Military Shit
An Army grunt stands in the cold rain wearing a
leaking poncho, with a 45-pound pack on his back, and holding a
10-pound individual weapon in hand, after road marching 12-miles,
he says with a whining simper, "Aw, this is
shit!".
A Marine snuffy, after having slogged ashore
from an amphibious landing, and marched 18-miles, stands in the
torrential rain with a 55-pound pack on his back, with an
automatic weapon in hand, and he says with a grim smirk,
"This is good shit!".
An Army Airborne Ranger low-crawls through the
stinking mud wearing a 65-pound pack on his back, with his issued
weapon in hand, after having parachuted from a low-flying
airplane into a jungle, then marched 25-miles to approach the
enemy positions at night, and he says with a contented grin,
"This is really great shit!".
A Navy SEAL, after being deployed from a stealth
submarine into the tumultuous ocean, paddling 30-miles through
monitors and mines to the shore, then swimming 12-miles through
the estuarial quagmire to get into position to assault an
isolated enemy camp, is up to his nose in a bug-infested swamp,
with a 75-pound pack on his back, holding a deadly weapon in each
hand, and he says with a wicked smile, "This is
unbelievably lovely shit!".
An Army SFer, after a clandestine jump from a
high-altitude aircraft to covertly parafoil into a foreign war
zone, infiltrates 20-miles behind enemy lines to link-up with
indigenous partisans, where his 85-pound rucksack is refitted
with classified munitions that augment his specialized small arms
used in the on-going guerrilla resistance campaign, involving an
immediate 15-mile night march across mountains and rivers to raid
an enemy fortification, after which battle another 20-mile
escape-and-evasion trek is undertaken to enlist replacements,
apply field-expedient medicine, emplace booby-traps, distribute
psy-op leaflets, rig temporary bridges or belays, avoid
surveillance detection, and kill predatory animals, so that it
can all be continued tomorrow, and he says with a bemused
beam, "This is truly fabulous hot shit!!".
An Air Force officer sits in an easy-chair in
his carpeted and air-conditioned BOQ suite,
holding a 5-pound bowl of buttered popcorn on his lap, a chilled
16-ounce beer in one hand, and the remote clicker in the other
hand, and he says with a disgusted scowl, "The cable TV just went
out? What kind of shit is this?!".
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