Sunday, April 26, 2009


I typically avoid milblogs except for 13stop, Dude, and occasionally a couple others. But I just happened across 11Foxtrot's page, and I dig it. So it's going on the link list. He's already out, but he has a good way of narrating. He just fucking tells it, doesn't make it sound like a bad Hollywood pitch of shit. I hope he writes more.

All you rad and/or rotten bastards out there, if you come across anymore gold in the intarwebs, let me know and I'll link that good shit.

I found most of my miniDV tapes and only a few were broken. If I can find a way to charge the camera and get ahold of a firewire cable, I should be able to upload more videos. .50 cals perforating thick courtyard walls, explosions and more explosions, doors being kicked in, doors being kicked and not opening, breaking and entering, laughing at the IP's expense, an entire squad napping in a Stryker, who knows what else. I would've had video of us getting blown up on the rooftop, but at the last minute before I left the tent, I stuffed the camera back into my locker. Probably would've just broken the damn thing anyway.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Who Is Suspect?

Don't know if we ever covered this. I know BT laid the groundwork for it, and hit pretty damn close.

Your typical Suspect generally holds this sacred insignia on their chest, meaning that they are the rank of Specialist, a glorious rank where you typically aren't in charge of shit, but you aren't the little bitch private that has to do everything. In fact, a seasoned Suspect will do everything in his power to dump the workload on the privates. If questioned about it, the best answer in my humble opinion is, "Experience is the best teacher. I am educating this soldier so that he is a better asset to this unit, for sadly I will not always be here." Then tell the private that the Force will be with him, always. And THEN send that sadsap enlisted bitch to crawl under the Stryker and drain the filthy fetid water out of the hull. Laugh at will, because that used to be you.

A Suspect must be able to be walk the fine line between smartass and unpunishable. The most important lesson to learn is that Thou Shalt Not Give Thyself Enough Rope To Hang Thyself. At the same time, you are required by the unspoken code of suspects to make an ass of yourself on occasion. Fuck your pride, you can always claim that you were "being ironic" or "doing it for yuks", when really everyone (especially you) knows that you are legally retarded in the state of Arizona.

Actually, come to think of it, it's not very hard to be a suspect of sorts. A better guide would be titled "How To Emulate My Specific Brand Of Awesome" but you can't have it.

A Suspect is a sham artist. Appointment slips are magical and delicious, and as a bonus, a well-documented medical record is good to have when you want to claim that the Army gave you whiplash, even though it was really the forty pound box of asswhoopin' that was hand delivered to you at a Slayer concert.

Suspects were the assholes who taught the Iraqi children how to swear. By the time I made it to that beautiful holy land, small children were demanding candy and informing me of my sacriligious sexual preference. I say again, an eight year old Arab informed me that I was gay. I told him that Aladdin was really a cigar-loving Jew.

Oh yeah, also, now and again, Suspects pull some bullshit stunts. This could range from using food items as footballs, to mailing feces, to hitting the Air Force with indirect fire of a waterballoon nature, to flipping off friends only to find that it's really the First Sergeant, to... HEY! Did Samuel L Jackson ever do a Spike Lee movie? I think he did, but I can't remember.

Basically, to be a suspect, you have to be a douche and somehow be liked for it. Suspect is every shamming, scheming, planning E4 out there. Suspect is the Zack Morris of the Army. Suspect is the guy who knows when to stop fucking with someone but keeps on doing it anyway. He's the guy who attacks the first sign of weakness or sensitivity like a shark smelling blood. He'll tell you that recent polls indicate that your Jetta is a girl car and that your taste in music is a direct representation of your taste in other guys. Suspect is an asshole, and he's everywhere. I've met suspects who were ten times what I am. I chloroformed them.

Too long, didn't read?

A future Suspect:

Suspect: What A Dick.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Spent the last few days out in the field, grilling hot dogs, blowing dirt up, and talking shit with the dudes I work with. The morals of one another's mothers were brought into question, the mass and consistency of outdoor bowel movements were thoroughly discussed, the Tokyo Tranny story came up (as it always does), and naturally I was ripped on for being stop-lossed. The sexual preference of each individual was fiercely debated.

Example: "You root for the Dallas Cowboys. Explain how this does NOT prove you like men?"

It was chill and relaxed, no one fucked with us. We just ran our mouths, and shot mortar rounds when we had to, then went back to chilling. Way better than being in garrison. Put a beret on me, and I'm pissed off.

"Hahahaha, right, gotcha. Hey, Suspect, outta curiosity...weren't you supposed to be out a few days ago?"

Your mother's a whore. Rounds complete, Suspect out.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009


Atleast once per day it seems, I have some dude from the company ask me why I'm not hitting up congress. Good question. Too cowardly. Don't have the balls to take off either. Staying isn't courage. It's conformity, it's familiar. The dudes who ditched out on Nam had more stones than I do.

Oh well. I'm going to do what any logical person would do. I'm going to sit here and repeatedly punch myself in the testicles for a minimum of a half an hour while force feeding myself my enlistment contract. You're fucking crazy if you think I can stay positive about this all the time. This back and forth tug of war bipolar bullshit will drag anyone through the mud.

Also: spare yourself the keystrokes if you're dying to tell me to stop whining and that this is my duty/I signed up for it. I skim past those. That way, you're only wasting one person's time: yours.

Also: hail satan.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

The Line Begins To Blur

At this point, I'm the only dude on God's watery blue testicle that isn't still shitting a brick wall over this stop-loss deal.

Angry, embittered Suspect, yeah yeah, we get the point. Saw that routine a few dozen times. Fact of the matter is that I'm stuck. They got me, period, the end. After the initial rebellious phase, I decided that I wasn't going to draw attention to myself. Under the radar, stay out of trouble and escape with what little dignity I could pick up on my way out.

Now, things are different. I just want to do it. Get in the game. Play it by the rules. Suck it up and do the job. Hell, college is just a noun to me now. Not the near-tangible salvation it was a couple months ago. For the time being, I think it might not even exist. There are no schools. No careers.

There's only desert boots and green infantry carrier vehicles. 5.56mm tracers and cheat sheats with Arabic phrases on them. All it took was one little trip to Yakima to get that deployed feeling, and I was back. Loved it way more than being in garrison.

Let's face it, garrison fucking SUCKS. It's not til you're out THERE, doing the shit you're supposed to do, that you actually feel like you're in the real army.

Did some hard thinking about the Hajis. No, I don't hate all of them. They just depress me. The lifestyle they live, some of the mentalities, oh, and suicide bombers too. I'd like to see those folks join the peaceful world and just kick it. I'm sure our economies are on par right now anyway.

But I'm not Jesus. I'm not a diplomat. An "ambassador" of sorts. Fully armed. And I'm not changing shit. These wars aren't ever going to fucking stop, no matter how much chai I fry my taste buds with, how much bread I tear apart with greedy fingers, no matter how many soccer balls I give out or how many mistranslated jokes I tell.

It always comes back to one simple thing: pull security. S'all you can do. Make sure your gear is good to go, and scan your lane. Sweat. Watch. Sigh. Snap back to it. Get up and move out, a block later, take a knee, suck back a little water, scan for threats that aren't there. Scan again anyway. Think about your bunk. Snap out of it and scan. Ignore the monotony. Don't look at your watch. Don't look at the calendar. Don't count days. Just make sure your equipment and your vehicle are good, and keep pulling security. For one more year.

You'll never have that action movie face-to-face with your enemy. If somehow you did, you sure as shit wouldn't know, and would be rendering your pisspoor excuse for a greeting as you passed him by down the street.

Hearts and minds. They smile through clenched teeth and wave, all smiles. "Ha, yes, good, good Ameriki. Very nice, come tell us how to live. Please, Mr. Ameriki, wake my family up in the middle of the night for one of your little missions, ok? K, thanks, you dogshit. Tell your Obama to hurry up and send you pigs back to your desolate sinful NASCAR events."

I don't want to hate them. I just want to make sure we have an understanding. Leave us alone and let us do our job, we're trying to get out of your hair. I promise not to be a dick unless I have even the slightest inkling that I could be at risk, so when I'm in the states, I promise, I'm a nice guy. Just keep your distance, forgive the intrusion, this wasn't my idea, but I got a gun, and you guys got bombs, and I'd feel a lot worse putting an innocent deer down than I would some guy with a boomboom vest. Innocent deer tastes good, too. So y'see where I stand, right? Exactly. That's why YOU stand way the fuck over THERE. Thanks pal. Just doing my job, wait it out, ok? See you at the World Cup.

Dude, I'm just trying to get along. That's all. I chose a game that you can't quit until it's over, and we're in overtime right now. In overtime, you play your ass off. And like any game, there are rules. You don't get very far when you insist on breaking them and fighting the current. I just want to play the game, by the rules, to completion. Single minded focus. This is the job, this is what has to be done. Gotcha, let's fucking execute.

Family and friends are taking this way worse than I am. I accept it. I'm ready. I'm fucking IN TO IT. Personally, I'm tired of hearing about it. Stop-Loss? Dude, that's old news.

Get in. Complete the mission. Get out.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Dust It Off

Back from a few days out in bumfuck Egypt. A modest sort of training. Seems my head is back in the game, and worse yet, I have a good outlook. Fuckin' sellout. Teaching privates? What a tool.

It's just one more deployment. I'm in.

Suspect signing off, showering up, terrorizing the populace once more. To anyone on I-5 that waved and I didn't wave back, sorry. I was probably yelling at a private. Here's your shout-out.

And another shout to the blonde in the gold Jeep, blowing kisses towards the big green monsters and involuntarily extended suckers protruding from them. I doubt she knew just how filthy we were.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Stop-Loss Date Pushed Back

Due to recent events that I have no knowledge of so far, the cut-off date for this unit's stop-loss has been moved back.

Missed it by 14 days. Oh well. The money's good. Til next week, Suspect out.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Check The Date

No way in HELL would I ever re-up. You must be out your damn mind, son. Let me reiterate something for you.



Article I.
I am an American short-timer. I serve in the forces into which I was so carelessly drafted/enlisted/recalled/stop-lossed. I am prepared to leave them at the time so designated by the Department of the Army, or sooner if at all possible.

Article II.
I will never extend or re-enlist of my own free will. If I am in command, I will never allow my fellow short-timers to fraternize with the lifers.

Article III.
If I am called before the Commanding Officer, I will continue to resist his re-enlistment talks by all means available. I will make every effort to escape.

Article IV.
If I should become the victim of an involuntary extension, I will keep the faith with my fellow short-timers. If I am the shortest, I will assume command; if not, I will obey the shortest.

Article V.
When questioned, should I become the object of a re-enlistment interview, I am bound to give only my name, rank, service number, date of birth and date I am due to be discharged.

Article VI.
I will never forget that I am an American short-timer, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which have made carefree, happy civilians out of thousands of short-timers before me.

Never give in.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Well, Why Not

I've explored all avenues and options, gave them all serious considerations, and decided that the smartest thing I could do is take action before this stop-loss thing becomes more official.

Hopefully you're sitting down. If you aren't, you might want to rethink your computer setup.

I re-enlisted for three years today.

Yeah yeah yeah, say what you want. I got a really good deal. 25 large. We're going to do the ceremony before close of business today. I'll post doctored/blurry pics as soon as I'm done.