If you have been reading some of my recent posts, you are probably aware that I have been talking about some of my exploits and experiences after being assigned to the Joint Interoperability Test Center (JITC) at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. I have just begun a whole series of posts about my exploits at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. I expect that series of posts to last for quite a while. However, today I am going to talk about something out of sequence because it is on my mind. I like to talk about topics when they are on my mind. Why? Cuz if I wait until later, I tend to forget those ideas and thoughts. Hey, what can I say? Shit happens. Today, I am going to talk about a guy that I once knew while I was stationed at Fort Benning, but I had long forgotten about. I was reminded about that individual when I saw a particular scene in a sequel to the movie, “American Pie.” The particular sequel that I am referring to is “American Reunion.” If you are familiar with that particular movie, great. If not, perhaps you may want to watch it just to get a point of reference for this story. Well, to give you a little bit of background about the particular scene that I am referring to: some of the main characters in the movie witness some high school delinquents stealing the bikini tops of the ladies sunning themselves at the beach one day. One of the ladies whose bikini top gets stolen happens to be one of the main characters’ girlfriend. Naturally, our heroes cannot let that travesty escape justice. Oh, heavens to megatroid. That just won’t do. Swift retaliatory action is called for. As a result, our heroes rush to arms. Well, not really. They rush to their vehicle. Cuz they know where the culprits are escaping to on their jet skis. As the culprits relax and drink beer on the opposite side of the lake, our heroes silently and stealthily creep up on them in order to spring into action. Then, in a blink of an eye, they spring their retaliatory strike. But here’s the catch: the culprits don’t even know that an attack is imminent. How brilliant is that? One of our heroes ties the jet skis together with rope as he rises up out of the water. Then, he attaches that rope to the back of their vehicle. Now, here is where he deviates from his original plan. The original plan called for our heroes to steal the cooler full of beer. But does he steal the cooler full of beer? Oh, hell no! That just won’t do. He just drops his drawers right there and shits in that cooler. Finally, he pulls up his drawers and hoists the bird of paradise to salute the culprits just before he dives into the getaway vehicle to which the culprits’ jet skis are attached. Our heroes take off through the woods with those jet skis in tow. Obviously, the jet skis get totally destroyed. Now, here is the rest of the story: our hero omitted the use of toilet tissue when he finished his business on the cooler. How gross is that? Right?!? No one, I mean, but no one just drops their drawers and takes a shit and then pulls up their drawers without cleaning themselves. It just isn’t done. Cuz no job is finished until the paperwork is done. Seriously! Even when you were a baby, your mom or your dad or some other caregiver cleaned you up after you finished your business. That is where you learned how to do it. Right? Give me an amen, brothers and sisters. But this dude just neglected to clean himself. What in the hell was he thinking? Well, he eventually remembered to look for toilet tissue later in the movie. Yay. But that nightmarish visual sequence of events jarred loose an ancient memory from Fort Benning from my first tour of duty that I had buried deep in my mind. If you bear with me for a few more moments of your time, I am going to try to make that horrid memory sear right into your brain. I hope to make the image as visual as possible. When I first got stationed at Fort Benning, nothing about my unit was as it should have been. First of all, I should not have even been at Fort Benning. Oh, by the way, for those of you that are sticklers for political correctness, I know that Fort Benning is not Fort Benning anymore. I know that it is now called Fort Moore after Lieutenant General Harold G (Hal) Moore, Jr.. Anyway, it was called Fort Benning when I was there. But I was sent there because the bozos in charge of shit said that I volunteered for airborne school. That was a total crock of shit. When I called them on it, they got even by assigning me to the infantry. Cuz that’s the way things are done in the Army. But I digress. When I got stationed at Fort Benning, the Company Commander had a driver by the name of Specialist-4 Womack. Womack was kind of a strange bird. He stuck to himself and didn’t have any friends that I knew of. The Company Commander did not use him as his driver even though that was the reason Battalion assigned him to our company. Since the Company Commander would not use him as his driver, the company First Sergeant used Womack as his personal errand boy. Here is another interesting tidbit. Womack had a room all to himself in the same barracks to which I was assigned. The reason that he had a room all to himself was because nobody else would bunk with him. The simple fact of the matter was that boy smelled really, really bad. Many of the people in my barracks, including me, witnessed Womack using the toilet to shit more than once. Cuz shitting is a human biological function. Sooner or later, people are going to run into other people in the toilet. Now, here is a little background on our barracks: it was an old, World War II style wood building. The wood building consisted of two stories. The original open bay sleeping areas had been converted into individual two-man rooms. However, the toilets and showers were still open bay style toilets and showers. There was absolutely no privacy in the toilets. None. Nada. Zilch. So when I say that, sooner or later, people ran into other people in the toilet, they literally did. More than once. Sometimes taking a shit. Sometimes shaving. Sometimes, showering. You get the idea. But here is what everyone noticed about Womack: that dude never, but never used paper after he finished taking a shit. He would simply get up off of the toilet and pull up his drawers. Another weird thing was that he never wore underwear. I guess that meant his underwear were always clean. Yay. But think about this: if you never use toilet paper, what happens to the shit that is left over after you are finished, especially if that shit is a runny shit? Does it run down your leg and drip out the bottom? Do you leave your boots a little loose so that the shit can drip into the boots? But then, do your feet kinda squeak and squish when you walk? And what happens when all of that shit dries? I guess the ass end of your drawers becomes nice and stiff sort of like if you used starch. But then, does the rest of your ensemble sort of stand out because it’s not “starched.” Stories started getting out in our platoon and in the company about how bad that dude smelled. Pretty soon the Platoon Sergeant asked everyone in formation why nobody would bunk with Womack. Things didn’t come to a head until our barracks utilization reached 100 percent. Then, the Platoon Sergeant was going to force the issue. He was going to make somebody bunk with Joe nasty. But nobody would bunk with nasty. Oh hell no! The Platoon Sergeant tried to get me to bunk with nasty but I flat refused. He said, “Why? You get along with everybody.” I replied, “Well Sarge, it’s like this, I’ll only talk in private.” When we were in the Platoon Sergeant’s office, I explained in excruciating detail why nobody, but nobody would bunk with nasty. As a result, nasty was moved to another barracks. I don’t know what ever became of nasty because I volunteered for a tour of duty in Korea. Nasty was one of those rare individuals who managed to escape a blanket party because he smelled so bad and he was so gross that people couldn’t stand to get close enough to him to throw a blanket party. How bad is that? Pretty bad, right? I don’t know if he ever suffered through a blanket party. But I escaped without my nose suffering any other exercises in futility.
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