yoU Suckers Missed Christmas - USMC

[Brittany St Jordan]

Now that my twelve weeks of physical endurance and mental rewiring were complete I was heading back home for a ten day retreat with the friends and family I left behind. It only takes three days to realize why they were left behind in the first place. There was plenty of drinking, which was great because after twelve weeks of sobriety getting fucked up was a lot easier than before. My friends and I were less social drinkers and more Olympic gold medal competition binge consumers of masses amounts of alcohol. We weren't ever limited to just beer either. We would be doing shots and mixed drinks until finally fading into the black oblivion of alcohol induced sleep. Otherwise known as a coma.

Of course I had to make the rounds to see all of my dear sweet loving family while I was in town. It was like my Grandmother had this mental checklist and made sure I was to at least stop in and say hello, even to the ones I really had no bond with whatsoever. Small town family is a total mindfuck. I had no idea that most people didn't have at least thirty relatives living within a ten mile radius. It was only by leaving that redneck town and joining the Marines that I realized how much of a fucking hillbilly I really was. Take away the electricity and I could have been fucking Amish.

Luckily for me my Uncle Sam required my presence in North Carolina for good old infantry training. Marine corps infantry training is where you take someone who has a tiny bit of a compassionate soul left after boot camp and rip it the fuck out. This would be where death of the enemy became the only option. There is no diplomatic solution or time to talk about our feelings when bullets and grenades are being hurled at us. Infantry training teaches us the basics of the Marine Corps manner of target designation. We can either fuck it, eat it or kill it. Those are the three basic ways that we assess our danger with.

We learned how to kill stuff using rifles, grenades, grenade launchers, 50 cal machine guns, SMAW rocket launchers and my baby, the mortar. I was one of the smarter grunts, which is like being the special Olympic gold medalist with highest SAT score, so I was assigned to being a mortarman. A mortar comes in two flavors, 60mm and 81mm and require using some interesting math like basic addiction and subtraction to get them on target. They also require that whoever is calling in the targets know how to read a fucking map. The simplified version is we are at point A and the target called in is point B. We look up the flight data of the rounds in a book and decide what data goes on the sight to get us on target. Then the gun monkeys lay aim and lob a 10-15 pound bullet, depending on type, up to about four and half miles and as long as we are within forty-five meters of the target we win.

This is, of course, the 81mm system I am referring to. Fuck those pussies and their cute little 60mm mortar with a trigger handle. The 81 was a beefy thing consisting of four parts. There was a baseplate, barrel, bipods, and the sight. The combined total weight of these all put together like they were the cock of Voltron would tip the scales at 92.5 pounds. The sound when a round goes down range creates a sound wave that compresses your lungs and sinus cavity. Just think what is like having eight of these going off dropping fifteen to twenty rounds each. There is no heavy metal drum solo that even comes close to the awesomeness of the power generated by the crew of the 81mm mortars.

The 81mm mortar would now be the only thing I would ever be focused on. Everything and anything we did from the moment we learned the nomenclature of each individual piece would be a relational building block exercise in increasing our ability to perform faster and with greater accuracy every time we touched our systems. Some people have five minutes to complete a task. With mortars we had less than sixty seconds from the second the call for fire came in to lay down the baseplate, slide the barrel into the locking ring as the bipods are positioned for the barrel to be clamped into place. Finally, the sight goes on and we sight in using our aiming stakes and the data the FDC (Math Monkeys in the Hummer) gave to us.

Then, we grab the round, remove the pin and hold the now live bomb by the very end of the nose and slide it into the barrel. Upon announcing “Hanging!!!” we are given the command “FIRE!!!” Upon which we let go of the round as we bring our hand under the barrel and bend forward away from the blast all in one clean motion. I could always hear the faint sound of metal on metal through my earplugs as the round slid down the barrel to the firing pin. Once that round makes contact with the firing pin the earth shatters with a sound of thunder straight from the balls of Zeus as the projectile is sent hurdling at a target off in the distance and rarely ever seen by us. It is only when the radio chatter comes in that we know in fact whether we hit our target or accidentally blew up a road going into the back of a base in Okinawa. Hence, needing to know how to read a fucking map when calling in targets.

Upon leaving the lap of luxury of Camp Lejune, North Carolina a whole bunch of got orders to go to Twentynine Palms, CA. This was just before Christmas so everyone was bitching and whining about not being to go home for the holidays. This all quickly came to end when we found out about strip clubs in Palm Springs and being a few hours from Tijuana. Titties and TJ is all took to convince ourselves the remainder of our four year tour in the desert paradise was going to be fun and exciting. Man, we really screwed the pooch on that one.

Twentynine Palms is a desert town in the middle of, well, a big fucking desert. It is hotter than the sweat on Satan's balls during the day and colder than the walls of ice around my heart at night. It would also be my home so I did what every Marine is told to do, adapt and overcome. See, I'm not bipolar, I'm a Marine. We arrived there and went to check in but it turned out that weren't even supposed to be there. The battalion we were about to join was in the middle of a three week field exercise so everyone was out having fun in the freezing December desert weather. Evidently the higher ups knew this and had told infantry school to send us home on leave until after the holidays. It was clear to see that nobody ever got that fucking memo.

So here we were, the new generation of the Corps ready to kick ass and take names, right after the hazing rituals for the next eighteen months. The Marine Corps is a fraternity, or sorority if you were born with a vagina, a very depraved, vile, and often borderline psychopathic fraternity. While the rest of the battalion was out seeing who could freeze their balls off in the cold first we were placed in barracks rooms. Nice warm and cozy barracks rooms. Have you ever come back from a really bad vacation and found some stranger now living in your room, watching your TV and possibly even sitting in your motherfucking chair? Our new roommates did and holy fuck were they pissed. Let the hazing begin.

These guys had been around for a few years and so they all outranked us. They were in no way our peers. This group of lunatics with authority would be the selected few that would shape and train us on a daily basis to be the next generation of leaders within the Marine Corps. Their whole purpose in life to was to ensure ours sucked in every fucking way possible. This is how the Marine Corps builds lean mean fighting machines. It is designed to piss us off to no fucking end, gives us the ability to kill someone and then tell us all of our problems are all because of that special someone. This is also why Marines are great at sex as well. All of that pent up anger and hostility has to go somewhere.

It would turn out that I wasn't assigned to just another regular 81mm mortar platoon. This one came with a legacy. Each division in the Marine Corps has weapons competitions to prove who the best of the best is. Well, when it came to 81mm mortars in the 1st Marine Division 2/7 were the kings of the land. Division Comp was like our Burning Man, not because of the nakedness and the drugs, but that we would spend an entire year preparing for one and half weeks of competition. Because of this nothing was ever good enough. Run faster, study more, run further, clean weapons until there no sign of use even though it is ten fucking years old, run even faster and further, oh and this time add a thirty-five pound pack to the equation. Either in the field marking targets for air, which was fucking sweet, or at mainside playing stupid fucking mind games to kill time, we were always on a path of constant improvement. There was always that one last hill to climb or one last thing to do before being finished working for the day. There was always a dangling carrot of perfection there for us to chase and we ran after it like a roadrunner on meth.

There were two ways to deal with this kind of stuff. Either rise to the occasion and narrow that gap between that moment and the carrot of perfection or, as I did, say fuck all of the bullshit and do just enough to get by without getting in trouble. Yes, the slacking off resulted in more yelling but just like the DI in boot camp, these asshats can't touch me either. My mommy taught me real well how to block out screaming and yelling in order to get through the day and finally get some sleep. Sleep would become the greatest commodity in the known universe as there were very few days of sleeping in past four or five in the morning and winding down usually took until two in the morning to finally get to sleep. I quickly became what the Marine Corps eloquently refers to as, a shit bird.

I wasn't concerned with getting promoted and rising through the ranks. All I wanted to do was get through each day without ending up pissing off too many people. Because when you have zero ability to give a shit about something the people in charge of you do it really upsets their whole universe. Run faster, fuck you. Do this, fuck you, do that, fuck you. I never said the fuck you but I could say aye Corporal in ways that could make fuck you sound like happy birthday. I was asked once if I had a problem with authority. Being that I just saw this particular person shove a desk into someone I wasn't about to push the button but I really wanted to let him know that my problem was when those people with that authority use it to make stupid fucking decisions.

One good thing about the Marine Corps as a PFC in Twentynine Palms is that getting drunk was not just a privilege, it was a god given right. We always stayed within our groups as to not cause any claims of fraternization but we all partied as one big happy barracks family. Heavy guns and Dragons would be mixing with us mortars as the rifleman grunts upstairs would be falling and/or jumping off of their particular floor down to the ground. This was the one thing about the Marine Corps that kept me sane. The ability to get fucked up and go running the next morning with the aroma of whiskey and freshly eaten leftover pizza gently wafting behind me.

We worked hard and we played even harder. I may have hated the all of the rules but the ability to get by by the skin of my teeth and not be the biggest shit bird was quite amazing, even to myself. What kept me above the threshold of accepted failure was the fact that I retain information really well. So when it came time for doing things, like written exams for competitions or retaining tons of useless knowledge for the sake of reciting it at will, I did really fucking well. We had more acronyms and oddball sentences rammed down our throat to assist us in retaining vast amounts of Marine Corps and mortar knowledge. The bitch of it now is that it taking up way too much room in my brain and someone needs to come up with a way to instantly flush it all away.

We showed up to The Stumps (another name for Twentynine Palms) just a few weeks shy of New Years. Luckily for me, and three other guys, Tijuana was just a quick shot through the mountains and down through San Diego. Three hours of California highways and we would be able to legally drink, fuck and fight to our chiseled heart's content. This would be my very first excursion anywhere away from my hillbilly homeland and holy fuck was I in for a ride through the pit of debauchery.

The switch from US to Viva Las Mexico is instant. As soon as we crossed the border there were kids selling packs of Chiclets everywhere. It was like pot, cocain and Chiclets where the top moneymakers from Mexico. The hordes of Chiclets children were smiling little viscous beasts who would most likely stab us if border patrol wasn't standing right there. The next wave of Mexican espionage would came as children selling jewelery. As we are looking at the items they have there is another smaller kid with tiny hands raping us of any money we may have had in our pockets. These little villains were like preschool ninjas. Five minutes into my first trip to Mexico and I have already been accosted and attempted to be robbed and have yet to even meet a single adult.

There were four of us on this little excursion south of the border. Dolby, Miller and Moore. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent either. Dolby was a thin scrappy black kid who just really liked to put his dick into anything. Moore was a ginger with a rich kid swagger and good guy mentality. Miller was the offspring of The Grinch and Frosty the Snowman. Miller also had the ability to smell worse after taking a shower. Then there was me, the hillbilly with a drinking problem right in the heart of tequila central. Oh, what a fucking night this was about to be.

We hopped onto a bus that took through the “No Gringos Allowed” portions of town straight to the “Tourists welcome spend all of your fucking money” area of TJ. We each marveled at the sights and sounds of all of the nightclubs, hot chicks and titty bars. All of which would be playing a role in our coming adventures. Before heading out we found a hotel to drop off a few things as well as a place to eat. I have no recollection as to what I ate but I remember being told that the water was off limits so I ordered a Jack and coke with no ice to play it safe.

As we finished our first round of drinks the sun began going down and TJ transformed from the daytime touristy fun place to holy fuck what did I do wrong in a past life party central. Neon replaced the sun and soft mariachi music was now blaring club music with only one volume, fucking loud. The club recruiters hit the street to funnel the traffic of drunken children into their particular bar. Along with the recruiters there were the Tequila Guys. I emphasize their name because I am quite certain the many mornings of bewilderment and wonder most of us had were largely their fucking fault. The Tequila Guy would basically put you in a headlock, shake your head violently while blowing a whistle and dump tequila straight down your throat. Fuck, this, guy!!!

After seeing that it was still early we elected to go to the titty bar. Oh sweet tittie bar how I love thee. This would be were I would begin to learn Spanish. Dos cervezas por favor. Dos Equis. Tecate. I was picking up the new lingo really quick. Evidently having really short, and possibly underage, girls swinging on a pole topless really does something for my willingness to learn new things. My three amigos and I sat there reveling in our now six month career as Marines. Oh the stories of hazing and depravity that we shared. Oh how one those stories was about to happen right about now.

Miller being the goofiest looking tool of a human being must make him a radar for really fucking ugly people of the opposite sex. As we were sitting there enjoying our cervezas this mongoloid she bitch who was obviously the oldest stripper still being humanly trafficked in TJ came over and sat on Miller's lap in order to entice him to buy a private dance. Being we were Marines we didn't say a fucking word to scare her off. Nope, we did everything in our power to persuade this creature of sexual pleasure who seemed to think teeth were an option in life to continue her sales pitch to sweet ole Miller. This would be the first time I laughed so hard that I cried on foreign soil.

After we had our fill of fun with Miller and the Mongoloid we headed out to check out some more of the nightclubs. The first thing I realized was that all of the clubs were up o the second floor or higher. The second thing I learned is that this provided for some really spectacular views, of the guns in the truck beds the police were riding on. The reality of some of us may or may not make it out of TJ briefly glimpsed off of my alcohol soaked mind. I was quickly distracted from all of that reality stuff by the load music and copious amounts of alcohol surrounded by all the barely legal titties and ass anyone could ever ask for.

At some point we broke the buddy system rule and we all went off in our direction. No way to get in touch with one another and only the name of the hotel we were staying at for a rally point. What could possibly go wrong? I am a creature of habit and like to go where people know me so I headed back to the titty bar. It was New Year's Eve and I was ready to party hillbilly style. Make that hillbilly Marine style. I have no fucking clue how much I drank that night or how to even spell my name at this point. I do know that I had to pee really fucking bad and once I got into the bathroom I also had the sudden urge to puke as the world was now my private tilt-a-whirl with no safety restraints.

From that point until I was awoken by the screams of Happy New Year I have no idea how I ended up with my face resting on the toilet seat of a TJ titty bar for New Years Eve. This would be the hillbilly partying style. The Marine kicked in when I got up and washed my face, walked back out the main area and continued to drink and celebrate with my fellow titty bar perverts with drinking problems. The fact that it was now past midnight meant that I survived to be a part of day two of our journey south of the border. Now I only had to make it to the hotel room for extraction in the morning.

Walking through the streets of TJ at night with enough alcohol in my system to kill at least three of the resident donkeys was probably not the wisest choice I had ever made. However, it was the choice I did make and I was going to stick with it. I remember seeing a guy on his ass slumped against the metal door of a closed vendor booth. There was a good amount of people standing around him. He was either really drunk or really dead so I wasn't about to stick around to see which was the correct answer. After drudging along as what most likely looked like a very impressive zombie walk I finally made it back to the rally point, our hotel.

I have no idea what it was called but the name should be Casa de Holy Fuck I Made It Back Alive. I was the first of our group to make it back and nothing feels better when the world won't stop spinning than a nice hot shower. I stripped off my clothes and threw everything on the floor as I made my way to shower. The bathroom had this weird fucking step up from the floor to the bathroom. Luckily I made it up the step without any issues and landed right where I wanted to be, curled up under the hot stream of water beating down on me. This has always been my solace when I had a few too many drinks.

This time when I woke up there was no vomit or toilet seat involved. Now I had a sharp pain in my thigh as I was laying on the drain and the metal was pushing into my skin. I noticed that the water had built up a little bit and was splashing over the ledge of the shower. So to save the bathroom from any spillage I quickly turned the water off and grabbed a towel to dry off. I have no idea how long I was asleep but that step in the bedroom was now the deep end of my own private swimming pool right in my room. My clothes, wallet, ID and various required cards were all floating around my little sea of drunken shame. Ah, what a night.

I did what any drunken hillbilly Marine would do in a foreign country, picked up my stuff to let it dry and went to sleep. At some point Dolby finally made it back to the room and promptly flipped the fuck out. “What the fuck did you do?” to which I replied “Shhhh I'm trying to fucking sleep.” After explaining the whole thigh on the drain story Dolby was kind of like “Eh, things happen” and continued on retelling me his story of what happened that night. While he was talking I was attempting to clean up the water with a towel by getting it wet and wringing it out in the shower. This was taking forever. Luckily the hotel manager brought me a mop and bucket when she came to inform us that my impromptu pool party flooded out our room, the room next to us and a room across the hall. Not a bad feat at all for my first journey to TJ.

It would turn out that Miller's ability to get the most hideous beasts would come into play as the chick he met that night was described to me as “she looked like she got run over and burnt twice.” This was in no way an insult and was actually a very realistic description as to what this chick really looked like. She would eventually enlist in the Marines, the two of them get married and from the two most fucked up looking people on earth they produced one of the most preciously adorable babies to ever pop out of a vagina.

Speaking of such things, as I was writing this and thinking about the relationship to taking scalding hot showers when I am severely drunk it made me consider something. Could that all stem from my extended stay at the Poontang Ponderosa? (read Chapter 01) It is warm, wet and has the BAC levels to scare Ozzy into sobriety.

[BellaBellucci]

The first Marine I ever knew tried to rape a girl in our apartment, and then tried to get me thrown out by the judge during his arraignment.

There are a ton of awesome Marines, but the bad apples are downright evil.

~BB~

[Brittany St Jordan]

The first Marine I ever knew tried to rape a girl in our apartment, and then tried to get me thrown out by the judge during his arraignment.

There are a ton of awesome Marines, but the bad apples are downright evil.

~BB~

That is about par for the course