Can't man, I've got a profile.

2009-07-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

“Matt, get in here!” were words that Jon would soon regret…

After summoning me into his office Jon thought that this would just be another normal task, that I would complete without issue or hesitation.

Caveat: In the military, a profile is a piece of paper that says what you can and can’t do. As in, you have a fucked up knee and have a no running profile, or a dicked out shoulder and cant do pushups.

Well when I was called into the boss’s office I decided that today was going to be the day that I didn’t want to do shit, and that I should call his bluffs. As Jon called me into his office, he was already spouting out orders and such on what he needed me to do up at the hospital, to which I replied with a simple “I can’t, I have a profile”

Jon: “You can’t fix a radio because you have a profile?”
Matt: “Yeah, it sucks…”
Jon: “Let me see your profile then…”
Matt: I had to think of something, so I did what I always do when I’m confused… I whipped out my dick.
Jon: “Let me see your profile.”

This was my cue to walk over and drop my balls/dong on his desk, with a resounding thud.

At this point Jon was amazed and in astonishment asked me to put my profile in his hand.

So my options were:
Walk away and do my job quietly like everyone else
Drop my balls in his hand and call his pride out

I chose B.

As I dropped my sack into his hand, Jon had a look of awe in his face, while trying to comprehend what had just happened, and how he could POSSIBLY one up me for this.

He found his answer.

Jon grabbed hold, and pulled on my berries like he was starting a lawn mower, circa 1985.

After he picked the cherries, I immediately fell to the ground in agony, and realized I had been beaten.

If you were wondering, the radio was fixed shortly after I regained my composure and was able to stand up.

Dude, what's that smell?

2009-07-10T08:45:00.001-07:00

Setting: Mosul, Iraq circa 2007

The day started out as any other day, and by that I mean we were doing the exact same shit we did the day before. And the day before that. And probably the shit we would do the day after that. But today would be one of those days that would make a boy into a man, a day that would be retold at every family function and every social gathering.

We were all just following our normal routine, grabbing some dinner and then back to work for a few more hours of Halo 3 before cutting out for the night, so we could rest up and do it again tomorrow. But this day was different.

As we were grudgingly walking the half mile back to our office from dinner, we stuck strictly to our routine of smoking and telling stories about the good ol' days. All of that changed as we crossed the halfway point, and I saw my friend double over in pain. As we all rushed over to see what was wrong, he winced in pain and proceeded to tell us as gracefully as possible: "Oh my god, I have to shit. Now". Normally this wouldn't be an issue, but in the middle of summer the port-a-shitters in Iraq are rancid. Imagine the smell of all of the suffering in the world, mixed with human excrement. That's about half of it.

Now we are all nursing Jon back to his feet, and as he finally stands back up, he takes a deep breath, arches his back, and looks like he's feeling much better. The day is looking up, and we think he just might be able to make it back to the office to give birth to the demon brewing inside of him.

If only that were the case.

Immediately as Jon arches his back, some asshole (read: me) decides to try out that funny trick we've all heard about; if you punch someone in the right place in the stomach they will evacuate their bowels immediately.

It works.

Like a charm.

At the exact moment my fists of fury rained down on Jon's stomach, he immediately doubled over both in pain and shock with a look of absolute fear in his eyes. He had just transitioned from the pain of being punched in the stomach to the fear of what was about to happen. At that exact moment the reality of the situation came full force to him, and he realized that there was nothing he could do to stop the torrent of liquid hatred that was soon to boil out of him.

Jon shit his pants.

If you missed that last line, Jon SHIT in his pants, with a quarter mile to walk before he would be in any situation to clean himself up.

At this moment he was struck with a very important decision:

A: He can walk the rest of the way like nothing is wrong, enjoying himself for all appearances

B: He can cowboy walk the duration of the trip, as a defeated man, ensuring that everyone we pass knows exactly what has happened to him

He chose A.

We all have to give credit where credit is due, and for a guy with a full sized brown baby in his pants, he played it pretty well. No one was able to tell that he had completely ruined a pair of underwear and quite possibly his pants.

EPILOGUE: After we made our way back, Jon's first reaction is to run into the community bathrooms, strip naked, leave his boxers in the trash can and attempt to wash the shame off of himself in the shower. He made it back to work with no one knowing what had happened... except for the fact that we told everyone immediately.

Is this real life?

Can't man, I've got a profile.

Dude, what's that smell?