I am not the only crazy one

Wednesday, May 24, 2006, 9:11 p.m.

I may have mentioned once or twice before that I work for a military newspaper, and that some of the people I work for/with are almost as mentally unstable as I am.

Seeing as how I've been too out of my mind with exhaustion and frustration to update this page in several days, obviously nothing has changed.

I would like to show you a small example of how short tempers can become on our newspaper-layout days, but unfortunately geography has made it impossible for me to physically sputter with rage at each and every one of you.

However, I think this image works just about as well. The editing marks were made by our managing editor, and the little quotes in the boxes are what my co-worker and I imagined he was thinking as he made said editing marks:

Of course, we didn't make up those captions until we had devised a failsafe escape plan.

Also, our colonel has informed us that from now on, he wants the completed newspaper on his desk by Tuesday morning instead of Wednesday morning. In other words, next week is going to ROCK. In the same way that being eaten alive by rabid ferrets ROCKS.

One of my co-workers and I were driving to lunch the other day when we found ourselves behind this Officially Bad-Ass Truck:

The stickers, if you can't read them, say ...
1) "LOUD PIPES SAVE LIVES"
2) "Against Kicking Saddam's Ass? Then You're Kissing Saddam's Ass"
3) "CHEVROLET: REDNECK TOYS FOR REDNECK BOYS"
4) "Sucks Gas and Hauls Ass"
5) "CHEVY: Eat'n Rams, Shit'n Fords."

Now, there's only one thing you can say after witnessing a vehicle like that (other examples being a Hummer H2, a bright yellow Mustang, and of course, any model Porsche) and we, of course, had to say it.

"So, what do you think -- three inches?"

"Definitely. Maybe two."

Okay, I haven't said much about Husband in a while (mainly because he gets all "You better not fucking write about me!" whenever I do), but something fairly awesome happened today as a result of him, and thus, it shouldn't cause him too much butt-hurt if I write about it.

Husband and I were driving in my car down the road on the military post where he works (I work at a different post, about 40 miles away), where the speed limit is 30 miles per hour.

An MP (Military Policeperson) pulls out behind us. We weren't breaking the law; he just happened to be traveling the same way we were.

Okay, so most people, when driving directly in front of an MP, will try to draw as little attention as possible to themselves. Well, Ha Ha, because please notice I said "most people," not "Husband."

Husband decided to slow down to 25 mph.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Fucking with the MP," he said matter-of-factly. "See, I'm even dangling my arm out the window. It's like I'm waving at him."

"Oh," I said. Because, hey, we're still not breaking any laws.

We turned onto another road, where the speed limit was now 40, and the MP was still behind us. Husband stepped on the gas about as heavily as a feather falls in a sandbox and gets us up to about 30.

The MP was still back there, and I swear to you now that I could FEEL the death beams he was shooting us, mile after mile, as we crept along at somewhere in the vicinity of 31.

Suddenly, the MP's loudspeaker crackled.

"THE SPEED LIMIT IS FORTY," it boomed. "SPEED UP."

How deeply do you think it cut into that MP's soul to tell us to "SPEED [the fuck] UP"? I think I'll go with "pretty fucking deeply," but even if not -- I'm counting this one as a victory.

Lastly, Husband is about to die in maybe two seconds (or at least claims he is, judging from the mournful bleats coming from the bedroom), so I'm going to go and soothe him. And you guys can send him some happy thoughts, too, if you want.

Love, peace, hair grease, etc.