Today, my complaint is about sheep.
They are pompous animals. Think they're all bad 'n' stuff cuz they grow ridiculous amounts of hair. Outrageous amounts of hair, really. Who needs that much fuzz?
And when they get fully furry, they just waddle around like cotton balls with legs - and made of wool. Not cotton. I'd be more respectful if they were made of cotton. At least that stuff is useful.
I don't mean to start any arguments here. Sheep aren't like penguins, with their own movie that actually makes them look smart. That's the only reason people like penguins, anyway. They are truly evil creatures. But back to sheep...
Sheep are stupid, and serve no purpose other than to grow non-synthetic fibers that is just as itchy as synthetic, if not more, and to be both soul partner and source of income for most of Tennessee.
They even have a song! Here's my song:
Bah! Bah! Dumb sheep - Make me a shirt.
Catchy, isn't it?
If you see a sheep, don't try to hit it with anything smaller than a Ford F-150 (the old ones.) God may have made them stupid, but he gave them protection. That fur acts as a cushion against blows, and in cases of extreme gravitation pull when they are led off of a cliff by a person with a well-trained sheepdog, a parachute. Unless you've got the time to shave every one of them, we need a plan. Wallace, of Wallace & Grommit Fame, had a brilliant machine for this very thing. We can't wait until the next shaving season to start this war, people. The Genocide of Sheep commences today!
And if you doubt me, look into the eyes of the evil animal with the "No" sign over it above. Can't you just see the plotting? CAN'T YOU?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I was diagnosed officially in April/May of 2007. It wasn't a surprise. Some people wanted, even tried for those words. People who were getting out, looking for that little bit of disability.
Of course I wasn't sleeping. I avoided stressful situations of any sort, I had problems with crazy drivers. I wanted to be armed 24/7. I knew the signs. I just wanted help.
The Doc for my unit couldn't confirm it, so he sent me to the Floor Seven of the hospital. Within an hour, I got the official word. It didn't help. In fact, it probably hurt more than it helped. If I had not known, I probably would have forced it away. More on the possible good/evil of that later.
I spent four months talking to my doctor. At first, I felt better. My words were rushed, at first, because I wanted so much to completely spill what was driving me to all sorts of paranoid and skittish. But when I felt I had started to get something done, my hour was up. It hurt. More than most people ever know.
After that first one, it felt like I was forcing myself to spew my feelings, so I could get as much done as possible. Therapy had, in one session, become like every other aspect of my life. It wasn't worth it. I got a few tips that helped me sleep, but the biggest problem, my anger, never dissipated. So I eventually got to the point where I told the Doctor that I had no more issues, because as much as I liked getting out of work, I hate wasting my time.
So almost a year later, here I am. Deployment is advancing on me again, and I am more nervous of returning home twice as jacked up as I was last time, which would definitely not bode well for the marriage that I love so much.
Back to that thing I mentioned before. I don't worry about the deployment. I have a specific job, and certain personnel requirements within my unit dictate that I stay decently safe, or at least within five minutes of my work, where I will be required to answer a ridiculous question before I can leave, that means I shouldn't be doing grunt work. Not that I want to, I had enough of that last time.
But now I worry about getting nervous about the little things that most people don't know about, but most Marines and Soldiers, along with certain Sailors and Airmen can attest to. They say it's the little things that can kill you. The Details that you miss and boom! You no longer make witty comments.
My fear of fearing these things once I return is what bothers me now.
But my hope is that my means of deployment will assist the healing before I even get home, and once I do, my beautiful wife will be there for me, like she always has.
I just hope I can open up to her this time, without worrying about scaring her away.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
In the news today we have a fight to beat John McCain. It's not a fight to decide who the best person for the Whitehouse is. It is in no way a debate over who would be best to lead this country and it's troops. It is a struggle over your gag reflex.
John McCain, prior service, POW, general ass-kicker, seems to scare the Democrats. Cool.
Vote for the party that doesn't focus on the faces.
In a brief comment regarding Senor Port's post, I think that they all just want to throw the shiniest things out there, because everyone knows America loves shiny.
Older news here, but still amusing. I, as a Marine, am seriously surprised that there was no physical action taken against this rare breed of uber-douche. But hey, I am glad this hippie lawyer is currently being throw all over the media... wait. No one covers anything that these idiots do. Only the Pendleton 8, the ones that [allegedly] commited war crimes, even though the 'allegedly' part isn't really important to newscasters, get airtime. Possible crimes against people who assist in the murders of my fellow servicemen versus actual crimes against persons who have volunteered for a lifestyle beyond what any recruiter will tell you about. I think this guy should get no jailtime, but be made to enlist in the Marine Corps and sent to boot camp (San Diego, of course). I got $5 sayin' he'd cry before getting on the bus.
Posted by Chris Ness at 5:45 PM
The past three weeks ROCKED! Seventeen days of sitting around waiting for time to pass while other people twiddle their thumbs in anticipation of some sort of plan being formed, while the plan formers wonder why they can't check their hotmail. FAN-TASTIC!