The Air Force is useless. Really.

Good day all. I hope you are having a wonderful day doing whatever it is that you are doing. If you are in the Air Force, I have no doubt that you are in fact not doing a damn thing. I have never met a more useless bunch of scrubs in my life. At first,I thought the Air Force recruiting office took it upon themselves to fill their ranks with a plethora of down syndrome infected beings, however, upong further investigation, I've decided accusing the millions of innocent people ailed by this unfortunate condition would be insulting to the intelligence of mentally handicapped community. Furthermore, to poke fun at those living with this condition would be disrepectful and would undervalue a section of the community that is a constant inspiration for millions of Americans.
This is not the case for the Air Force. What a bunch of lazy fucking retards. What does the Air Force Master Seargent say to anyone else in the military?

"Coffee? Yes please, but can you walk a mile down an African street in 115 degree weather to get it for me?"

I've got an idea, how about you log off of facebook for 10 minutes and GET IT YOUR FUCKING SELF!
Heaven forbid one of these cats have to move out from behind a desk for anything other than pissing and shitting. Which brings me to my next point: The Air Force can't read! Please refer to the following example for explanation.

This sign is posted up on the office bathroom door," Please use for number one only."

Simple enough right? The basic idea is to keep the office smelling nice. There's a head across the street designated for dropping a deuce. Besides, it get really hot here and nothing is worse than the smell of putrid, rotting fecal matter, except when it's the smell of putrid, rotten fecal matter baking at 100 degrees. Which brings me back to my original point. Here goes lazy bitch ass mother fucker number one to drop a big number two in an office the size of hallway. Thanks a lot you well-educated prick. Hey wildfire, I'm rooting for you.

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

As promised, I've included a detailed illustration of the improvements I've been making to the heads on base. The image at the top shows the heads as they were when I arrived: cramped and smelly. They weren't good for moral, so I had a long talk with the Skipper. I basically just said I wasn't going to take this shit anymore and took it upon myself to make some much needed alterations. You see, I feel as if the head is a place a man goes to find solitude and communicate with Jesus. That being said, I just wasn't feeling the Lord's presence in the original bathroom configurations they had going on here at Camp Lemonnier.
The image at the bottom represents my changes. Take note of the open space. I can really stretch my legs now. That's important because I like to spend mulitple hours a day on the can. I've added a coffee maker to assist in the passing of fluids and a bookshelf so as to continually expand my mind. There is also a LCD television mounted on the wall. Now, sometimes I like to take time to catch up on today's sports by watching ESPN, but most of the time, I tune the channel to TBN so I can watch old washed up wrestlers talk about how Jesus changed their life. Nothing is more heart warming than watching Jake the Snake Roberts cry, nothing. Also, there's a painting of a Jesus fish.

It's dirt, not sand. Shit head.

Another day, another sand storm in Djibouti. Well, not exactly. A dirt storm would be more accurate. As I stand outside of my Containerized living unit (CLU) and survey the layout of Camp Lemonnier, I realize that I am completely surrounded by it.There is no escaping it. The dirt works its way into my shoes, my ears; hell, I'm pretty sure I've been shitting dust bombs for a week. It's fairly depressing for a southern lad like myself, so I decided to spruce the place up a little bit. Ya know, make it feel more like home.

The image at the top is what a typical CLU block looked like when I first arrived here. As you can see, it's pretty dull and lifeless. The image at the bottom is the new and improved CLU-ville. They say don't feed the animals around here, but that opossum is just so damned cute.

Stay tuned for more improvements. Next time, I'll show you all of the major upgrades I've been making to the shitters around here. Be forwarned, some of the illustrations my negatively affect those with week stomachs.

Day one: Avoiding the gagglefuck.

It was my first day in Djibouti, Africa. After settling into my 5-star tent, it was time to make the daily trek across Camp Lemonnier, but there was a problem: It gets hot in Africa, really hot. As I emerged from my shaded oasis, I quickly discovered that the daytime temperature had already soared to 2000 degrees F. Yup, that's right, 2000 degrees F. Believe me, I know that a heat this extreme would seem impossible to survive in, but that is not the case for a Sailor of my fortitude. So, I did what any God-fearing American male in the military would do; I rolled down my sleeves, put on two pairs of socks, and covered my back with an insulated liner typically worn inside of a cold weather parka. If that shit works in the cold, it could absolutely work in the heat.
Half a mile into my journey and things were going well. Then, it happened. An overwhelming feeling that I can only describe as an insatiable appettite for all things H2O. I've come to know this feeling as, "The Thirst." No, I'm not talking about Blade here. I mean it's hot as fuck and I needed water. So I began to scan the distance for one of the strategically placed water coolers that litter the base streets. I looked left. Nothing. I looked right. Nothing. Just as I was beginning to lose hope, my eye caught the faint glimmer of hope in the distance directly in front me. Then, without warning, the glimmer was gone. What happened? A water cooler couldn't move itself. No, something was blocking the way. I focused in on the distance. Could it be? Out here? Yes, my worst fear, an officer. Not your typical officer mind you, but the gaggling, laugh-out-loud, let me tell you all about my adventures type of officer that is found only in the most extreme of environments. They are a rare bread indeed. Back in the states, most officers pay little to no attention to ranks of enlisted.You can pass them in almost any ship without worry. But here they have evolved. On the dry, vegatation exhausted plains of Africa, they WANT to interact with you. Sounds nice right? Wrong! Unfortunately, the day-to-day tasks that most people find natural, such as carrying on a simple conversation about sports or the weather seem to elude them. Alas, if you get stuck in a conversation with them, be prepared to spend the next twenty minutes of your life listening to stories of their glory days from the academy.
I had no time for this. The Thirst had taken me and survival had now become paramount. What's this? Oh God no! Two, no three more of them had taken up post around the water cooler. Lt's no less, the worst kind.  I had to act fast. Without thinking, I tossed my cover over to the opposite side of the street and shouted, "Look, a shipmate lost a cover!"
In unison, the JO's turned their heads toward where the hat lay on the ground.
JO #1 - "A shipmate lost their hat!
JO#2 - "A shipmate lost their hat?"
JO#3 - "Yes there, I can see it!"
JO#4 - "We must help unite that hat with its intended shipmate!"
As quickly as it had happened, the JO's formed a single file line and waddled off across the street to the abandoned cover, all the while mumbling, "Shipmate, shipmate, shipmate."
The rest has become quite blurry. All I remember is darting to the water cooler and snagging a half-chilled bottle of water with lighting speed. Today was close. Tomorrow may be closer. There are many dangers in the Horn of Africa and I will no dount experience them all. Join me for my quest...Shipmate.