After 11 months and some number of days, my imprisonment here in Iraq is at an end. A little thinner, more muscular (paying attention ladies?), bald, and full of terrible memories and nightmares of the suffering and horrible sights of mayhem that I have bared witness to. But enough of the good times. I’m also a little battle weary and tired, with a slight falter in my step, but still strong and determined to continue. As much as they tried, the military (not to mention the American government) couldn’t destroy my will to live, (and eventually make a lot of money as a world-renowned humor writer.) I have emerged triumphant!
This isn’t the first time they’ve tried this you know. Back in 2003, the military, scared by my renegade and free-thinking ways, tried to kill me by sending me to Iraq right when a potentially dangerous land war was breaking out. And if that wasn’t enough, when the powers-that-be saw just how hard to kill I was, they moved me around as much as they could to all the violent places in Iraq. So I had to make my way from the south to the north. Through An Najaf, Karbala, Baghdad, Tikrit and Tal Afar, all the way to Mosul and all points north. And, as if that weren’t enough they sent me to Iran, Syria and Turkey. But after a year of dangerous battles full of gunfire and explosions, (I even almost had to fire my rifle once! It’s crazy!) I made it through, and was allowed to return to the country of my birth, my home, who’s name escapes me since I’ve been over here for so long.
I thought that I was in the clear. I figured that a year spent in Oblivion was enough, I’d served my time and I was free to be a regular person once again. Little did I know that the army hadn’t forgotten about me, nay, they were just lulling me into a false sense of security. The fiends!
A year and a half later they tried again, and I once again found myself in Iraq. Doomed to either die here in some extremely messy way, or make it back to America after another year of hell.
Well, their plan didn’t work. Other than a minor incident with a convoy and a road-side bomb, (not enough damage to get some truly kick ass, government funded cyborg/six million dollar man-style body part enhancements) and some mortars and rockets, nothing happened to me.
So, if all goes well and these trends continue, then by the time you read this entry (and then wait another six or seven days or so) I should be home chillaxing with all the finer points of the American Way of Life: alcohol, greasy fried foods and terribly made porn full of people who look like they’d rather be having root canals than continue in the activities that people buy those movies for.
And this time I’ve got a plan to not get deployed out here again. I’m getting the hell out of the army! Five years as an indentured servant is enough, don’t you think? I’ve served my country or whatever, I’ve spent time with thousands of my mentally retarded military brethren, meeting and fighting all types of smelly foreigners. I think I’m due a rest and the chance to collect on all those free drinks I can get at bars by showing my military I.D. (that and the military groupies are about the only perks of the job. Besides legally killing people, of course.)
There’s only one down side to this plan. The military is that that one ex you had who thinks that just because they were with you once, that they can interrupt your life whenever they want for the rest of your life. See, even though I’m getting out in November, I still technically have another three years when they could call me up and have their perverted way with me. And don’t think it can’t happen. They’ve done it plenty of times before. It’s even worse for officers, you could be in your 60s and they could still force you to come back to the military!
MILITARY: Is this the Shady Acres Nursing Home?
GUY: Speak up young man, I can’t hear you!
MILITARY: We’re looking for Mr. Harold P. Weschierbaum. We want to tell him that he needs to report to his nearest army post.
GUY: What was that? I can’t hear you, my hearing aide’s on the fritz!
MILITARY: We’re looking for Mr. Harold P Weschierbaum!
GUY: Sorry, I can’t talk anymore, my dinner mush is here, and they have to change my diaper and put my bib on before I eat.
Are these the kind of people you want defending the American Way of Life? If not, feel free to enlist, I know of at least one opening coming up soon.