Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura
If there’s one thing I can’t stand is a weak-ass woman crying and acting all girly-frail and stupid to get what she wants or to have someone do shit for her. But I’m not going to lie to you. Once, quite by accident, this maneuver probably saved my life. It was when I was in the Army, in AIT (Advanced Individual Training) at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. We would go to classes all day, hold a formation afterward, and then we were all free to do what we wanted until the next morning formation. Ft. Sam had killer clubs, plus the San Antonio River Walk clubs, so as soon as we were released we’d head straight for the NCO Club, then the River Walk, and we’d dance and drink and talk to all the menz. I was quite popular in an environment where men outnumbered the women like 40 to 1 – considered sexy even, even in combat boots and BDUs. Anyway, before dolling up and heading out we’d check the roster to see if we had guard duty, and on this particular day I looked and saw my name and thought “Fuck, I have to stay sober to pull guard duty.” and I quickly checked and saw that I’d have until 1 in the morning to party. So off I went to party, and by party I mean dance with all the lonely men. Like shooting fish in a barrel, I’m telling ya. So when the clock struck midnight I shook all the men off of my arms, went back to the barracks to change into my uniform, and went to HQ to report to duty. When I got back, there stood my NCOIC all pissed and screaming “Where in the fuck where you, Ledford?!!” “Umm, I was at the River Walk, Sergeant.” “RIVER WALK? DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?” “Zero one Hundred hours, Sergeant.” “And what time were you to report to duty?” “Zero one hundred hours, Sergeant.” “WRONG! Zero zero zero one is one minute past midnight!” FUCK! OH. MY. GOD. I READ IT WRONG! I’M ALMOST AN HOUR LATE FOR GUARD DUTY!
Now anyone who is in the military or has been in the military knows this type of offense can be punishable by loss of pay, loss of rank, court-martial, and/or imprisonment. I stood there looking at the sergeant. I could feel all the color draining from my face. He glared back at me. I went to say I was sorry, to try to explain myself, but all I could picture was me in prison, busting rock at Fort Leavenworth with shackles on, my girlfriend Bertha winking at me from across the quarry. When I opened my mouth a little “squee” came out right before I busted out crying. I just knew I was going to go to prison. I broke down. In between the sobs I was all “I thought *SOB* it said *SOB* one o’clock *SOB*. I don’t want to be a lesbiaaaan. *SOB* Not that there is anything wrong with thaaat.*SOB*” The sergeant stared at me. My lower lip quivered as I snuffed back the snot. He shook his head. I’m pretty certain he thought I was going all Full Metal Straight Jacket on him. Then he said ”Don’t let it happen again.” and turned and left.
After pulling duty that night, I went back to the barracks, touched up my make-up where my mascara had run and went back to the clubs. I had escaped doing time and I was so happy I had to celebrate by doing my freedom interpretive dance on the dance floor, complete with an ode to the Alamo, Santa Anna’s eventual defeat by Sam Houston, with full-retard jazz hands. And the menz still wanted me. Fish. In. A. Barrel.
This incident involving one of my dinosaurs occurred yesterday evening around 6:12 p.m. The following is an accurate account of the incident to the best of my recollection.
The Incident
I was on the couch in the den watching bad reality television, the cats were on two separate chairs licking their butts, and Jack was on the floor chewing his rawhide chewy. I got up to get a bottle of water in the kitchen and upon my return I saw that my T-Rex was on the floor! I immediately ran to my fallen T-Rex, mentally making note that Jack was nowhere around so odds were my T-Rex would be alright. I put him back on the entertainment center shelf and turned to yell at the cats, figuring one of them threw him down when I noticed something.
The Injury
I was all “Holy shit, I wasn’t out of the room more than five minutes!” How could this be? Maybe it’s diabetes.
Diabetes
That’s his new name.
I decided to cook some fried chicken livers yesterday because I like fried chicken livers and it’s been years since I had any. Well, I heated my oil, dredged the livers through some flour, salted and peppered them, and then stood staring at them with a spatula in my hand waiting to turn them after the first side crisped. Suddenly, my kitchen was like the beach of Normandy on D-Day. The livers started popping like grenades and hot grease went flying like shrapnel. There was even sniper fire. I started screaming and squealing as I dodged the exploding splatters. Jack abandoned his post at my feet where he usually hangs bumming for handouts, and ran, tail tugged between his legs, into the other room like he was French. I looked at the spindly spatula in my hand and thought “I’m gonna need a bigger caliber here” and went for my large howitzer BBQ tongs I had in a drawer. I charged forward as I held a skillet lid in front of me like a flak jacket. After the battle was over, and I field dressed my wounds with some Neosporin and Band-Aids, I sat down at the table and enjoyed the spoils of war – chicken livers fried to perfection.
I rendered y’all a rendering of the aftermath:
Those sonsabitch livers ruined my favorite t-shirt.
P.S. I was going to title this entry “Saving Private Fryin’.” I don’t know why I didn’t. It would have fit, fo’ shizzle my nizzle.
I was missing for a few days NOT THAT ANYONE NOTICED because life was getting hard and by “life was getting hard” I mean all I wanted to do for two days was punch some bitches in their faces. Seriously, I was all ragey and pissy and I really don’t like to write when I’m all ate up with hate. No, when I’m all ate up with hate I like to lie on my couch and watch back-to-back episodes of Teen Mom 2 that I have recorded on my DVR. I don’t know why, but this calms me down. Well, that and about four gin and tonics. And poor J. When I’m all pissy I call him and just spew all the rage I feel and be all hormonally insane and shit and he listens to me all calm and sensibly because the man is like a fucking Nazi robot saint and then that starts pissing me off so I usually turn on him like a rabid dog. An example of my lunacy was when I called him yesterday and his exterminator guy was there and while I was talking to him I heard the exterminator guy in the background talking.
“Who in the hell is that guy talking too?”
“Me. He talks continuously the entire time he’s here.”
“Well tell him to shut up, that you’re on the phone.”
“Nah. I just let him ramble.”
“But it irritates me. Set the phone down and say ‘Listen motherfucker, I’m on the phone, so stop talking unless you’re going to tell some fucked up, gross, wild bug story that my girlfriend also wants to hear. If not, shut the fuck up.’ Do it. I’ll wait.”
“Laura, I’m not going to do that.”
“YOU. DON’T. LOVE. ME.” *click*
Then I watched Jenelle and her mother, who has legal custody of Jenelle’s kid from last season because Jenelle never stayed home and just wanted to smoke pot with her friends, get into a fight because Jenelle bailed her boyfriend Keifer, who’s not even her baby’s daddy and doesn’t even have a job or a place to live, out of jail after having him arrested in the first place for pushing her in a drunken argument and I felt all better.
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