, but sheer pink nylons.  Nylons.  Not opaque tights; sheer pink nylons.  And?  He’s got the biggest butt plug we carry in his hand.  A good 10 inches in diameter at its base, this thing is really more of a gag gift.  Something my buddy Nick from Ranger Up might send to some poor guy at Ranger School because he really is that big of an asshole. 

As the caffeine contained in the styrofoam Chevron cup I've got a death grip on finally starts to break the haze of sleep deprivation, I realize that the naked-pink-nightmare is very much real and I think to myself, “This would be bad, really, really bad, for a neighbor or cop to walk in on”.  I’m also seriously questioning my decision to drop outta’ college.  But Mr. Pinktights is almost to the counter now so I'll have to reevaluate my life later.  

I give him the Mr. Spock Eyebrow and tell him, “You need to put that down and leave!”

“But can’t I just…”

“No.  You can’t just!”  I am so not in the mood for this bullshit.

He looks around a little flustered, promptly sets the Doc Johnson Plug-Of-Doom down on the nearest shelf and scurries out.

I’m still standing there, still sipping lousy coffee and still pondering why the hell I ever left school, when my janitor walks in.  His name is Manuel and he has a thick Mexican accent.  There is a special place in heaven for this man and all other porn-shop janitors; I’m sure of it.

“Manuel, you are not gonna’ believe the shit that just happened” and I proceed to tell him about Mr. Pink-nylons.

His eyes get kinda’ big and he says, “Kreesta!  I saw this man!  He got on a bicycle and rode away!”

“A bicycle?”

“Yes!  A bicycle!”

“And rode away? On a bicycle?  Una bicicleta? ”

“Si!  Bicicleta!”

My day has just gotten a whole lot better.  Finally, I set my coffee down so I can bend over in a full-blown belly laugh at this image.  I have had a sudden realization and gasp out, "Oh man, Mr. Sir will not be pleased when he gets home empty handed.”

“’Meester Sir’?” asks Manuel.

“Nevermind,”  I respond as I realize neither my Spanish or Manuel's English are good enough for me to explain that when you combine BDSM with a weekend Meth bender, you end up with a man in pink nylons hopping on his bicicleta at 8am Sunday.  His mission?  Bring back something big enough to top the past 36 hours.

The Corpsmen of Guadalcanal

Originally written in April, I'm reposting this in honor of Memorial Day, 2011.
 
When I was a child, my sister and my cousins and I had pretty much free reign in our grandparents’ home.  There really wasn’t any place we weren’t allowed to go; no closet we couldn’t explore, no drawer we couldn’t peek into.  At the time, I didn’t quite grasp their significance, but bits and pieces of testimony to my grandfather’s service overseas lay everywhere.  Among the countless knick-knacks in the family room were delicate, brass rice bowls, hand held spinner drums and wobbly hula girl dolls.  Hanging in the garage were bizarre, coconut monkey heads and in the rafters above them, was my grandfather's old sea trunk.  Grandma had also acquired quite the collection of monkey pod ware during their stay at Pearl Harbor.  My favorites were the large salad bowl with matching smaller ones, used daily as well as Sunday, and one piece designed specifically for serving and cracking nuts.  It was a large bowl with an impressive, solid steel nutcracker mounted in the center of it.  I seem to recall Grampa ate most of the nuts, we kids just liked cracking them.

Then, of course, there was the china cabinet.  On the wall next to it was a portrait of my Grandfather in his dress uniform. Within the cabinet were the traditional, delicate crystal glasses and sets of china; but tucked away in one of its drawers, amidst stationary and stamps, was a small box.   I don’t recall anyone explaining to me that the box and its contents were to be handled with care.  I just remember picking up each colorful ribbon and medal with gentle curiosity, understanding that they were Grampa’s, and that they were special. 

Also tucked away in the drawer, was a book that was special.  It was a copy of Reader’s Digest, circa November 1942.   I knew within its pages was a story about things my grandfather had done that made people proud.  I also knew it was something he didn’t like to talk about.  He could be cajoled into talking about the fact that his Marines never did figure out he’d been hustling pool and cards since age 12 and so they continued to play poker and pinochle with him.  In later years, I got him to tell me about trading the raisins from his C Rations with the cooks for potatoes; the potatoes were delivered to the guy with the still, “a pretty popular guy,” I was told.  He also told me about “Washing Machine Charlie” circling about overhead, checking out the Americans on the ground near Henderson Field, and the day he and his buddies realized creeping down near the edge of the field to get a better look while it was being bombarded wasn’t such a good idea.  Those shock waves were a bitch, resonated right through a man’s chest when he was lying prone on the ground.

That was about all we could get Grampa to tell us about his time on Guadalcanal.  If so much as a hint of the story in the Reader’s Digest came up, he’d get angry and growl at us, “I’m not a hero, god damnit!  I never got a Purple Heart.  I just did what I was told; I just did what everybody else did!”

I’ve now read that story in Reader’s Digest several times; it’s titled, “The Battle of the River”.  It is a condensed version of a first hand account of the Third Battle of the Matanikua River.  It was written by war correspondent, John Hersey, who published the story in far more detail in his book, “Into the Valley:  Marines at Guadalcanal.”  Chesty Puller was there, as were Edson and his Raiders.  Yet the part of the story that always has, and always will, strike closest to my heart is that of the Corpsmen.  During the battle, Hersey was with a column of machine gunners when they were ambushed in a narrow defile.  The heavy guns of that era took time to be assembled and mounted and they were never able to get more than two of them firing.  So as the Marines began a retreat, the Corpsmen began evacuating the wounded.  Hersey's narrative is truly moving.  It's my favorite passage in that treasured copy of Reader's Digest:

Now the heroism of the medical corps showed itself.  They went into the worst places and began moving the wounded.  I joined them because, I guess, I just thought that was the fastest way to get the hell out of there...

The worst blast victim was a boy whom I shall call John Smith.  He had a caved-in chest and one of his legs was blasted.  Part of the time we had to carry him, part of the time he could drag his feet along while I supported him.  Before we went very far, they injected some morphine in his arm.

As we struggled along Smith kept asking for his sergeant, whose name I shall change to Bill Johnson.  “Don’t leave Johnson,” he pleaded.  Smith had been manning one of the machine guns which did get into action.  Johnson was in command of the gun.  A mortar-grenade went off near them, knocking the crew all over the place.  Most of the men took cover.  But Johnson crawled back to the gun just in time for another grenade to come much closer.

“He shouldn’t’ have gone back,” Smith said.  “Why in hell did he have to go back?”

All the way out of that valley of the shadow, John Smith mumbled about his friend Sergeant Johnson.

There were some steep places where we had to sit Smith down in the mud and slide him down the trail.  In other places, uphill, we had to form a chain of hands and work him up very slowly.  It was almost dark when we got out of the jungle.  We turned the wounded over to Doc New, the navy surgeon, who had an emergency station set up on the last ridge.

Then the medical corps men hurried back for Johnson.  It was pitch dark when those heroic boys found him, in territory where if they betrayed themselves by the slightest sound they would have mortar fire pouring down on them.  They asked Johnson:  “How do you feel, Bill?”  He said:  “I think I can make it.”  They fashioned a stretcher out of two rifles and a poncho, and started out.  The only way they could find their path was to follow, hand over hand, a telephone wire which some wire stringer had carried down into that hot valley.

Famous last words are usually edited after the fact.  Johnson’s were simple requests:  “Help me sit up, will you please, oh God my stomach.”  Soon he said very softly:  “I wish I could sleep.”  The wish was fulfilled:  he gave a few short gasps and then just stopped breathing.

Through the wonders of modern technology, I've recently downloaded Hersey's book to my PC and it's proving to be a fantastic read.  It's chock full of fabulous grunt behavior and details that were no doubt deemed inappropriate for the gentle readers of the condensed version.  Last words, were indeed, edited after the fact for Reader's Digest.  So far, my favorite omitted tidbit that I've stumbled on is that, while being evacuated, one of the wounded asked,  "Say fellas, would you help me take a crap?  My stomach hurts, if I could just take a crap."  The Corpsmen promptly helped him do just that, dropping his pants for him and holding him up in the required position.  I couldn't help but chuckle over the frankness of that quote.  Perhaps housewives in 1942 would have found this tidbit a tad distasteful, I, on the other hand, not only chuckled, but got a hint of tears in my eyes.  For the man who needed to take a crap, was Johnson.  "Now that is brotherly love," I thought to myself.  Helping a dying man take a sh*t, in the middle of a dark jungle you really just want to get the hell out of as quickly as possible; all in the hopes it will alleviate some of his pain.

Hersey doesn't provide the names of the Corpsmen that he was with that day, and since Grampa wouldn’t talk about it,  I have no way of knowing if he was one of them.  I do know that my grandfather's unit was awarded the Navy Presidential Unit Citation for their actions on Guadalcanal.  The criteria for that citation reads:  "Awarded to units of the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps and allies for extraordinary heroism in action against an armed enemy on or after December 7, 1941."  

"I'm not a hero god damnit!"  Ok, Grampa, you aren’t a hero; but as you look down on me as I write these words, I hope you'll forgive me for disagreeing with you.  You're my hero and if you'd like, we can leave Guadalcanal and all of WWII out of the discussion.  An orphaned son of Croation immigrants, you left the coal mines you'd worked in since a child to join the Navy.  You wanted to secure a better future for the love of your life and the family you would build together.  You grabbed your piece of the American Dream and passed it down to three new generations; many of whom also chose to serve their fellow man.  You lived a long life and you lived it well; we're a testament to that.

A final note:  While this essay is a tribute to my grandfather and the Corpsmen of Guadalcanal, it was another, recently retired, HMC who inspired me to finally get off my butt and write it.  Darrell "Da-Chief" Crone is one of my oldest and dearest friends from high school.  Thanks to Facebook, we've "reconnected" and when he highlighted my blog on his blog, corpsman.com, I told him, "You just made me cry! Now I'm going to have to write something (about you) to top that!"  So let me give it a try: 

Darrell was one of my best friends during that "time of our life" that so many of us wish we could just forget a big chunk of.  We were part of a tight knit group who scattered to the winds to make our way in life; returning, all of us, to our home town, when Darrell and his family suffered a tragic loss.  When I think of us huddled around him in support, I realize there can't be much more of a testament to the value of his friendship and our love for him.  Darrell has grown into a fine man and I couldn't be prouder of him, not that I take any credit for the man he's become.  That, I believe, is a testament to his wife and children and his "other" family, the United States Navy. 

Trigger-pullers, Gandhi and the Gita

"For a pacifist, Gandhi was not very passive.  'Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence,' he once said, not because he welcomed bloodshed, but because he favored engagement.  He had little respect for passivity, and even less for moral weakness." -Mark Juergensmeyer, Gandhi's Way:  A handbook of conflict resolution

A few weeks ago, while I was enjoying one of my precious coffee breaks with a "steely-eyed trigger-puller," he noticed one of the books on my table, "Paths to God:  Living the Bhagavad Gita" by Ram Dass... it had many a sticky note poking out of it.   I sipped my coffee and pretended not to notice him squinting to read the title.  With the barest hint of a smile, I waited for the inevitable:

"What the... you have a GURU now, you damn hippie?"

"No dear, that's a book about the Bhagavad Gita."

His response was a raised eyebrow, so I elaborated:

"The Gita is part of the Hindu sacred text, it's kinda like their Iliad.  It’s an epic poem about doing your duty… you’d love it.”  I knew he had read the Iliad and grokked it in the way only a Warrior can.  “The basic premise is this,” I said, “It’s the granddaddy of all battles and the Warrior Prince, Arjuna, is kickin' it in his chariot with his driver, Krishna –who he doesn’t know is God incarnate.  Time is frozen while they have a little chat before the battle begins.  He's just thrown down his bow and refused to fight, after seeing kin and men of honor amongst the enemy lines; he can’t bear the thought of killing them.  Since Krishna aint yer average chariot driver, he proceeds to 'splain a few things to him about doing his duty."  I reached for another book on the table, my copy of the Gita, and opened it to one of my favorite passages:

Know what your duty is

and do it without hesitation.

For a warrior, there is nothing better

than a battle that duty enjoins.

Blessed are warriors who are given

the chance of a battle like this,

which calls them to do what is right

and opens the gates of heaven.

But if you refuse the call

to a righteous war, and shrink from

what duty and honor dictate,

you will bring down ruin on your head.

Decent men, for all time,

will talk about your disgrace;

and disgrace, for a man of honor,

is a fate far worse than death.

These great heroes will think

that fear has driven you from battle;

all those who once esteemed you

will think of you with contempt.

And your enemies will sneer and mock you;

“The mighty Arjuna, that brave man—

he slunk from the field like a dog.”

What deeper shame could there be?

I closed the book and my friend, the “trigger-puller” didn’t say anything.  He didn’t need to.  The look in his “steely-eyes” was enough.

I smiled and waggled my eyebrows at him and said, “Did ya know Gandhi lived and studied the Gita his whole life?  You know, that 'little brown man in a diaper' that was such a thorn in Churchill’s side?  A ‘seditious fakir’ I believe he called him?  Same little dude hippies worship?”  I took another sip of coffee, “Another 3x5 for your back pocket, I’m sure it will come in handy.  Quoting Gandhi and the Gita to a hippie is way more fun than arguing with them about Che.”

*ssssip*

“Che aint the one who said, ‘Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence…’”

Why Fayetteville?

I get that question a lot when people find out I’m from California and moved to Fayetteville because I wanted to, not because I had to. I’m not a Soldier an Airman or a spouse; why on earth would I want to move to Fayettenam? I smile and try to explain, “There’s logic to it, really there is…” Sometimes they “get it,” sometimes they don’t.

The main reason I left California is because, quite simply, I couldn’t afford to live there anymore. The decision to walk away from what I had anticipated would be a lifelong career with U.C. Davis was an excruciating one, but in the end, I had to choose between my health and my career. I chose the former, which meant transitioning to long term Social Security Disability; and you can’t live on that tight of a fixed income in California.  While the decision had been difficult, the fact that I'd become disillusioned with academia and the culture that goes with it, did make it easier (see my "Bliss Bunny" post).  So I put everything in storage, headed down to Arizona and spent an unbelievably healing year with my father and stepmother while I took some time to ponder my next move.

I knew what I wanted and needed: a) a lower cost of living, b) somewhere I already had friends and/or family and c) preferably a coastline and plenty of green stuff. The Mars like landscape of the Sonoran Desert drove home the fact that I’m a west coast girl who needs TREES and water, so Arizona was out. That left Kauai or North Carolina. I’ve stopped elaborating on that fact as I’m often interrupted with, “I’d have gone with Kauai!”

“Ummm… did you miss the part about a lower cost of living?”

“Yeah but why Fayetteville? Why not Raleigh or…”

This is where I usually just smile and shrug and say, “Because life is what you make it.”

There are numerous additional, "logical" reasons for choosing Fay that have to do with being centrally located.  Namely, I didn’t want the financial burden of a car, so having friends, shopping and medical care in the immediate area was a big plus.  Trust me, I spend far less on cab fare than I ever would on a car.  I suppose that's one of my lingering hippie-dippie tendencies that serves me well.  For me, there is no bizarre "social stigma" attached to not owning a "vee-hickle" nor do I feel hampered or anxiety ridden by not having one at the ready in my driveway. 

The more deeply rooted reason for my choice, however, is that I knew I would feel far more at home in a military town than I would in Raleigh or its suburbs. It felt right from the moment I came to visit before making my final decision. It was a culture I had been born into and grown up in; it was the realm of Sheepdogs.  I knew that I would quickly and easily make additional friends; the kind who instantly feel like family.  The kind who inherently understand the pleasure, the value –the gratitude- of only having to walk 10 feet for a hot shower and only 10 more for a hot cup of coffee. I knew that in Fayettenam, I would find kindred spirits; those who understand the importance of "seize the day!"as you don't know what the next one will bring. Lastly, I knew that I could devote much of my new found abundance of "free time" and my passion for service, to those I find ever so deserving of it. I could serve those who Serve.

I’ve been here for almost three years now and am so incredibly happy with my decision. I am far happier and more fulfilled here than I ever was living and working in the realm of public, higher education. So much so, that on several occasions, I’ve awoken with relief to realize, yes, I’m still living in Fayettenam, I haven't moved back to California.  I wouldn't call that one a nightmare, but certainly a bad dream.

Last night, my dreams were peaceful and I slept snug and warm after spending several hours reading about the intimate details of life as a grunt deployed to the armpits of the world. I had finished John Hersey’s “Into the Valley: Marines at Guadalcanal” where my grandfather had served as a corpsman and then plowed through the better part of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”.  Due to severe storms, my internet connection had been down for hours by the time I went to sleep, but my power had been restored within an hour of losing it. I had light by which to read, a fully stocked fridge and pantry… a stove, a microwave, hot and cold running water... I was living in luxury.

It wasn’t until I finally rebooted my high-speed, broadband modem late this morning and sat down to read the Fayetteville Observer online , that I realized what I’d missed by neglecting to turn my radio back on while I was reading:

"1 dead, 85 hurt by Fayetteville tornado"

Whoa.

Did I forget to mention one of the other reasons I chose this part of NC is because rarely is it directly impacted by hurricanes and tornadoes?  While I had been blissfully reading away, there had been 62 tornado touch downs throughout the eastern part of the state.

I reached for my cell phone, which I'd left on vibrate on my desk before retreating to my room the night before.  I now had multiple text messages from Soldiers affectionately demanding, “Ping me!” and one from "Wolfpack" (who was on the other side of the neighboring county for the weekend) asking, "Are you alive?"  I looked at the map of the path the Fayetteville tornado had taken and realized that probably, the only reason they hadn’t come pounding on my door was because they knew I was several miles away from it and tend to be a homebody when it's storming out. As I began returning text messages, I pulled up Facebook and my extended “milkook family” network made my heart melt with their concern and affection. Then I read the article in the Observer in full and my heart beamed with pride:

The destruction brought out the best in some people.

Jamie Slife and his family were driving down Yadkin Road when the tornado ripped across the street in front of them.

Instead of panicking, Slife, a Marine stationed at Fort Bragg, jumped out of the car and started helping everybody else.

Within minutes, Slife had joined forces with soldiers who also were helping.

"We pulled seven people from cars," Slife said.

The makeshift unit also checked on people in damaged homes and worked with firefighters and police officers to help secure the area.

"We don't know each other," Slife said, gesturing toward the group. "They're just letting me talk because I have higher rank, I guess." (can't lie, that quote made me laugh)

In the Summerhill neighborhood, residents quickly mobilized to help one another and clear the neighborhood streets so residents and emergency vehicles could get through.

The group of mostly active-duty or retired soldiers brought out chain saws to cut the trees. A man in a tow truck used his winch to pull limbs and trunks out of the way. Some tied smaller limbs to the backs of their Jeeps and trucks and dragged them off.

Staff Sgt. Larry Ruiz used to live in the neighborhood. He grabbed his medical kit and stethoscope and went door to door to offer help.

In Cottonade, paratrooper Teygh Statler used a chain saw to cut a big tree that had fallen on Julie Nelson's house on York Road. Statler was joined by other soldiers and volunteers.

"We've just been kind of driving and helping wherever we can," said Erin Adams, whose husband Steve manned a chain saw in the front yard. "We just hope somebody would do the same for us."

Now. Are there any further questions about, “Why Fayetteville?!?” Good. Glad we got that straight.

Hooah, Oorah, and God love ya, I know I sure do!

Little Joe: Some unexpected comic relief during the freeze.

I’ve had a “Wendy and her Lost Boys” things goin’ for some time now. Actually, I think I’m more like Jo March and her Little Men ; those “mischievous children, whom she loved and cared for as her own, learning valuable lessons as they grew to adulthood.” Like Jo, I somehow manage to balance being a tad “rough around the edges” with a "dignified womanliness". No surprise there I suppose, as my mother’s middle name is “Jo” and she’s the same way. Growing up she batted left handed, threw right handed, drank pickle juice out of the jar and could cuss and spit with the best of them. She also watched (ruled?) over the children of the neighborhood with benevolence and a deep maternal instinct.

My own little Plumfield’esque tendencies started in college and I’ve been at it ever since. Stray boys with good and kind hearts find their way to my hearth and home and settle in for laughter, love and advice of all types. Regardless of the type of advice they seek, they know that if you don’t want an honest answer, it’s best not to ask. One of my mottos in life is, “I’ll take blunt over bullshit every time.” So is it any wonder, the woman who looks to the example set by two “Jo’s” now finds herself looking after, well, “Joe’s”?

If you’ve found your way to this blog post, it’s pretty much a given that you are well aware of the impending freeze in pay to our military. There really isn’t a damn thing funny about it; it’s quite disgusting really. However, I did stumble on some comic relief today thanks to “Little Joe”, a diminutive E-3 I just exchanged a series of text messages with. They went something like this:


LJ: I wanna go out and party tonight before the pay freeze! if i got the dough gotta get to an atm to check my acct first

Me: You don’t know how to *call* your bank? ur hilarious

LJ: I’m old school

Me: (to self: *BLINK* did he seriously just type that?)

Me: Ummmm Dear? Picking up that antiquated device known as a tell-oh-phone IS old school! That’s how us old farts checked our balance before laptops and "smart" phones  we used a landline... although the phones *were* pushbutton not rotary  (yes, i really do type text messages that long; must be the writer in me)

Me: getting in ur car and DRIVING to the damn atm to check your balance is not "old school" it's "DUMB ass"!

LJ: Haha! To tell u the truth idk my acc#

Me: I figured it was a reason like that...  for future reference there is an 800# on atm cards for cust service if you call it they can pull up your account from ur debit card number you just have to press 0 to speak to a real person

Me: (to self: I am so having a Jethro Gibbs moment right now)

Me: That is your lesson for the day in not letting technology make you a nit wit incapable of adapting and overcoming   dear lord please tell me you don’t have visions of heading to Huachuca?

LJ: why the fck would I wanna go to arizona?

Me: good answer   you just stick to makin my house shake rattle n roll

LJ: bahaha that’s meee! 155 rds fallin from the sky

Me: hooah   just make sure ur 1sg doesn’t get a call about a dumb fck drunk joe 2nite

LJ: roger

UPDATED:

After sharing this with my mother, "Jo" on her Facebook page, I simply had to add our "commentary":

Me:  You'll enjoy this one. I paid tribute to your maternal instinct and your penchant for drinking pickle juice outta the jar. ;-)  Love you!

Jo:  bwhahaha "old school"

Jo :  oh yeah, and the mentality of "I might not get paid on the 15th so I better spend all I have now at a bar"

Me:   He's an E3... he can eat in the DFAC and has a place to live. Attempting to get laid while you can is to be expected before you're looking at being cooped up in the barracks with a bunch of dudes.

Jo:  That puts it in a different light.

Me:  I considered explaining to him that *really* old-school involved *balancing* your checkbook...