Cleveland is a city that celebrates its relative obscurity. While many Americans may find this concept bizarre, Cleveland residents take comfort in their role as a ‘where is that, again?’ destination. Known by its unofficial motto: ‘The city that’s not Cincinnati’; Cleveland now finds itself center-stage in a nuclear drama most Americans were blissfully unaware of.
In 2009, Cleveland, along with Detroit, Philadelphia, and New Orleans, were charter members of the Government’s new ‘Axis of Desperation’ watch-list. For months Washington, D.C. officials debated how to handle this new threat. Options discussed included urban rejuvenation, overhauling the education system, or walling the cities off. Of all the alternatives considered, only a large-scale nuclear strike garnered unanimous support.
Cleveland residents balked at the prospect of their quaint city becoming a series of radioactive craters. One resident voiced her displeasure to Congress, stating that, “While it’s true Lebron James left our beautiful city, our sidewalks are in great condition and we have that thing downtown that serves homemade churros.” D.C. officials dismiss such comments as “ludicrous”. “It’s Cleveland, for crying out loud!” decried one Ohio lawmaker. “Living in this state is bad enough. But when you wake up every day in Cleveland, all you have to look forward to is a mushroom cloud.”
Canada’s government, worried that radioactive fallout would drift over its cities, lodged a formal complaint with Washington and United Nations officials over the plan to bomb two Great Lakes-area cities. However, Canadian officials withdrew their protest after the U.S. assured them no refugees would escape the attacks and cross the border. Both sides believed minor radiation sickness among Canada’s citizenry was a fair price to pay for destruction of the two cities.
Cleveland’s outlook became increasingly grim, but they found hope in an unlikely ally. At a cabinet-level brief of the proposed strike, the Secretary of Health and Human Services (HHS) commented how sad it would be to see the home of hot wings become a smoldering wasteland. His colleagues didn’t have the heart to tell him Buffalo was several hundred miles east of Cleveland, and allowed him to continue the semi-coherent rant. Absent facts regarding the origin of ‘Buffalo Wings’, the HHS head lobbied Congress to save Cleveland from impending doom. Out of respect for the Secretary’s legendary ignorance, an agreement between the White House and Congress gave Cleveland a reprieve…for now. One official, who asked not to be identified, said he’s confident Cleveland will be gone by 2013. “It’s inevitable…because it’s Cleveland. CLEVELAND!”
The residents of Detroit and Philadelphia accepted their fates early. “Heck, I’d bomb this city today”, relayed one small business owner. There was no comment from New Orleans, presumably because rampant illiteracy prevented them from reading the announcement.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Flies!
Well, the flies have returned from wherever it is they vacation during the winter months. Before you question the timing of that statement, consider the general heartiness of animals native to Afghanistan. When they decide winter is over...it's over. Those who know me are aware of my softer side when it comes to animals. If the choices are to 'squash' or 'usher them towards the door, I always choose the latter. (That kindness does not extend to bloodsuckers. They die on the spot...no questions asked.) My policy of détente with insects has been a source of friction in my marriage for as long as I've been married. My wife views the insect nation as a scourge that must be eradicated. She's convinced that all bugs have but one goal: to crawl in her mouth while she sleeps. As I've conducted no studies related to her claim, I can't dispel her assertion a 'crazy'. To keep the peace I must occasionally acquiesce to her warmongering spirit and send a spider to oblivion. Though I always do so in protest.
When I arrived in Afghanistan, I decided the bugs here deserved no less of a chance at living a happy, productive two weeks than their American counterparts. On the first day of flies, which we'll refer to as F-day, a couple got into my CHU. No worries...I'll simply 'shoo' them towards the door and carry on with my work. It worked like a charm until I opened the door. Turns out the flies pulled the old 'Rope-a-Dope' on me. The two I tried to get out flew behind me and six more flew in. Okay...flies are disgusting, but as long as they didn't bother me I'd let them live. We lived in harmony for about two minutes before the fun began.
The squadron of flies began swarming me as if I owed them money. They would land on my head, neck, ear, hand; anywhere with skin. This gang wanted me to know they were crawling on me. My day soon became an episode of the 'Three Stooges'...with only one stooge, of course. It was a pathetic scene. I was hitting myself in the back of the head, slapping my ears, hitting my neck; pure abuse! The flies mockingly flew around my face, and while I can't be sure, I think I heard two laughing. The flies nearly succeeded in driving me out of the room until one crossed the line. The fly, who I'm sure planned this from the beginning landed on my left eyelid. Doing what comes natural, I tried to get the fly away from my eye...with my fist. Yes, I punched myself in the eye. But that wasn't enough for this jerk. He landed on my right eyelid, which caused me to punch myself in that eye. And with that, détente ended. I immediately adopted my wife's insect policy...obliteration.
I grabbed a magazine and started swatting those jerks out of the sky with the force of Barry Bonds on steroids. (Or maybe I should just say Barry Bonds...) Once on the ground, I stomped them like the dirt they were. Only they didn't stop moving with one stomp, or two. I had to stomp these invertebrates with a laughable shell of a body three times to kill them...all eight of them. The flies back home normally died in the fall, but these Afghan flies require additional violence to be dispatched.
From there, the flies have only gotten worse. Instead of attacking me head-on, they now use psychological operations to drive me crazy. They'll land my head, sprint across, then fly away. The result? I'm always checking my head for flies! Turns out the asses may come out on top after all (Mom: sorry about the potty word, but you'd call them that too if you were here.) I'm sure the fly saga will continue to drive me batty, and with the addition of gnats and malarial mosquitoes, things should get interesting quick.
-ckj
When I arrived in Afghanistan, I decided the bugs here deserved no less of a chance at living a happy, productive two weeks than their American counterparts. On the first day of flies, which we'll refer to as F-day, a couple got into my CHU. No worries...I'll simply 'shoo' them towards the door and carry on with my work. It worked like a charm until I opened the door. Turns out the flies pulled the old 'Rope-a-Dope' on me. The two I tried to get out flew behind me and six more flew in. Okay...flies are disgusting, but as long as they didn't bother me I'd let them live. We lived in harmony for about two minutes before the fun began.
The squadron of flies began swarming me as if I owed them money. They would land on my head, neck, ear, hand; anywhere with skin. This gang wanted me to know they were crawling on me. My day soon became an episode of the 'Three Stooges'...with only one stooge, of course. It was a pathetic scene. I was hitting myself in the back of the head, slapping my ears, hitting my neck; pure abuse! The flies mockingly flew around my face, and while I can't be sure, I think I heard two laughing. The flies nearly succeeded in driving me out of the room until one crossed the line. The fly, who I'm sure planned this from the beginning landed on my left eyelid. Doing what comes natural, I tried to get the fly away from my eye...with my fist. Yes, I punched myself in the eye. But that wasn't enough for this jerk. He landed on my right eyelid, which caused me to punch myself in that eye. And with that, détente ended. I immediately adopted my wife's insect policy...obliteration.
I grabbed a magazine and started swatting those jerks out of the sky with the force of Barry Bonds on steroids. (Or maybe I should just say Barry Bonds...) Once on the ground, I stomped them like the dirt they were. Only they didn't stop moving with one stomp, or two. I had to stomp these invertebrates with a laughable shell of a body three times to kill them...all eight of them. The flies back home normally died in the fall, but these Afghan flies require additional violence to be dispatched.
From there, the flies have only gotten worse. Instead of attacking me head-on, they now use psychological operations to drive me crazy. They'll land my head, sprint across, then fly away. The result? I'm always checking my head for flies! Turns out the asses may come out on top after all (Mom: sorry about the potty word, but you'd call them that too if you were here.) I'm sure the fly saga will continue to drive me batty, and with the addition of gnats and malarial mosquitoes, things should get interesting quick.
-ckj
Life Lessons...and Such
After much gnashing of teeth, I've come to terms with not being able to upload pictures to my blog. As a product of the MTV generation, I need visuals to compensate for my lack of imagination. For the younger folks out there, I'm speaking of the time when MTV played music...not shows where Flavor Flav and Brigitte Nielsen hook up to engage in random unholiness. (I guess she took Ivan Drago's loss to Rocky pretty hard.) But before we stray too far off course, let's regroup.
As I was saying, pictures are those necessary gap fillers to keep a person's attention without making the author work too hard. After all, story without pictures is like Thanksgiving without food...all that's left is conversation. And let's be honest, do you really care about Aunt Sally's bunions? Without food, how would you distract that cousin who always wants to 'borrow' money, but never plans on paying you back? If we were forced to rely solely on relationships to get us through Thanksgiving, we'd never visit most of our relatives again! We need the gorge-induced stupor to get us over the hump (or humps, as Andy Sipowicz would say).
This week's blog entry is about the combination people, places, and circumstances that make up those nuggets of wisdom called 'life lessons'. I had the opportunity to live in Alaska for a few years. Anyone who fails to run away from me within the first few minutes of being introduced will soon know my love of 'The Last Frontier'. I love everything about the state...except the mosquitoes. If I had but one word to describe those little buggers, I'd choose 'aggressive'. How bad are they? During the initial spawn they'll try to get blood from anything, including wood. I witnessed a mosquito repeatedly sticking her 'blood chute' into different parts of the banister on our balcony. Not just wood...painted, treated wood! Anyway, today's life lesson is about teamwork and how there are limits to what a friend will do for you.
Teamwork is touted as the lifeblood of all organizations (as opposed to the 'deathblood', I guess). It's a way of controlling the by-products of people naturally forming cliques and clubs based on similarities among them. 'Jocks and nerds', as it were. The military is no different, only teamwork here could mean taking a bullet for your buddy. Service members often form bonds with each other that eclipse those they have with family members. All for one and one for all, except...
During a nice organizational run (PT for the laymen) through the woods, we were joined by a black bear cub. It wasn't threatening us; the little guy just wanted to play. First, allow me to say such a situation is only cute in cartoons. In real life, cubs are never far from mom...who tends to get angry when humans are near her babies. You can try to debate this with the parent, but I assure you it's a fruitless endeavor and you'll just end up one of two ways:
1. Dead
2. Almost dead, but wishing you were fully dead
That means when you see a young animal whose mature parent outweighs you by several hundred pounds, consider the baby a walking billboard for 'FREE BRUTAL DEATH'. So the baby is jogging along with us, and its sibling is at the wood's edge excitedly jumping around ready to join in. I then heard two things that sent chills down my spine. The first was mama bear angrily coming out of the woods. The second was one of my comrades yelling words I'll never forget:
“Every man for himself”...the battle cry uttered prior to being trampled by your friends trying to escape. Consider the phrase a liability waiver for all involved. Almost in unison, 25 adults began screaming and frantically running away from the cub. The startled cub ran back to momma, who quickly herded her babies into the brush. It was at that point I realized few people are willing to be ripped apart by an angry animal...especially if they're not the slowest person in the group.
That's it for this week. While you're pondering my lesson in teamwork, I hope you'll join me in raising awareness of something that plagues our world. We need to have the citizens in developed, developing, and undeveloped nations join together and ban ear-buds. Why? Because one always falls out of my ear while I'm exercising, which means they suck and should go away.
-ckj
As I was saying, pictures are those necessary gap fillers to keep a person's attention without making the author work too hard. After all, story without pictures is like Thanksgiving without food...all that's left is conversation. And let's be honest, do you really care about Aunt Sally's bunions? Without food, how would you distract that cousin who always wants to 'borrow' money, but never plans on paying you back? If we were forced to rely solely on relationships to get us through Thanksgiving, we'd never visit most of our relatives again! We need the gorge-induced stupor to get us over the hump (or humps, as Andy Sipowicz would say).
This week's blog entry is about the combination people, places, and circumstances that make up those nuggets of wisdom called 'life lessons'. I had the opportunity to live in Alaska for a few years. Anyone who fails to run away from me within the first few minutes of being introduced will soon know my love of 'The Last Frontier'. I love everything about the state...except the mosquitoes. If I had but one word to describe those little buggers, I'd choose 'aggressive'. How bad are they? During the initial spawn they'll try to get blood from anything, including wood. I witnessed a mosquito repeatedly sticking her 'blood chute' into different parts of the banister on our balcony. Not just wood...painted, treated wood! Anyway, today's life lesson is about teamwork and how there are limits to what a friend will do for you.
Teamwork is touted as the lifeblood of all organizations (as opposed to the 'deathblood', I guess). It's a way of controlling the by-products of people naturally forming cliques and clubs based on similarities among them. 'Jocks and nerds', as it were. The military is no different, only teamwork here could mean taking a bullet for your buddy. Service members often form bonds with each other that eclipse those they have with family members. All for one and one for all, except...
During a nice organizational run (PT for the laymen) through the woods, we were joined by a black bear cub. It wasn't threatening us; the little guy just wanted to play. First, allow me to say such a situation is only cute in cartoons. In real life, cubs are never far from mom...who tends to get angry when humans are near her babies. You can try to debate this with the parent, but I assure you it's a fruitless endeavor and you'll just end up one of two ways:
1. Dead
2. Almost dead, but wishing you were fully dead
That means when you see a young animal whose mature parent outweighs you by several hundred pounds, consider the baby a walking billboard for 'FREE BRUTAL DEATH'. So the baby is jogging along with us, and its sibling is at the wood's edge excitedly jumping around ready to join in. I then heard two things that sent chills down my spine. The first was mama bear angrily coming out of the woods. The second was one of my comrades yelling words I'll never forget:
“OH (fill-in-the-blank)! It's a (fill-in-the-blank) baby bear! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!”
“Every man for himself”...the battle cry uttered prior to being trampled by your friends trying to escape. Consider the phrase a liability waiver for all involved. Almost in unison, 25 adults began screaming and frantically running away from the cub. The startled cub ran back to momma, who quickly herded her babies into the brush. It was at that point I realized few people are willing to be ripped apart by an angry animal...especially if they're not the slowest person in the group.
That's it for this week. While you're pondering my lesson in teamwork, I hope you'll join me in raising awareness of something that plagues our world. We need to have the citizens in developed, developing, and undeveloped nations join together and ban ear-buds. Why? Because one always falls out of my ear while I'm exercising, which means they suck and should go away.
-ckj
Friday, February 18, 2011
Dreams
27 Jan 11
What is a dream? I found myself pondering that question after waking up from a doozy. Oddly enough it wasn't the dream that woke me up, it was the eerie silence. After a week at J-bad, I've become accustomed to noise. Aircraft on the flight line; vehicles driving by my quarters all night; my air conditioning unit trying to free itself from the wall...the sounds of slumber.
Before diving into the dream, I should share a bit of history. My fifth grade teacher was named Mr. Hurst, and like most educators privileged enough to experience me, he hated my guts. Everyday at F.R. Danyus Elementary School was like my own private Shawshank Redemption. One of the more memorable exchanges between us went a little like this:
Mr. Hurst: “Chris, I think it's time for you to be quiet.”
Me: “I think it's time for you to leave me alone.”
Mr. Hurst: “Okay Chris, you just bought a day of detention.”
Me: “Whatever!”
Mr. Hurst: “Make that two days.”
Me: “You don't scare me.”
Mr. Hurst: “Three days!”
Me: “We'll see what my mom has to say about this.”
Mr. Hurst: “FOUR DAYS!”
Me: “How about I just shut up now...”
He actually ended up giving me five days of detention because he...how did he phrase it, oh yeah, “despised” me. As for what my mother had to say about it, let's just say I lost on that front as well and leave it at that. Two-front conflicts are rarely winnable, and my venture into that arena was no different. But you have to admit telling an eleven year-old kid you despise him is pretty mean.
How does this relate to my dream? Well it happens that I was a fifth grade teacher at that same elementary school. I was dealing with a lippy child who looked remarkably similar to me. He wouldn't shut up...it was amazing. He was a know-it-all with a wise-guy remark for everything I said. I wanted to throw a chair at him. Holy cow that kid was annoying!
After waking up, I had time to think about that disturbing dream. Was it my sub-conscious' way of saying, “Chris, you have lived up to your full 'jerk' potential”; or was I merely suffering indigestion from the sizable coffee drink I had before bed. I'm willing to go along with Scrooge's mindset that crazy dreams can be traced to 'a blot of mustard' or 'a crust of bread'...or a large latte frappe. But more than likely it was my sub-conscious hard at work being a jerk itself.
I guess there is some credibility to the sub-conscious angle. After all, it seems silly to blame being challenged to a fight by my tenth grade history teacher on indigestion.
-ckj
What is a dream? I found myself pondering that question after waking up from a doozy. Oddly enough it wasn't the dream that woke me up, it was the eerie silence. After a week at J-bad, I've become accustomed to noise. Aircraft on the flight line; vehicles driving by my quarters all night; my air conditioning unit trying to free itself from the wall...the sounds of slumber.
Before diving into the dream, I should share a bit of history. My fifth grade teacher was named Mr. Hurst, and like most educators privileged enough to experience me, he hated my guts. Everyday at F.R. Danyus Elementary School was like my own private Shawshank Redemption. One of the more memorable exchanges between us went a little like this:
Mr. Hurst: “Chris, I think it's time for you to be quiet.”
Me: “I think it's time for you to leave me alone.”
Mr. Hurst: “Okay Chris, you just bought a day of detention.”
Me: “Whatever!”
Mr. Hurst: “Make that two days.”
Me: “You don't scare me.”
Mr. Hurst: “Three days!”
Me: “We'll see what my mom has to say about this.”
Mr. Hurst: “FOUR DAYS!”
Me: “How about I just shut up now...”
He actually ended up giving me five days of detention because he...how did he phrase it, oh yeah, “despised” me. As for what my mother had to say about it, let's just say I lost on that front as well and leave it at that. Two-front conflicts are rarely winnable, and my venture into that arena was no different. But you have to admit telling an eleven year-old kid you despise him is pretty mean.
How does this relate to my dream? Well it happens that I was a fifth grade teacher at that same elementary school. I was dealing with a lippy child who looked remarkably similar to me. He wouldn't shut up...it was amazing. He was a know-it-all with a wise-guy remark for everything I said. I wanted to throw a chair at him. Holy cow that kid was annoying!
After waking up, I had time to think about that disturbing dream. Was it my sub-conscious' way of saying, “Chris, you have lived up to your full 'jerk' potential”; or was I merely suffering indigestion from the sizable coffee drink I had before bed. I'm willing to go along with Scrooge's mindset that crazy dreams can be traced to 'a blot of mustard' or 'a crust of bread'...or a large latte frappe. But more than likely it was my sub-conscious hard at work being a jerk itself.
I guess there is some credibility to the sub-conscious angle. After all, it seems silly to blame being challenged to a fight by my tenth grade history teacher on indigestion.
-ckj
COBRAS!
28 Jan 11
Afghanistan has cobras. This isn't some type of school yard proclamation like, “Sally has cooties”; or “Billy has lice”! No friends, it's much more serious than that. As far as I'm aware, this country has been inhabited by cobras for quite a while. Ordinarily that's not necessarily a bad thing. But ordinarily I'm not in Afghanistan. In fact, I've done a fantastic job living on continents where cobras are only allowed to exist in captivity. (Let's hear it for freedom!) Now that I'm here, the reality of cobras occupying the same territory as me is a little unnerving.
Don't get me wrong...I'm not usually the type to stick my nose in other ecosystems. I've always believed if Asia wanted to be home to animals such as the man-eating tiger, the man-eating monkey, and those stupid panda bears (that are just dying to eat people), it was simply none of my business.
North America's ecosystem is much easier to understand. Most things that could eat you will let you know it was coming. It's an ingenious design on nature's part. Anyone who has ever cleaned an animal prior cooking it knows how messy it can be. If the large animal gives you a few minutes to think about your fate, you're likely to evacuate your bowels in short order. VIOLA...self-cleaning dinner! Alligators are a different story, but as long as you steer clear of Florida, you're good there. But back to the cobra issue.
The obvious solution to this cobra problem is a combination of mongoose...s (or mongeese...whatever!) air dropped into Asia, and rapid deforestation. Give the cobras no refuge!
-ckj
Welcome to Jalalabad!
24 Jan 11
I finally made it to Jalalabad (which will be referred to as the much shorter and easier to spell 'J-bad' from now on)! Actually I arrived a while ago, but get on board with the excitement anyway. I could describe the location and terrain of the J-bad area, but why expose myself to such mundane...uh, mundaneness when I can let the World Wide Web do all the work.
It's been over a week since I updated the blog. Let's just say I've experienced some 'minor setbacks'...if one can consider a grand conspiracy of global proportions 'minor'. The good news is I have internet access at speeds far exceeding the stuff I had at Bagram. The bad news is the restrictions are, shall we say 'severe'. I knew there would be limited content available, which is why I resigned myself to halting work on the 'Chris Jones Emporium of Internet Gambling and Other Shady Endeavors' until I returned home. Still...these restrictions border on lunacy! Most images are blocked, so I can't Google myself (RATS!). Facebook is blocked, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Worst of all, my blog is blocked! I'll scope out the FOB for other internet options. We have a Green Beans and a MWR here. Hopefully one of them has a Wi-Fi hotspot.
Since I know you're wondering, “what the heck is Green Beans”; it's Asia's answer to Starbucks. 'Asia' the continent, not 'Asia' the group.
I've got a pretty sweet set-up here in J-bad. I have an entire shipping container to myself! Don't let the mental image fool you, it's a five-star set-up.
Well, that's it for this installment. Time to see if I can find an internet spot that will let me upload a blog. Otherwise, I'll be stuck stockpiling entries until I find some decent internet! If I'm really lucky, I'll be able to play blackjack while I wait.
Until next time!
ckj
Hiatus
After an exhaustive search, I've finally found a way to update my blog. Okay, “exhaustive” may be a slight exaggeration. Let's just say I 'stumbled across' the solution. I thought about just giving up on it all together, but I asked myself: “What would Rick Astley do?”
If you said 'dance', then you're nothing more than an 80's poser who obviously missed his videos. The correct answer is never gonna give...uh...my blog up. And never gonna let YOU down. After all, I do this for you.
I've written several entries with the intention of posting them when I have a chance, so rather than interrupt the seamless continuity of those entries, this entry will be dedicated to a few things I've learned in-theater so far.
- Little things can make all the difference during a deployment. For instance, the fine folks at the dining facility do a great job offering a variety of meals for us. Stuffed peppers is one of my favorites dishes. Before you read the previous sentence again, the term 'stuffed peppers' is singular in that we're talking about a dish. Therefore it wouldn't be “stuffed peppers are” unless you're discussing a quantity of said dish. Now that we've resolved that issue, back to the stuffed peppers. It was a bad choice. I won't get into the details, but I'm fairly certain the secret ingredients were E-Lax and botulism. Oh well...maybe they'll be better next time. Yes, I will try them again. I like to live dangerously.
- Bingo night is a big deal. Any other time I'd scoff at the chance to win a second-rate chick flick. Throw a bingo card and a few chips into the mix, and all bets are off. The grand prize was a $15 gift card. EVERYONE wanted that card. Alas...I didn't win it. Heck, I didn't win anything. There's always next month.
- The ability to eat whenever you want, as many times as you want, can be a bad idea. I have a good system in place: a Clif Bar for breakfast, a couple of sandwiches and a salad for lunch, and a decent dinner. All in all, probably about 1800 calories. “Where is he going with this?”, you're wondering. Well, I was behind this individual at the sandwich bar and he was complaining about how he's gained 50 pounds while deployed. That's right folks...50 pounds! “You're supposed to eat five meals a day”, he continued complaining. “I eat breakfast, then I hit the sandwich bar about mid-morning. Then I eat lunch, followed by a couple of sandwiches in the afternoon. Then I eat a big dinner so I'm not hungry at night. Hmmm, can't argue with that logic. It won't be long before we're reading about the wall to his house being cut out so they can get him to the hospital...on a flat-bed truck.
That's it for now. I have to get ready for Salsa Night.
And they better have enough chips!
ckj
If you said 'dance', then you're nothing more than an 80's poser who obviously missed his videos. The correct answer is never gonna give...uh...my blog up. And never gonna let YOU down. After all, I do this for you.
I've written several entries with the intention of posting them when I have a chance, so rather than interrupt the seamless continuity of those entries, this entry will be dedicated to a few things I've learned in-theater so far.
- Little things can make all the difference during a deployment. For instance, the fine folks at the dining facility do a great job offering a variety of meals for us. Stuffed peppers is one of my favorites dishes. Before you read the previous sentence again, the term 'stuffed peppers' is singular in that we're talking about a dish. Therefore it wouldn't be “stuffed peppers are” unless you're discussing a quantity of said dish. Now that we've resolved that issue, back to the stuffed peppers. It was a bad choice. I won't get into the details, but I'm fairly certain the secret ingredients were E-Lax and botulism. Oh well...maybe they'll be better next time. Yes, I will try them again. I like to live dangerously.
- Bingo night is a big deal. Any other time I'd scoff at the chance to win a second-rate chick flick. Throw a bingo card and a few chips into the mix, and all bets are off. The grand prize was a $15 gift card. EVERYONE wanted that card. Alas...I didn't win it. Heck, I didn't win anything. There's always next month.
- The ability to eat whenever you want, as many times as you want, can be a bad idea. I have a good system in place: a Clif Bar for breakfast, a couple of sandwiches and a salad for lunch, and a decent dinner. All in all, probably about 1800 calories. “Where is he going with this?”, you're wondering. Well, I was behind this individual at the sandwich bar and he was complaining about how he's gained 50 pounds while deployed. That's right folks...50 pounds! “You're supposed to eat five meals a day”, he continued complaining. “I eat breakfast, then I hit the sandwich bar about mid-morning. Then I eat lunch, followed by a couple of sandwiches in the afternoon. Then I eat a big dinner so I'm not hungry at night. Hmmm, can't argue with that logic. It won't be long before we're reading about the wall to his house being cut out so they can get him to the hospital...on a flat-bed truck.
That's it for now. I have to get ready for Salsa Night.
And they better have enough chips!
ckj
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