So, yeah, Coyote. It all started with a cigarette, see...

[The Good Reverend Roger]

...We'd been out in the field for about 45 days, back in 1995, and Captain Reinstra had decided to quit by not bringing smokes to the exercise.  He lasted about a week, and then began mooching smokes off of the crew of his Bradley.  That would mean the only two smokers in his Bradley, which was my buddy Lampshade and myself.

Needless to say, we ran out before the field problem did.

Lampshade and I came in with the main recovery, about 6 hours after the command element came in for the debriefing.  We were wet, covered in Texas mud, tired as hell, and ready to kill for a cigarette.

And there on the steps to the CP was Captain Reinstra and the XO, smoking and joking.  Lampshade and I walked up to them, saluted, and then I reached out and unbuttoned the pocket of the captain's nice clean uniform jacket.

Now, the captain was used to Lampshade and I, so he just stood and stared at me, while I took two smokes out of his pack, placed the pack back in his pocket, lit our smokes with his zippo, replaced it, and buttoned up his pocket.

"I can't believe you just did that", he said.

"Oh, sorry, sir, had you wanted another one?"

He just laughed, and went into the CP.  The XO, a notorious cheese-eater, glared at us and followed him.

The next morning, we were told to fall out in BDUs rather than our PT uniform.  It seems the XO had decided to send us to Community Mental Health Services (CMHS), based on the cigarette incident and on the infamous "Barbie Dance" event, earlier in the field problem, to be evaluated.

Lampshade and I jumped in my car, and went over to CMHS.  Now, you have to understand that we both loved the army, and here we are surrounded by a pile of people trying to whine their way out of the army.  We had a little fun with the drips in the processing area, until it was time to be screened, prior to speaking with the psychiatrist.

After a half hour or so, we were directed to a "round robin" of screening stations, where enlisted personnel would test us for intelligence, sanity, and whether or not the actual problem was booze or just simple malingering.

The first station I sat at was manned by a young female specialist who looked like someone had stapled duffel bags to her chest.  With a smile, she said "Okay, corporal, this is a word association test.  I'm going to say a word, and you say the very first thing that comes into your mind."

"Okay."

"Basketball."

What could I do?  I looked at her chest and said "Tits."

She blushed, a little angry, and said, "Um, okay, 'pencil'".

"Tits."

"How did you get 'tits' from pencil?", she hissed under her breath.

"Well, when I have a pencil, I doodle.  When I doodle, I tend to draw porn."

She got up and walked away.  A few tables over, some PFC screener was yelling incoherently at Lampshade, who was giggling like a schoolgirl.  Don't know why.

A minute or so later, I was moved to the next station.  A SPC4 gave me a speculative glance, and said "Okay, corporal, I'm going to administer a Rorshak test."

"If you shock me, I'm going to kick your arse up between your ears, kid."

"No, no, it's a test where I show you an image, and you tell me what it reminds you of."

"Okay."

He held up the first inkblot, and asked me what I thought.

"I think someone ruined your picture.  There's nothing there but a big blob of ink."

"Yes, well, what does that blob of ink make you think?"

"It makes me think your pen broke."

"NO, WHAT...um, what does the shape of that blob of ink remind you of?"

"Oh, I see how this works.  It reminds me of a puppy."

"A puppy?"

"A dead puppy.  All covered in maggots."

He began to furiously write things down.

"Okay, how about this one?"

"It reminds me of my mom."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  I hate my mom."

More writing.

"How about this one?"

"That's two elephants raping a dead goat on a waterbed full of jello."

"You're fucking with me."

"What was your first clue?", I asked, with a shit-eating grin on my face.

He got up and stormed off.  I looked over, and Lampshade was dancing for the screener he was speaking to.  The screener looked horrified, and he, too, walked off.

A moment later, the door to the inner office opened up, and a major - the actual psychiatrist - stuck his head out and pointed at Lampshade and I.

"You two.  In here NOW."

We walked into his office and stood at attention.  He looked us over and asked, "Why are you two assholes fucking with my people?"

"Sir?"

"Don't play stupid, corporal.  I know you didn't ask to come here."

"Sir, your people asked us questions.  We answered.  I don't see the problem, here."

The major spent a couple of minutes writing, and then handed us each a report.  

"Return these to your battalion aid station, then report to duty.  Make sure they get there sealed."

After we got in my car, we opened the envelopes (Remember, soldiers, the glue-stick can be your best friend!), and read the following on each of our reports:

Servicemember has no signs of mental illness.  Servicemember is simply an asshole.

I looked at Lampshade, who looked like he was having an orgasm, and said "Do you realize what this means?"

"THIS...MEANS...WE...CAN...DO...ANYTHING WE FUCKING WANT!"

We both laughed ourselves silly, then resealed the envelopes and drove back to the unit.

The next day, I skipped PT, and came down for the duty formation, unshaven, wearing a pair of cut off jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.  The first sergeant was screaming at Lampshade, who had his uniform on backwards...He saw me, and his jaw started working like the mouth of a fish out of water.  He turned an alarming shade of purple.

"Now, hang on, Top" I said, "We can't help ourselves.  We're assholes."

"It's in our medical records", Lampshade added helpfully.

Now, to make a long story a little shorter, we acted like complete fucking morons for the 3 weeks it took to get the medical profile expunged.

Did we pay and pay and PAY for months afterward?  Oh, yes.

Was it worth it?  Oh, HELL yes.  No soldier worth his salt could EVER haved turned down a chance like that.  Lampshade in fact got promoted partly because of this, but that's another story.

Or Kill Me.

[Adios]

helpless with laughter.......

[Phox]

...We'd been out in the field for about 45 days, back in 1995, and Captain Reinstra had decided to quit by not bringing smokes to the exercise.  He lasted about a week, and then began mooching smokes off of the crew of his Bradley.  That would mean the only two smokers in his Bradley, which was my buddy Lampshade and myself.

Needless to say, we ran out before the field problem did.

Lampshade and I came in with the main recovery, about 6 hours after the command element came in for the debriefing.  We were wet, covered in Texas mud, tired as hell, and ready to kill for a cigarette.

And there on the steps to the CP was Captain Reinstra and the XO, smoking and joking.  Lampshade and I walked up to them, saluted, and then I reached out and unbuttoned the pocket of the captain's nice clean uniform jacket.

Now, the captain was used to Lampshade and I, so he just stood and stared at me, while I took two smokes out of his pack, placed the pack back in his pocket, lit our smokes with his zippo, replaced it, and buttoned up his pocket.

"I can't believe you just did that", he said.

"Oh, sorry, sir, had you wanted another one?"

He just laughed, and went into the CP.  The XO, a notorious cheese-eater, glared at us and followed him.

The next morning, we were told to fall out in BDUs rather than our PT uniform.  It seems the XO had decided to send us to Community Mental Health Services (CMHS), based on the cigarette incident and on the infamous "Barbie Dance" event, earlier in the field problem, to be evaluated.

Lampshade and I jumped in my car, and went over to CMHS.  Now, you have to understand that we both loved the army, and here we are surrounded by a pile of people trying to whine their way out of the army.  We had a little fun with the drips in the processing area, until it was time to be screened, prior to speaking with the psychiatrist.

After a half hour or so, we were directed to a "round robin" of screening stations, where enlisted personnel would test us for intelligence, sanity, and whether or not the actual problem was booze or just simple malingering.

The first station I sat at was manned by a young female specialist who looked like someone had stapled duffel bags to her chest.  With a smile, she said "Okay, corporal, this is a word association test.  I'm going to say a word, and you say the very first thing that comes into your mind."

"Okay."

"Basketball."

What could I do?  I looked at her chest and said "Tits."

She blushed, a little angry, and said, "Um, okay, 'pencil'".

"Tits."

"How did you get 'tits' from pencil?", she hissed under her breath.

"Well, when I have a pencil, I doodle.  When I doodle, I tend to draw porn."

She got up and walked away.  A few tables over, some PFC screener was yelling incoherently at Lampshade, who was giggling like a schoolgirl.  Don't know why.

A minute or so later, I was moved to the next station.  A SPC4 gave me a speculative glance, and said "Okay, corporal, I'm going to administer a Rorshak test."

"If you shock me, I'm going to kick your arse up between your ears, kid."

"No, no, it's a test where I show you an image, and you tell me what it reminds you of."

"Okay."

He held up the first inkblot, and asked me what I thought.

"I think someone ruined your picture.  There's nothing there but a big blob of ink."

"Yes, well, what does that blob of ink make you think?"

"It makes me think your pen broke."

"NO, WHAT...um, what does the shape of that blob of ink remind you of?"

"Oh, I see how this works.  It reminds me of a puppy."

"A puppy?"

"A dead puppy.  All covered in maggots."

He began to furiously write things down.

"Okay, how about this one?"

"It reminds me of my mom."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  I hate my mom."

More writing.

"How about this one?"

"That's two elephants raping a dead goat on a waterbed full of jello."

"You're fucking with me."

"What was your first clue?", I asked, with a shit-eating grin on my face.

He got up and stormed off.  I looked over, and Lampshade was dancing for the screener he was speaking to.  The screener looked horrified, and he, too, walked off.

A moment later, the door to the inner office opened up, and a major - the actual psychiatrist - stuck his head out and pointed at Lampshade and I.

"You two.  In here NOW."

We walked into his office and stood at attention.  He looked us over and asked, "Why are you two assholes fucking with my people?"

"Sir?"

"Don't play stupid, corporal.  I know you didn't ask to come here."

"Sir, your people asked us questions.  We answered.  I don't see the problem, here."

The major spent a couple of minutes writing, and then handed us each a report.  

"Return these to your battalion aid station, then report to duty.  Make sure they get there sealed."

After we got in my car, we opened the envelopes (Remember, soldiers, the glue-stick can be your best friend!), and read the following on each of our reports:

Servicemember has no signs of mental illness.  Servicemember is simply an asshole.

I looked at Lampshade, who looked like he was having an orgasm, and said "Do you realize what this means?"

"THIS...MEANS...WE...CAN...DO...ANYTHING WE FUCKING WANT!"

We both laughed ourselves silly, then resealed the envelopes and drove back to the unit.

The next day, I skipped PT, and came down for the duty formation, unshaven, wearing a pair of cut off jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.  The first sergeant was screaming at Lampshade, who had his uniform on backwards...He saw me, and his jaw started working like the mouth of a fish out of water.  He turned an alarming shade of purple.

"Now, hang on, Top" I said, "We can't help ourselves.  We're assholes."

"It's in our medical records", Lampshade added helpfully.

Now, to make a long story a little shorter, we acted like complete fucking morons for the 3 weeks it took to get the medical profile expunged.

Did we pay and pay and PAY for months afterward?  Oh, yes.

Was it worth it?  Oh, HELL yes.  No soldier worth his salt could EVER haved turned down a chance like that.  Lampshade in fact got promoted partly because of this, but that's another story.

Or Kill Me.

My jaw had a rather pleasant meeting with my desk just now.

[Eater of Clowns]

 

Awesome.

[Luna]

I swear, I have never run across a forum that's made me laugh as much as this one has.  Thanks, guys.

[Phox]

... And he back of my head just had a less pleasant meeting with the floor. I may need a new chair... I hope I don't have to pay for this one.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

... And he back of my head just had a less pleasant meeting with the floor. I may need a new chair... I hope I don't have to pay for this one.

My plan!  It is working!

TGRR,
Brooks no competition.

[Jenne]

Rog, that's the best army tale of asshattery I've heard yet! Bravo! And Lampshade sounds like quite the character; did you ever find out what he was giggling over during the tests?

[LMNO]

I suggest you make this into one of the MSY comics.

[Phox]

... And he back of my head just had a less pleasant meeting with the floor. I may need a new chair... I hope I don't have to pay for this one.

My plan!  It is working!

TGRR,
Brooks no competition.

[Jenne]

I suggest you make this into one of the MSY comics.

The same thought occurred to me.

[Sister Fracture]

Best. Story. Evar. <3

[Reginald Ret]

Hahaha Now that would have been actually awesome to behold.

[Richter]

CANT
FUCKING
BREATHE



Mind if I forward this to my father?  He LOVES stories like this.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Rog, that's the best army tale of asshattery I've heard yet! Bravo! And Lampshade sounds like quite the character; did you ever find out what he was giggling over during the tests?

No, with Lampshade, there are some things you're just better off not knowing.  This is the guy who took over the brigade command frequency at NTC and sang Christmas carols for a half hour, after all.