Wednesday, December 15, 2004
New tanker's blog
...A 1rst Division tank platoon leader establishes his alpha-dogdom in Fallujah:
Of course he did. Guamanians are the closest thing to Supermen on the planet (eat your heart out, krauts!)
Plus, Guamanians and Scotsman can consume just about anything.
Now, as I mentioned, I think I got promoted beyond platoon leader once I demonstrated the common sense not to do things that make me puke.
But as one who has personally french-kissed a dead carp in the name of bravado, I can attest to the fact that if you don't have enough red-blooded, American competitive spirit to DEMONSTRATE your willingness to yack up your pancreas in a heaving, testosterone-induced spasm of sheer, unexquivogable manliness, then you probably don't have the jueves to don the gold bar in a combat arms platoon in the first place.
Well done, LT! And welcome to the blogosphere!
CPT Van
Then we decided that SPC Roby could do it. This kid was the Platoon Daddy's loader. He is from Guam and he eats all the time. He's short but he's jacked and is always chewing on something. Well he took the challenge. He whipped out his proverbial pimp-hand and bitch slapped me down by guzzling his quart of corn syrup in about 30 seconds. And when he was finished, he ate a few muffins and a couple of juice boxes for good measure.
At this point, I retired to my corner of the riverbank. I realized I had lost any credibility with my men. It was over. Until someone challenged me to chug a quart of Tobasco Sauce in less than a minute. I knew my reputation depended on it. I grabbed the bottle, ripped off the squirt cap with my knife and drank. It went down no problem. Then after about a minute, it felt like someone stabbed me in the stomach with a knife. I doubled over and couldnt stand up. My throat wouldnt stop burning. Suddenly, I puked up the whole quart and most of it went out my nose. That burned pretty bad. Every time I wretched, globs of Tobasco whipped back in long strings right into my eye. It was horrible. That burned even worse. It's 6 hours later and I'm back at Fob Scunion. I am still burping up Tabasco and it makes me quiver. Just writing this blog has made me gag twice in memory.
I won the hearts of my men back and I'll be posting a picture of Roby chugging that syrup. I swear he actually enjoyed it.
Of course he did. Guamanians are the closest thing to Supermen on the planet (eat your heart out, krauts!)
Plus, Guamanians and Scotsman can consume just about anything.
Now, as I mentioned, I think I got promoted beyond platoon leader once I demonstrated the common sense not to do things that make me puke.
But as one who has personally french-kissed a dead carp in the name of bravado, I can attest to the fact that if you don't have enough red-blooded, American competitive spirit to DEMONSTRATE your willingness to yack up your pancreas in a heaving, testosterone-induced spasm of sheer, unexquivogable manliness, then you probably don't have the jueves to don the gold bar in a combat arms platoon in the first place.
Well done, LT! And welcome to the blogosphere!
CPT Van
Comments:
Post a Comment
