A Rakkasan Wife New Year's Resolution

SO here we are again at the close of another year and the standing tradition is to make a resolution to somehow better yourself in the coming year.  Fun, fun, fun.  And I've been seriously thinking about what the fuck I can do to improve on the perfection that is me.  In all seriousness though, I have a ton of faults and I can think of lots of shit that would make me a better person--it's just that none of the things I can think of or that are "popular" resolutions are just not in the realm of possibility.

The big one seems to be to lose weight.  Well, FUCK that!!  I weigh 95 pounds soaking wet.  If I lose weight, my husband invariably informs me that I look anorexic and he refuses to fuck a skeleton!!  Since I like getting laid on occassion, losing weight is right out!!

Another resolution that seems to be popular is to quit drinking.  Again, not happening.  Simply stated, I don't drink beyond an occassional glass of wine.  Ninety pounds and alcohol just do not mix, and since a full glass of wine has me tipsy, I just don't fucking drink.  I know that it's near blasphemy for a Rakk wife to be a teetotaler, but I really don't have much of a choice.  I'm a cheap drunk!!

Next possibility is to quit swearing.  Yeah, right!  Who the fuck could ever possibly think that this was a good idea??  I can barely get through one sentence at a time without dropping a fucking f-bomb, so how the hell am I supposed to quit swearing?  I'm not an idiot with a complete lack of vocabulary and no grasp of syntax.  I actually, despite all appearances to the contrary on account of my foul mouth, am quite intelligent and employ words that baffle most people I know.  I just appreciate these delightful turns of phrase and recognize their efficacy in accomplishing what needs to be done, as does every Rakkasan who has told a private to "get it fucking done!"  So fuck that resolution in the ass and send it on to hell.

I could always give up smoking.  That's a good one, if you don't have four kids, an infantryman with an attitude for a husband, and an ability to handle stress without resorting to violence.  Unfortunately, I have neither the capacity nor the desire to give up smoking if I want to ensure the survival of my minions and my sanity.  So there's another idea, out the fucking window!!

So my final option, and the one I'm favouring right now, is to simply say FUCK IT ALL!  And by this I mean simply that if someone pisses me off, I will let it roll over me.  Be it the kids or the husband or the crazy bitches I meet, I will be the better person and I will simply destroy them.  Without anger or malice.  I will not dwell on the wrongs done to me.  I'm taking a page from the infantryman's way of handling things.  When you get shit on, it's time to fuck someone up!! 

So there you have it.  My New Year's Resolution.  My bitchiness remains intact and my life will be simpler.  Now it's time to go blow shit up (German tradition--fireworks on New Year's).  Have a very Happy New Year!  I know I will. . .

Go the Fuck Away!

Is it just me?  Am I a bad wife?  The husband is on leave and has been home for a week now and he is driving me up the proverbial wall!  He needs to go the fuck back to work before I have to kill him.  Why do I feel like this?  Is it the endless deployments and training and schools that have just accustomed me to him not being around?  Or is it that he is always on the go somewhere and can't fucking sit still for more than five minutes at a time? 

I love my husband and you all know that.  We've been married almost sixteen years.  He's my best friend, my confidant, my fuck buddy, and my world revolves around him.  Well, him and the damned Army.  But he makes me completely fucking insane!!  Add to that four kids, Christmas chaos, and perpetual insomnia and I'm ready to suck start that pistol.  Again.  Deployment makes me want to off myself and leave does the same damn thing to my state of mind.  I'm in hell.

Am I alone in this?  Is there anybody out there who loves their husband and is proud of the fact that he's a soldier, but at the same time wishes more than anything sometimes that he would go away?  I'm going to say it's the holidays.  He always goes into asshole mode around this time of year (the product of not so happy childhood memories of Christmases past), but I hate asshole husband!! 

So, for the next week, I get to have this man around 24-7 and attempt not to let him see that I would like nothing better than to stuff him in a tuff box and ship to Afghanistan so he can kill some terrorists and work out his aggressions on someone other than me.  My only other option is try to screw him into being a good guy.  James Bond managed to fuck bad girls into being good.  Maybe it'll work for me.  Wish me luck! 

The Angry Baby

My youngest has what my mom would call a 2 by 4 mentality.   You know.  The kind of attitude whereby you need to take a fucking 2 by 4 to the side of their head to change their mind.  He's the most stubborn angry little shit I ever ran across and there are days when I would love to ship him to Timbuk-fucking-tu.  One second he's happy and cute and so damn lovable and then the next second he's fucking Satan!  Screaming, crying, banging his head on the floor and just fucking pissed off at the world.  Well, I have come to the conclusion that he doesn't have a 2 by 4 mentality or anger issues--he's an infantryman in the making.

Why the hell would I say that?  Well, infantrymen as a whole have a very singular attitude: give me what I want or I will FUCK you up!  Whether that's information from an enemy combatant or discipline within the rank structure, infantrymen expect to get what they desire and express their displeasure with those who fail to abide by their wishes with a vast variety of ways.  It could be the click of a safety coming off, smoking the shit out of a private, or beating the ever living shit out of a fucktard, but infantrymen deal with people who thwart them quickly and concisely.  And God help me, that's my youngest.

My two year old has had six, self-inflicted black eyes, given me a couple of bloody noses, kicked his father in the balls multiple times and generally made everyone in the family very clear on how pissed off he is when he doesn't get what he wants.  I don't believe in beating my children, but I am not opposed to spanking them if necessary.  It doesn't fucking work with this one!  The kid is like Mungo from Blazing Saddles.  The guy who they said not to shoot because "You'll just make him mad."   That's Mr. E.  I could probably beat that kid until the Second Coming and it wouldn't make a damned bit of difference. 

I can't wait until the kid is big enough to do fucking PT until he pukes. 

Giving a Flying Fuck

For once, I'm not writing to bitch.  Well, OK, maybe just a little, but for once I have something to say that is not outright complaining.  Who knew that could happen?? 

Anyway, I got an email this morning from a friend who wants to send care packages to soldiers in Afghanistan and wanted to know if I could help.  I just wanted to blog and say that it never ceases to amaze me at how generous and thoughtful people can be.  There are people out there who genuinely care and want to show our boys their support.  As my husband likes to say, "It gives me a fucking hard-on" that people are so wonderful and want our boys to know they are not forgotten.  There really are people who give a flying fuck and still support our troops! 

That having been said, with a special thanks to Miss B for reminding me that people still give a shit, on to the bitch portion of what I wanted to say.  I'm am shocked and pissed the fuck off to learn that there are people out there who are scamming supportive people and ripping them off in the name of "supporting our troops!"  What the fuck?!?  As if the guys aren't going through enough shit being shot at and forced to be away from their families, now there are assholes out there who are taking advantage of the people who want to help the guys!  This is fucking BULLSHIT!  To use our soldiers as a way to make money off unsuspecting people who want to do right by our soldiers makes me sick.  So, to all you scammers out there, FUCK YOU and MAY YOU BURN IN HELL!!

And, incidentally, if you happen to find out the names and locations of people who are pulling shit like this, let me know.  I bet I can find a few Rakkasans to help teach them the error of their ways. . .

"If you don't want to stand behind our troops, please feel free to stand in front of them!"

RAKKASANS vs. TRADOC

So I managed to get myself into trouble with my husband.  It's not the complaints about the lack of sex, the fact that I am talking about sex, or even about what I said about TRADOC.  All that shit is true.   Apparently, though, he takes issue with me mentioning specific incidents about his work place and my opinion of what that reveals about the POS that work there, because he, unfortunately, still has to work there.  So now I have to behave (at least until he gets a new job) and find other things to bitch about.  Thankfully, this is the motherfucking Army, so there is ALWAYS something to complain about!!!

And so, my faithful readers, today's edition of the Bitching Board is RAKKASANS vs. TRADOC!!  Can you guess who the winner is in this contest??  Gee, let me think. . .   Why do I say that the Rakkasans are the shit and that TRADOC is just shit?  Allow me to elucidate. 

1.  The Rakkasans are a family.  At the Rakk, you can expect a fuck-ton of people at your house at least once a week (probably more) getting drunk, hanging out, having fun and tearing up!  TRADOC, if you manage to get to know more than 4 or 5 people, you're doing good and forget about the hanging out.  These motherfuckers are all about themselves and definitely don't give a fuck about you.

2.  Line units, like the Rakk, have FRGs that actually do shit, like BBQs and balls and holiday parties and meetings that people actually attend.  You have to.  If you don't go to this shit, you are shit out of luck on the info department, because the FRG is your best source for knowing what the fuck is going on.  TRADOC, they don't deploy or really do anything, so what the fuck do they need an FRG for?  And that is the attitude people have about the FRG.  I've heard it more times than I care to count and it's bullshit!!  And, by the way, that FRG meeting they scheduled will probably get cancelled anyway, because there is nothing going on.

3.  Rakkasans party hard, fight hard, drink hard, fuck hard and if you find a better group of men or better friends in your lifetime, then you didn't really bother to get to know them.  Those boys would burn down a motherfucker's house to defend the honor of a buddy whose wife was fucking around on him or beat the shit out of everyone in a bar because some dumb bastard talked bad about 3-187.  How many bars are the Rakk banned from now for fighting and clearing the places out??  I fucking love the Rakkasans.  Loyalty is everything to them.  TRADOC??  Not so much.  How can you have unit pride or loyalty when your job is dealing with a computer all day long??

4.    I had a friend once joke that I must bleed toriis because I loved the Rakkasans so much.  The torii is everywhere.  You can probably identify anyone who has been in this unit at any point in its illustrious history by the torii that is somewhere on their body, whether it be tattooed on their skin, printed on their clothes or on a piece of jewerly or hat.  It's there somewhere if you fucking look for it.  Once a Rakkasan, always a Rakkasan.  Here in TRADOC, I honestly can't tell you if the unit has a symbol or what their crest looks like.  I have no fucking clue and we've been here six months. 


I know this isn't a very long list of things that irk me about TRADOC and I've made it very general so I don't get in trouble again!!  I don't need him withholding sex as punishment for really letting loose on here.

Fuck TRADOC!!

Ah! the joys of TRADOC!  I know--we're in Germany and life should be fantastic, but TRADOC is so fucking stupid!!  I will never understand how so many piece of shit, asshole, hiding out from deployment motherfuckers manage to end up in TRADOC and never fucking leave!  What the hell is it with pogues??  "I'm scared.  I may sit behind a desk and I'll probably never have to leave the fucking FOB, but I just can't deploy!  Whose dick do I need to suck to get out of deployment?  Oh, here, Sir.  Let me bend over so you can ram it in if you can me get a job where I can hide the fuck out!" 

It's not just the hiding out pieces of shit that annoy me though.  These same bastards have got to be the laziest motherfuckers on the planet.  T is stuck at fucking desk doing planning for the international training they do here and wanted to get a job playing OP-FOR, but because he actually works and does his fucking job (and other people's as well) even though he hates it, they won't let him go to OP-FOR!!  There are E-6s and up doing jobs that a private could do, and technically speaking, they don't actually really do those jobs because they are busy fucking around on the internet and kissing somebody's ass!! 

Here's a typical day at work for T. My husband signed for equipment. Normal routine shit. The next day, supply wants him to sign for it all again. They lost the paperwork. My husband told them to go fuck themselves.  You want a new signature?  Then I want my fucking hand receipt back.  But no, they don't do it like that here.  You are just supposed to trust them that they will remember you've signed twice for the same shit and that when a fucking pair of NVDs comes up missing, you won't get charged $1500.  Fuck that!!

And apparently integrity is an imaginary concept here.  If you can blame someone else for your fuck-ups, then you are golden.  It's CYA all the way around and it makes me completely insane.  Integrity is not something you can fake or just decide you don't need when you are an NCO.  It's who you fucking are!!

But by far, the most horrid thing about TRADOC is the ridiculous hours!  0400-2000 or later every fucking day??  When my husband comes home too fucking tired to fuck me, it's time to get back on the line!!  At least on the line, he's not surrounded by pussy pieces of shit and when he can't fuck me, it's not because he's too tired, it's because he's fucking GONE killing the enemy with extreme prejudice!  God, I miss my RAKKASANS!!

To Be Like Daddy

My youngest seems to finally be ready to potty train!!  The last time I was potty training a little one, my husband was in Iraq for OIF what-the-fuck-ever-number it was.  My husband had played a major role in training our oldest to use the bathroom and did the job so well that the kid was trained day and night by 18 months of age.  Fantastic.  Our daughter was a pain in the ass and was 3 1/2 before she could finally wear big girl panties and not diapers all the time.  Number three was my responsibility with the hubby 10,000 miles away and needless to say, it was not going well. 

But then, R & R rolled around, my husband came home and within two weeks, he had the boy sitting on the toilet to pee.  Best method to potty train: let the child see how the fuck Daddy does it and then do it like him.  So my husband would take the kid in the bathroom, piss, and then put the boy on the toilet to do it himself.  Worked great--until the fucking Army said R & R was over and my husband had to leave.

B did great the first few days after Daddy left for shithole Iraq, but then, inevitably, issues sprang up.  Actually, it was only one issue.  The boy wanted to do it exactly like Daddy, which means standing up to pee.  Only one minor difficulty here.  The kid is too short.  Can't do it like Daddy.  So I encouraged him to continue to sit on the potty to pee and to wait until he got a little bigger.  The boy was having none of this and I discovered rather quickly that he was quite simply not willing to wait to get bigger.

Now I have to give the kid some major props for creative thinking and problem solving.  While I may not agree with the conclusion he reached, it was a well thought out plan.  Two days after the hubby's hasty retreat back to the desert, B announced to me that he had to pee, and I, not realizing that he was unhappy with my preferred methodology, told him to go.  So he went to the bathroom and about 5 minutes later, B has not yet emerged.  So off goes Mommy to investigate. 

And what the fuck do I find in the bathroom?  B has obviously decided that he is going to find a way to pee like Daddy, come hell or high water.  But getting a stool to make himself taller so he can reach to pee standing up was apparently not the way to go, because obviously the problem isn't that he's short.  No.  He has come to the logical (and from his point of view, obvious) conclusion that his penis is too small and if it was larger, he could reach the toilet to pee.  So when I entered the throne room, I found the two year old standing in front of the toilet, brandishing a paper towel roll on his penis, attempting to pee uphill into the toilet!  Gravity was the child's only downfall, because I suppose that in some warped, demented way, his logic was sound.

At least this time around, the fucking Army won't be taking my husband away halfway through the potty training process leaving me with a pool of piss to clean and a boy who has penis envy. . .

10 Years Later. . .

and I'm still fucking pissed off.  September 11th is like Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination, or the Challenger explosion: you will never forget where you were when it happened.  It just so happens that I was sitting at the dining room table in on post housing at Fort Campbell homeschooling my oldest son.  The hubby comes running in (this is not unusual--on post housing has the advantage of being able to go home after PT for breakfast, a shower and maybe a quickie) and asks if I've seen the news.  My reply was some smart ass bitchy comment like, "No.  We're fucking doing schoolwork.  Why?"  And my husband, with all the bluntness of an infantryman, simply told me, "We're going to go kill some motherfuckers." 

And so the TV came on, homeschooling was forgotten and I sat in abject horror as the second plane hit the WTC.  I was on the floor in tears when the towers came down prompting Peter Jennings to say, "Holy fuck!"  I remember trying not to vomit through the coverage of what was happening in DC and Pennsylvania.  And I, like the rest of America, was glued to my television for the next two weeks waiting to hear who had done this to our country and growing angrier by the minute at the arrogance of the bastards who had killed innocent people in such a cowardly fashion to gain their 70 virgins in heaven.  And terrified as I was at the thought of my husband having to leave, I wanted nothing more than for him to "go kill some motherfuckers." 

Ten years, four deployments, and I don't know how many dead motherfuckers later, I'm still angry.  This will never be over until the last of these radical motherfuckers is finding out that the virgins they were promised was a huge fucking lie.  I will never forget but neither will I ever forgive. 

Bigger, Better and Uncut

When my husband went to ANOC he encountered a slew of E6s whose entire goal in life was to prove to everyone else that they were more deserving to be an E7 than everyone else. This is the attitude and behavior pattern that instantly marks someone out as a piece of shit. Let's face it: if you are a good NCO, you don't need to prove a fucking thing to anyone else. Your men already respect you and you just have a presence about you that exudes the power that being an NCO brings. A good NCO doesn't need to brag about himself--everyone he meets will do that for him.

After that fucking school was finally over (and I say fucking school because the man is always either deployed or at yet another fucking school), we went on leave to visit my folks where my husband spent a good portion of our first day there bitching about the asshole, piece of shit, worthless motherfuckers he had met in that shithole. And when the opportunity presented itself after my husband finally quit bitching long enough for anyone else to get a word in edgewise, my father spoke his piece. Now you must understand that my father, unlike me, is a master of eloquence without the need to curse every other fucking word. He rarely curses, generally maintains a good control over his temper, is infinitely patient, generous, and kind hearted. An all-around, good Christian man without any of the hypocrisy that many so-called Christians exhibit. Through my husband's tirade about bad NCOs, lack of integrity, and general shitstorm of f-bombs, my father patiently listened and calmly said at the first opportunity,

"Well, T. It's at times like these that you just need to whip them out and see whose is bigger. . . "

Fucking Fairy

The good idea fairy is a fucking bitch! Getting orders to Germany may sound like a fantastic idea for a variety of reasons that range from getting away from the HMFIC assholes who have ruined my Rakkasans to getting to see Europe with my husband for once instead of being left behind again, but that fucking fairy is just laughing her ass off at you because she knows you're going to be taking it up the ass soon!! What sounds like a great idea is sure to turn into a fucking shit storm the instant you let down your guard and assume that life is going to be rosy.

The fucking fairy has at least one thing right. Germany is fucking beautiful. Gorgeous. We are in the middle of bum-fucked Bavaria, in a tiny little town with 7 other American families living in government leased quarters. And these quarters put the housing at Campbell to shame. It's huge, wood floors, lots of storage space, a fantastic playroom for the kids, quiet neighbourhood. Post is a 15 minute drive through the countryside and there is a gorgeous city 165 minutes in the opposite direction with some amazing medieval architecture and great shopping (or so I hear--not much of a shopper myself). I really like it out here in no-man's land.

Well, I do now that I have all my shit. It took two weeks longer than they said it would to deliver it and that was only because I called every fucking day for a week asking where the hell my stuff was and trying to explain that I have four kids who are going to meet with untimely ghastly ends if our shit doesn't arrive soon to provide them with means of entertainment that will keep them out of their mother's hair and off her nerves!! And we finally got internet after six weeks of waiting for them to show up and hook it up. The dude was here 5 whole minutes, spoke NO english, and failed to bring the router to make it work because he technically works for a different company than the one we are getting internet through so a special router is obviously necessary, requiring yet another pointless trip to post.

Because post is miniscule. Tiny. The PX is the size of a shoppette at Campbell and the commiscary is not much bigger. Not to mention that all the meats they sell there have been irradiated and frozen for shipment from the states. YUMMY!! Trying to decide where to go to buy things, like diapers, has been entertaining to say the least, because the PX does not sell diapers. You have to go the commissary or--wait for it--the Class Six!?!? And in case you don't know what a Class Six is, it's the fucking booze store. I don't know about you, but when I buy diapers to take care of the shitty baby, I like to be able to buy rum in the same place so I can get shitty myself.

With a post this size, one would think that getting things done would be a snap. I mean, fuck, you don't even need a car to get around!! You can fucking walk from one end of post to the other in 15 minutes. But then you come to learn that finance, for example, is only open on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday from 0900-1030 and 1300-1400 at least this week, because they seem to change their hours weekly. And that every fucking office on this post closes for an hour and a half everyday for lunch. And that half the people who work in the offices are Germans who speak little to no English! Maybe that is an exaggeration, but fuck me sideways, this place gives a whole new meaning to "Hurry Up and Wait!" And I thought deployment was the end all on that particular phrase.

The only other thing that the fucking good idea fairy had right was that the bread and desserts here are to die for! We have been buying bread at the local bakery and OMG!! kill me now before I get fat just looking at all the goodies. I'm in fucking carb heaven. But good luck trying to explain that you want a loaf of plain white bread in a language you don't know to someone who looks at you like you have eight heads because your German sucks. I can count to ten, say thank you, please, and you're welcome and that's about it. No wait. . . the kids like to go to the spielplatz (playground). And that is the range on my German. So I'm fucked when shopping unless they have very clear labels on things.

Next time the fucking good idea fairy shows up, I'm killing that bitch.

Shoot Me, Please!

PCSing is one of the worst things that you can have to do in the Army. Why?? Because of all the fucked up bullshit you have to deal with and it's not like civilian life where you might be able to juggle the timing a bit. The Army cuts orders and you are just fucked five ways from Sunday if anything fails to adhere to their schedule. And I can't even really bitch about it and have any leg to stand on, because this is a volunteer Army and we signed up for this shit!! Fuck.

Take my house for instance. I need to sell my house. Right fucking NOW!! We leave on May 30 for Germany and that is one timeline that the Army is not going to budge on. Not to mention that they will be shipping everything I own a week before that and that I have to drive my car to Georgia to get it shipped. Oh yeah, and they only allow you to take one vehicle, so I have a Mustang to get rid of or pay $1500 to send it too. What a fucking NIGHTMARE!

The best part of all of this has been fighting with the Army to be allowed to travel with my husband and not 2-3 months later because they don't having fucking housing available for our family and apartments or houses to rent there are few and far between. Nice. My husband has been gone for a year. I get him for 3 months and then the Army wants to take him away AGAIN!?! Fuck that shit. My ass is going with him or he will FTR at his new unit.

SO it's been one fucking thing after another and I am slowly losing the sanity I thought I had regained with my husband's return from the rock pile. Not that I have ever been terribly sane or reasonable to begin with. Let's face it, I am a Rakkasan's wife. How sane can I really be?

You Might Be a Rakkasan IF. . .

1. When you get a cut, you bleed fucking toriis!! (Thanks, JT.)

2. You like drinking, fighting and fucking (not necessarily in that order.)

3. You cannot stay out of trouble in garrison. And most incidents of you getting in trouble somehow involve one of the things listed in #2.

4. You can identify a piece of shit, ass kissing, fuck who got his Bronze Star for taking it up the ass at 100 meters.

5. You have, at some point in your career, told an officer to go fuck themselves. Loudly. To their face.

6. You get a torii tattoo that covers your entire back just to pass a fucking E5 board.

7. Your unit citation ribbons weigh more than your wife.

8. Your kid's first word was "FUCK!"

9. Your living room decor is toriis.

10. Your buddy's cheating bitch wife's boyfriend's house "mysteriously" burned to the ground.

11. Your wife can outswear a sailor, outdrink a pogue, and quote the 7-8.

12. You think Rangers are fucking pussies.

13. You will throw punches over who you are going to spoon with out in the field in December.

14. If it isn't tied down, any Rakkasan paraphernalia at the ball is fair game to take home, regardless of what they may say, including the centerpieces, other people's wine glasses, the Rakkasan wine, and the four foot tall unit crest in the corner. They'll look fucking awesome in your living room!!!

15. If another unit breaches Rakkasan-land during PT, they had better be prepared to hand over that fucking guide-on or be prepared to reap the whirlwind!

16. I want my steel beret back!!

17. Work is work and Play is play. So it's all good if we go to the CO's house for a bbq, get drunk and set the porch on fire. . .

18. COL Steele is the shit.

Not Another Fucking "Award"

I got another fucking invitation in the mail to go to yet another awards ceremony to honour the FRG volunteers. Whoopee-dee fucking doo. After all the shit this deployment and fucked up CoC has put everyone through, the powers that be now feel the need to point out the members of the FRG that got off their asses and actually did the fucking job they volunteered for! Wow. I'm thrilled. Can someone just fucking shoot me?

I have said it before and I'm sure that I'll say it again: I do not need or want a fucking award for doing the right thing. If I didn't want to help, I wouldn't have fucking thrown my name out to help. I don't even like people to tell me thank you, so you can imagine my sheer delight at getting this invitation.

And then there's the ever so minor matter of who would be making the presentation of the awards: a CoC that I neither like nor respect. After all their bullshit, I suddenly give a fuck whether they think I did a good job or not?? If the guys' wives/families are happy with whatever I might have done for them, that's all that matters to me. If I somehow made deployment remotely bearable or could help with an issue, that means more to me than any fucking piece of paper could. Especially coming from that HMFIC.

I had it all planned out. I would walk up, take the fucking thing, shake the bastard's hand and then rip that damnable piece of shit up in his face. Maybe, depending on how sycophantic the asshole was being that day, I might even shove the pieces up his ass. And the award is a good one: Department of the Army Certificate for Patriotic Civilian Service. It just might actually mean something if it were coming from a CoC that knew what the fuck they were doing, didn't expect everyone to kiss their asses, or actually gave two shits about the welfare of their men.

My husband, poor man, loved this plan of mine but decided that it would be best if I just not go. He still has to go to work up there and me causing a scene like that may have created some issues for him. I'm not really the "obey your husband" type, but luckily for me, the two little ones had Niagara Falls pouring out of their noses so I did what he wanted and stayed home. I picked up the award today from the FRSA, who I do happen to like and respect so it all worked out in the end.

Now I just need to figure out where I can find a real Rakkasan to sign this award and take the HMFIC's name of the fucking thing. Because I'll be damned if that fucker's name is getting framed and put up on my wall.

I'm BACK!!

I've just been a lazy bitch and said "fuck it!" about blogging. I was busy raping my husband. . . You'll just have to forgive the fact that Kate did not publish any new rants for your perusal in the past month. And just for information sake, I did not have nearly as many opportunities to have my brains fucked out as I wanted because my delightful, beautiful, evil children decided to wait until block leave for all four of them to have week long bouts of vomiting and diarrhea and I was just to fucking tired to fuck!! Damn it! On the bright side, we are not expecting the imminent arrival of number five. . .

The boys are back to work and the honeymoon period of "I'm just so fucking glad to be home!" should be coming to a screaming halt before long. My hubby is past that stage and into the "I can't fucking sit still for more than five seconds, everything is my wife's fault, and I only want you around for sex" stage. In other words, ASSHOLE mode. I fucking hate him. He needs to go away again. Block leave lasting a month is too long but just the right length of time to remind me why I like the Army: About the time I get sick of him, he leaves!!! I am going to go insane with this man under foot all the time. Or I'm going to fucking suck start that new Russian rifle he bought (if I can figure out how to pull the trigger with my toes!) I love my husband. Very much. He's the love of my life, and how I hate him. . .

On a similar note about loving husbands and wives, when the fuck did it become OK to fuck the wife of one of your Army buddies?? And why is no one being punished through UCMJ action for adultery? Oh wait, that's right. We have SGM Wife-fucker in the CoC and he sucks enough cock to get away with it. LOL. So, if by any chance you are wanting to fuck one of your husband's friends or a buddy's wife, for heaven's sake, do it NOW before that bastard leaves the unit.

I don't get it. I have had sex with one single person in my life and that is the man I am married to. What is the fascination with sex?? I like sex. I have four kids for fuck's sake. I am sick to death with drama and divorce and both are running rampant around here. Get some morals, keep your pants on, and try not to fuck anyone on your way to the parking lot! Jeez.

Yep. The Kate is back.

Only in the Infantry

Wife: "So, how did it go?"
Husband: "Great! I only died five times."

How the hell are you supposed to respond to that? Your husband has been in the field, running around with a weapon, practicing to kill the enemy. Not the kind of thing you want to hear come out of your husband's mouth, but in the infantry this is just casual conversation after a training exercise or field time.

And then there's the kids. Dad's deployed. You're at church. A man walks over and asks the kids where their daddy is. My oldest, who was 7 at the time, says without batting an eyelash, "Daddy is killing bad guys!" In church. Fan-fucking-tastic. That's a conversation stopper if ever I heard one.

But let's not forget the stupid stunts the guys pull. Like the pet camel spiders. These fuckers are huge! And by huge I mean, the size of your head. Not poisonous or anything, but big, hairy and ugly. The boys caught them and would have fights with them. Taking bets on whether the spider or the scorpion would win. Nice. But the best was Camel Spider vs. Baby chicken. The spider ate the wings off the chick first, then one of its feet, and then for the piece de resistance, it climbed up the chicken's ass and got a standing ovation as it burst the chick into pieces from the inside out. Sick bastards.

Of course, sick shit like this is great conversation fodder. These guys live together 24/7 and share everything with each other. And I do mean everything. From naked pics of the girlfriend (which my husband avoids because he swears he will never be able to look those women in the face if they end up married) to the latest and greatest methods of masturbation. My husband learned a new one this deployment. It's called "the stranger." I want to know who the fuck thinks shit like this up.

"The stranger" involves somehow cutting off the circulation to your arm via tourniquet or sitting on your hand until it falls asleep. Then you can jerk off and it's like having a sex with a stranger. Your hand is no longer your hand; it's a pocket pussy that's attached to you. I don't get it. I talk about a lot of things with my friends, but only in the infantry would you get lessons on new ways to fuck yourself.

But I suppose fucking yourself is better than being fucked in the ass by the CoC. Just saying. . .

Army Values Redefined

I know the Army Values. Most Army wives do. And a good soldier does his damnedest to live by the Army values. It's not fucking rocket science here. The Army values just boil down to plain old common sense, having some morals and a little bit of "intestinal fortitude." Well, apparently, the current leadership doesn't feel the Army values are as terribly important as I seem to think they are and so I am revamping the values to meet the CoC's expectations for the soldiers under their command. Enjoy.

Loyalty:
The old: Showing faith and allegiance to the Constitution, the Army, your unit, your fellow soldiers, your family and friends. (Please notice, self is not mentioned.)

The new: Loyalty to the CoC comes first and foremost with loyalty to yourself coming in second. You are no longer required to have unit pride. Your loyalty to the unit will only be called into question if the CoC wants you to do something that you think is wrong.

Duty:
The old: Fulfilling your professional, legal and moral obligations to the best of your ability. Taking responsibility for your actions and those beneath you.

The new: It's now OK to do as little as humanly possible so long as you don't leave a fucking paper trail. Just look busy. And it's also perfectly acceptable to blame your fuck ups on the soldiers under you or on whoever the CoC doesn't like or.

Respect:
The old: Promoting dignity, consideration, fairness, and justice

The new: Also known as ass kissing, cock sucking, RHIP, and buddy fucking. Enough said.

Selfless Service:
The old: Service to the nation, the mission, and the men under you comes before serving yourself.

The new: Buddy fucking is acceptable. It's OK to take credit for something you didn't do, and the CoC might even get people to lie on sworn statements for you if you can suck a golf ball through a straw or are willing to take it up the ass.

Honor:
The old: Live up to all the Army values.

The new: Do what the CoC tells you to do, don't ask questions, kiss their asses, and maybe you won't get fucked over by them, too.

Integrity:
The old: Do what is right morally and legally.

The new: The CoC will decide what is right and what is wrong. This is subject to change at their whim so be on your toes. And right and wrong do not apply across the board. It may be OK for everyone but you if you aren't an ass kisser. And the legal end of this gets a bit fucking hazy under the cloud of the CoC's personal friends who will ruin anyone who stands up for what is right. CYA is the rule of the day.

Personal Courage:
The old: Showing physical and moral courage. Having the courage to take a stand for what is right.

The new: Pussydom and ass kissing are encouraged. Do not take a stand for what you think is right. The CoC "knows people" and they will throw you under the fucking bus.


This is the current command climate. What the fuck happened to my Rakassans? I was told recently that people would really understand if I didn't like the Rakassans anymore after everything that's gone on. What? I love the Rakassans. Twelve years in the Rakk and I love those mother-fuckers. CoCs will come and go and they are NOT the Rakassans. Fucking tourists. The Rakassans are the men of the 187 and them I love with all my heart. The current CoC can go fuck themselves. Karma's a bitch and when you convolute the Army values like this to such a self-serving fucked up way of thinking, well, the CoC is just begging to get fucked in the ass.

Sleep or Sex?

So I thought that having the hubby stateside meant that I would be having sex and not sleeping because of the frequency and duration of said sex, but I have children who hate me and want to ensure that their mother never gets laid ever again! We spend the first day he's home waiting and waiting and waiting some more for the damn unit to release them, but some stupid fuck lost a bag. And rather than just fill out the fucking paperwork and count the damn thing as a lost cause, they decide it's more fun to torture everyone and make them wait some more to take their soldier home. Wasn't deployment long enough?? We really need to extend it any way we can? Assholes.

So I finally get him home and have dinner with the family. Lay the baby down. Get the 5 year old off to bed. Teenagers are in their caves, never to be seen again and just starting to think that sex-time is approaching, when we discover a screaming baby in a pool of vomit and a diaper full of something approaching the texture and consistency of chocolate milk. Yay! We're up all night with the baby who is sore and tired and puking his guts up. And then the five year old gets up at 0500 and vomits all over, but seems to be fine after so at 0630 he's on the bus to school. T left for reverse SRP at 0600. Baby goes down at 0700 and I'm stupid enough to think I might get a power nap in. Yeah right!

0715 the phone rings and I am informed that I need to go pick up the kid from school because he has puked on the bus and himself and his shoes. . . I get my oldest up to pull guard duty on the puking baby (who is still asleep), tell my daughter to have a good day when she catches the bus at 0730, and drive in a semi-catatonic state to the school to get my other sick child. Nice. I get home to a still sleeping baby and I'm still wanting that nap, but of course just as I get comfy, the bugger wakes up and pukes again. And the diaper is nasty again.

That was day 2. Day 3 and 4 have been more of the same. I am subsisting on 1 or 2 hours of sleep whenever I can catch them (and they are speedy fuckers who don't like to be caught), washing load after load after load of laundry that has bodily emissions on it that I don't even want to think about, trying to ensure the baby is never ever not being held or he screams bloody murder, and keeping candles burning so the smell that is permeating my house doesn't make anyone else vomit, all while attempting to find an opportunity to maybe get in a quickie with my husband.

When you have a choice between sex and sleep and you haven't had sex in a year, I would think it wasn't much of a choice. But I'm really leaning toward the sleeping thing and that's just fucking sad.

Boots on the Ground

This wretched fucking bullshit deployment is nearly at an end. One more flight. One more mother fucking flight and all the boys will finally be home so we can put this bitch to bed! All the Rakkasans with boots on the ground. Fuck, yeah! Only thing left to do is reverse SRP and a sham schedule until block leave. And these men deserve it after the hell they've dealt with for the past year.

The cluster fuck that has been deployment and redeployment will be over once those wheels hit the ground with the last of the guys. So we ladies can kiss sexual deprivation, deployment drunkenness, chain smoking, anxiety, single parenthood and insomnia GOOD-fucking-BYE and get on with life again. Time for my harem to stand up and say, "Fuck you, deployment! We kicked your ass, you bitch! Go to hell!!"

So, my beautiful harem and faithful friends/readers/stalkers, it has been my great honour to have had you all partaking of the insanity has been my blog over the past year. And it has also been my great privilege to be able to help those of you who have called and emailed me needing advice or a question answered or a problem solved. I hope that I have been helpful to you all, whether directly by telling off rear-d or answering a question or by making you laugh with some stupid story on here.

Enjoy your husbands and sons! Deployment isn't quite over for me and some of the other ladies, but I hope within the next twenty-four hours to have re-joined the ranks of Rakkasan wives who are getting sex. We'll just have to wait and see whether method #1078 to fuck up a deployment rears its ugly head: forget to bring one of them home. . .

Meet the Parents

My phone has been blowing up for the past couple of weeks. Between wives and parents calling and texting me at all hours of the day and night wanting to know when the fuck these boys are coming home and me trying to tell everyone that I don't fucking know either, it's been fun. Not really. It's frustrating to want to help and not be able to, but I unfortunately do not have the rank required to make rear-d and the CoC give me a damned roster. It has, however, done one very important thing: angry and frantic wives and parents help me stay busy enough that I don't have time to remember how fucking pissed off I am at the Army, the CoC, rear-d and life in general.

So I've been going to every single homecoming that I can get to if there is an Angel on board that plane. I missed one and I feel like an ass, but four kids don't allow for the necessary flexibility to up and run on demand. Little shits fucking up my plans. . . Best part of going is that I finally get to meet the people who go with the voice on the other end of the phone calls I've been making all fucking deployment! Now I admit that getting to finally meet the parents of all our Angels finishes a distant second to the prospect of getting laid again sometime this century, but it really is one of the best things about redeployment. Let's face it--most phone calls to the POC from wives and parents are, "Fuck!! Fix this shit for me, Kate!" and I'm happy to help fix that shit. It's just a nice change for the better to have elated people want to talk to me.

So apparently I'm not just everyone's favorite pain in the ass. I'm not as useless as tits on a bull. The guys' parents actually like me!! And want to thank me for my help? And hug me. And cry on me. And introduce me to their sons/heroes. And take me to dinner (I think they forgot the 4 kids that I have in tow and how much that would cost.) And take my picture while I'm sticking my tongue out at them. It's fan-fucking-tastic! Brilliant! A total blast!

And after the cluster fuck that has been this deployment and redeployment, I needed to be reminded that in spite of my foul mouth and bad temper, I am a nice person. Holy shit!! Who knew??

Jealousy?

My husband has no fucking clue what it is to be jealous. Sometimes I love that about him and sometimes, it just makes me wonder if I'm so damned unattractive that he really doesn't give a fuck.

During the invasion, phone calls home were a precious commodity and if you got a chance to call home, you called and talked as long as you could regardless of what was going on. This kid had guard duty and it was his turn to call home, so there's a bunch of guys up there with him to take up the slack so he could talk. This kid calls his fiancee who was a rather large girl (huge) and is talking about how much he loves her and she's perfect and that if she wants to go on a diet that's fine with him, but he loves her the way she is. Blah, blah, blah.

At some point in this conversation, one of the guys in the room decides that this is just too good to pass up and it needs to be recorded. Somehow, somewhere, they find a recorder and tape this poor bastard talking to his woman. And apparently this conversation is something that SSG T needs to hear. So they find my hubby and let him listen to this recording.

"No baby. You're beautiful. I love you just the way you are. Don't diet for me; do it for yourself. I'll love you the same, no matter how big you are. But if you want to lose some weight, that would be wonderful. And if you could get as tiny as Mrs. T, oh my God, we are going to have the most amazing sex, because I'll be able to bounce you all over the place just like I bet SSG T does to his wife. . . "

No doubt the guys were anticipating the smoking this poor little boy was about to receive at the hands of SSG T for talking so infamously about his wife. No doubt they were imagining the delights in store for this foolish kid. And no doubt, they were really hoping that they would be there to witness the entire glorious torture of this kid who didn't know when to shut the fuck up. Well, if shame is torture, this kid got it in spades. My husband goes up to this kid, puts an arm around him and says, "Yes, my wife is fun to bounce around."

From Deployment to Dancing

Well, the boys are FINALLY fucking on their way home and will be filtering in in greater numbers over the next week, so now it's time to start shopping for that next ball gown ladies! April--Rakkasan Ball. Fun. fun, fun. Really. Rakk Balls are a fucking blast, but for goodness sake, fucking think when you buy your dress!

Remember: women are bitches. We LOVE to find fault and if you aren't careful, you will be on everyone's tongues and not in a good way. "Did you see what she's wearing? OMG!"There are always the big girls trying to look sexy by dressing too tightly or skimpily, the even bigger girls who think they can wear a yellow dress and not look like a tub of butter, the freakishly thin girls who think skanky is sexy, the girls who are ultra chic and wear a dress that they will never be able to wear again, the girls who "forgot" their underwear, the younger girls who think this is a fucking prom, the older ladies who forget that they have a baby roll and sagging boobs, and the just fucking scary girls who are wearing who the fuck knows what.

My first ball, having no clue what to do, I wore a plain black floor length strapless fitted dress. Completely forgettable, which is a good thing. Not so forgettable was the CSM's wife. When he came in alone, I was standing talking to a friend and our husbands were in line to buy a beer. Big surprise there. A minute after the CSM walked in, here comes this older woman. You couldn't miss her if you tried. She had on a beautiful tradition Korean gown, complete with jacket and shoes. Beautiful. Bright fucking fuschia and flaming orange. Very noticable.

When she came in, my friend and I immediately commented about how gorgeous her dress was. No sarcasm, because it was seriously impressive. But then her husband stopped to talk to someone and she stopped too about 10 feet behind him. In the middle of the floor, not near anyone, just stopped and stood there. OK. I am gawking at this woman wondering what the fuck is going on, and then she did it. When her husband started walking, she did this little hop to fall in step behind him and maintained that 10 foot distance.

I would have been fine if she just started walking, but the hop? I was on the floor, with my friend, dying! And here come our husbands. "Shut the fuck up! You're going to get us in trouble! That's the CSM. Stop it!" Yeah, OK. But when you wear flaming pink and orange and do that tradition the man is God shit, I'm going to stare and I am going to laugh my ass off. Sorry. No help for it.

My point is this. Think classy. Like old Hollywood classy. If you do anything to stand out in a bad way, whether it's your dress or your behavior, you could be the topic of someone's future blog. So dress nicely, avoid the grog and please, if you plan on getting drunk, don't wear a strapless dress that will allow you to reveal those boobs your hubby bought you to everyone.

Black Ops

Enough bitching. Everyone is pissed about redeployment and me bitching about it doesn't do one damned bit of good. So fuck it.

One thing I've learned in all my years in the Army is that we wives get random phone calls at ridiculous hours from our husbands wanting stupid shit. Like the phones calls from Iraq when my husband tells me he needs as many stuffed Pooh bears as I can find. And a Harley Davidson tee shirt and mug. Oh, and a Barbie doll who is fully clothed. WTF?!? The Barbie is for a little Iraqi girl he fell in love with and plans to kidnap. The HD stuff is for their translator. And the Pooh bears? He wants a collection to pass out to the Iraqi babies because "no child should grow up without a Pooh bear." Whatever.

No big deal. I can send packages like a motherfucker. It's when I get a call at dusk from my husband who is in the field somewhere in the back forty telling me he has a mission for me and that no one can know about it. A black op. OK? What the hell does he want this time? Easy. Go to the store. Buy a cube of Mountain Dew. A cube of Pepsi. Honey mustard pretzels. Candy bars. A two liter of Dew and a USA Today newspaper for Daddy W. Fine.

Load up the kids, ages two and three. Go to the store and fight with the kids to buy all this shit. Then drive out to the back forty, get lost twice, finally find where I need to be and start checking the wood line for a platoon of soldiers in camouflage. In the dark. Yeah. I finally gave up. The kids are screaming. I'm tired. I can't find them. I'm going home. So I turn around and begin the hour long drive back home.

And then out of the woods comes this little boy, in camo with face paint on, who jumps in front of the van waving like a jackass to get me to stop. Fuck me. I'm surrounded! Six guys throw open the door of the van, grab the stuff. My husband yells, "Thanks. Love you!" the door slams shut and the bastards are gone!

Mission accomplished.

Fear and Loathing at Fort Campbell

The atmosphere here at Fort Campbell is thick enough to cut with a knife. Everywhere you go and everyone you meet has a distinct edge about them and it's brought on by fear and loathing of all things that fall under the category of redeployment. You know that Bible verse in 1 Corinthians about love? How it's patient and kind? Well, redeployment equals HATE and so I am "fixing" this to suit the mood I'm in and God can smite me down for convoluting His Word.

Redeployment makes us all fucking impatient. It is hurtful and intolerant. It exaggerates the truth. It is snide and overbearing. It outrages everyone and definitely makes us keep track of the fuck-ups. Redeployment is infuriating and loves to fuck with people's heads and hearts. It is neglectful, causes doubt and despair, and tries to make us surrender to its whims. Redeployment never fucking ends.

So now I can burn in hell for screwing with the Bible, but redeployment is, right now, the opposite of love. Love and redeployment aren't even in the same dimension! We get told to be patient, to be flexible and to start getting excited. But then no one can tell us what the fuck is going on and FUBAR is the word of the day; our questions are ignored or passed off. We've been told so many different dates to expect them home only to have that day come and go. Is it any wonder that wives are parents alike are at the end of their ropes?

Redeployment can go fuck itself. And so can the CoC and rear-d and everyone else who has a finger in planning or organizing this cluster fuck. I'm done. Just fucking bring them home and kiss my ass.

Migraine

I have had a raging migraine for the past week. Feels like something is inside my head and trying to beat its way out of my skull. I'm sure that a complete and total lack of sleep isn't any fucking help at this stage, but barring the consumption of a bottle of wine nightly, sleep is not going to be happening anytime soon. Fortunately, I do foresee an end of the pounding headache: getting laid and hopefully soon. But then again, the last welcome home ceremony was just further proof that the "Hurry Up and Wait" is alive and well. I'm just hoping to get the call sometime before hell freezes over, and if you've been tracking the weather at all, you know that we are fast approaching the freezing point of brimstone and fire. FTA!

Last night was a whole lot of no fucking fun at all. Sitting at the hangar, waiting on the boys, listening to the brass quintet (who incidentally are fucking fantastic!!!)when someone comes over the PA to announce "The plane will be here in approximately 5 minutes. Please proceed outside to watch your soldier de-plane." FUCK YEAH!! Then another announcement, "The plane will not be able to land at Campbell Airfield tonight. Please return to your seats and wait while we figure out what the fuck is going on." Well, not verbatim, obviously. But that was the gist of it.

They diverted the plane to Nashville and had to send buses to pick up the guys. What the FUCK?!?!?!?! Who the hell is coordinating this shit? They couldn't have figured out that the landing strip was too fucking icy before everyone showed up? But no! Again, we are incapable of planning anything with any kind of forethought or consideration for others. It's way too much fun to fuck with people and dangle the boys in front of them and then laugh while we make them wait 7 more hours.

I've had it. My head is killing me and if stress doesn't give me a heart attack, hearing that a welcome home ceremony went smoothly just might do the job. I am staging a coup. I have never seen such fucked up, asinine, bullshit planning in my life and I can't take the stupidity anymore.

Good Morning, Bitch!

How sleep deprived and stressed out do you have to be before you can qualify yourself among the living dead? This past week has just about pushed me over the fucking edge. Between stupid emails, frantic phone calls, exploding computers, vomiting dogs, screaming babies and a generally pervasive stressful environment that prevents sleep of any quality or quantity, I am officially announcing my initiation into the world of videogame creatures where my son shoots Russian Space Monkey Zombies with his uncles. Wish somebody would shoot me.

I've already bitched about that shitty fucking email so I'll just let you peruse that particular posting at your leisure. But last night and this morning were the straw that fucking turned the camel inside out. There was no new bitch session from the infamous Kate last night because whilst checking her email, her piece of shit computer decided to lock up, make a hideous screeching hissing noise, and die. D-E-A-D. Dead. The whore won't even power on, so at 2200, I'm at Walmart buying a new machine. Fuck!

Then I spent the night worrying about the pics of my kids on the old hard drive which is the only thing I give two shits about and getting the new computer up to my usual standard of functionality. Finally passed out at 0400 and woke up to the alarm at 0610, which means I have 15 minutes to get my 5 year old up, dressed, lunch packed, coat on, and out the door for the bus. Tight timetable, but doable. However, on my way through the kitchen to turn on my tea pot for my morning cup of tea, I slide through a puddle of dog vomit. Fuck the tea. Reverse course and go get the boy up.

Unfortuantely, the baby is awake. He's jumping up and down in his bed, wanting to get up which isn't happening because of the puke pile. So I get the kindergartner moving, throw him his clothes, go clean up the vomit and start on the lunch. And then I hear the lovely sounds of the dog dry heaving and before I can so much as turn around, that little shit has vomited again and now I have the fucking Atlantic Ocean all over my kitchen floor.

Back to my room to grab towels. The baby, still in bed, sees Mommy run in and out again without getting him up and proceeds to start screaming. Running with towels to clean up the sea of sick. 5 year old butt naked in the living room. Dog standing there gagging again. So my teenage daughter woke up to Mom screaming, "Get the fuck out of my house!!!" while slamming the door behind the dog. She thinks she's in trouble, 5 year old still not dressed, lunch not packed, baby screaming, puke towels going in the washing machine, and at 0617 Mom is bleaching the kitchen floor.

0622. 5 year old dressed. Teenager in shower. Baby still screaming, doing his usual Picasso routine now, and rubbing poop all over his bed to further express his displeasure at being kept waiting. Lunch finally packed. Into lunch bag and then into backpack. Throw coat, hat and gloves at 5 year old, jam on my own to walk him out and 0625, here's the fucking bus. Out the door. hugs and kisses and straightening his hat as he boards the big yellow box with a laughing at his mommy bus driver behind the wheel. (Fuck you, bitch!)

0626- Baby up now. Into tub. Shitty sheets joining the pukey towels in the washing machine. Naked baby streaking through the house. Diaper, clothes. Cheerios and a sippy cup of milk. And now I can sit for 5 minutes until the next fucking crisis. By this point my main concern is where the hell is my fucking cup of tea?!?

And people wonder why I smoke like a fucking dragon!

Cluster Fuck

This is the email we got about homecoming. What the fuck?!?

There has been a change to how Rear D is going to identify flights going forward. They are no longer able to match the Main Body # with the Mission/Ceremony #. Flights are backed up at some point in Afghanistan and as a result some Soldiers are getting moved to different flights than they were originally slated for. There is also severe weather which will cause more delays and changes. There is a decent amount of confusion so we need your help to try to keep people informed of what is going on. The notification process we’ve briefed will not change. Rear D will call families 7 days out and again 18-24 hours out.

It is imperative that you let families know they will need to rely on the Mission/Ceremony # given to them by Rear D to know for certain what flight their Soldier is on. The Main Body # is just no longer reliable. People will be confused if they talk to their Soldier and get a Main Body # from them – that is the only information Soldiers have to identify the flight they will be on. Please let families know that the Mission/Ceremony # they get from Rear D is ultimately the only number that matters.

As I’ve said before – LOW EXPECTATIONS! Murphy’s Law loves redeployment… Out do yourself on how low your expectations can be. If you expect the worst then you can’t get too disappointed!


So in other words, redeployment has become an even bigger cluster fuck than it was previously when they decided to send the boys home in some random order rather than by company. Now, somehow that random order has become even more random and no one-not rear-d, the CoC or God Himself-has any fucking clue who is coming home or when or on what flight or if everyone is even scheduled for a flight! And someone decided to send out this email and scare the shit out of everyone, let everyone know how inconvenienced by the Army they are really going to be, and set up all the POCs (and me) to start getting bombarded by calls from angry, confused and irate parents and spouses at zero dark thirty this morning! Assholes.

And we are supposed to EXPECT THE WORST?? Way to inspire confidence that our husbands will be home sometime this century! Because my idea of the worst is that you fuckers will leave my husband behind in Asscrackistan! I mean, I know that the CoC hates his guts so what incentive do they have to bring him home beyond not looking like even bigger fuck-ups than they already do?? My poor hubby already is stuck trying to hop flights to get to where the main body flights are leaving from because no one bothered to schedule the trip for him. So should I just brace myself for him NOT coming home?

Maybe we wives should usurp the CoC--take this shit over ourselves. Because at the rate things are going, my five year old could plan this shit better than those dumb fucks!

Jackass- Army Style

The boys are working their way home and at the homecoming ceremony, we're all going to get to hear yet again about how they are all suffering from PTSD and are nuts. What I think everyone fails to remember is that these are infantrymen, not a bunch of fucking pogues! They were all out of their damn minds before they deployed!!

I swear that being an infantry wife is like watching a never-ending episode of Jackass. What stupid thing can we do today seems to be the question that infantrymen strive to answer on a daily basis, whether they are in garrison or in the field. Inch worm racing in the barracks--that's when you zip guys up in their sleeping bags and make them crawl like caterpillars. Then there's "private bowling," which takes place the day after a GI Party and the floors have been waxed to hell and back again. You collect all the beer bottles you can find, stack them, grab a private and use him for a bowling ball down the hall.

Then there are the idiots who insist on outdoing on another. Like the fool who wanted to fuck with his roommate and ripped the cord out of his toaster, attached the wires to the doorknob and the then plugged the fucker in! Or the trio who decided that repelling off the roof of the barracks with 550-cord would be good practice for air assault school.

But garrison time doesn't hold a monopoly on stupid human tricks. Field time requires a bit more creativity, but infantrymen are nothing if not inventive. There's "koala-fying"--everyone finds a tree, climbs up, hangs upside down from a branch and sees who can do this the longest. The "Parmalet Challenge" involves this fake milk shit that will keep in 110 degree weather for 500 years without spoiling. You have to chug as many of them as you can in 30 minutes and not puke. And by puke I mean projectile vomit. Oh yeah. It also makes you shit your brains out while you are puking your guts up.

And who can forget the foraging missions? One guy goes around collecting for the pool and a team goes out searching for ever kind of creepy crawly thing you can imagine, from grubs and worms to crickets and stink bugs. Whoever will eat all the bugs gets the pool. One of the guys (crazy sick mother fucker) ate a fucking LIZARD for $100!!

Can we really say that boys who act like this were really "normal" before they fucking deployed?? I think not.

Pity Party

How did homecoming become a pissing match? What the fuck? The boys are coming home and there's not one damn thing that means shit beyond that single fact. They are coming home. This isn't a fucking competition. It's not a race of who's coming home sooner than who. As long as they all get here in one piece, I couldn't give two shits less about when they get here. Just so long as they do.

So, my husband is coming on the last main body flight. Fan-fucking-tastic! Most of my friends' hubbies will be home before mine and a good part of them will be done with reverse SRP before mine is boots on the ground. Oh well. That's just the way things have come about this redeployment. The CoC took everyone in the battalion, wrote their names on a card, pulled out the cards of people they hate, threw them in the air, and played a rousing round of 52-card pickup. Cards 1-150 are on flight one, 151-300 are flight 2, and those people we hate are on lucky number 13!! That's the only rhyme or reason I can see behind this cluster-fuck of a redeployment manifest with companies scattered hither and yon.

What annoys me most is not that my hubby is coming in dead last. It's that wives feel the need to fucking apologize for theirs coming home sooner. Hello!! I am happy for you, bitch! Go to homecoming, be happy, dance, sing, take him home, and rape the shit out of him! Regardless of anything else going on, I am ecstatic that the guys are on their way home and every single one of those heroes deserves to come home safely, be with their families and enjoy their moment in the spotlight. Fuck my husband! You know what I mean. I don't need a pity party. A few more days aren't going to kill me and I promise, my happiness at any of the guys being boots on the ground far outweighs any inkling of jealousy I might be harboring.

If you want to throw a pity party, throw it for my hubby. He gets to fly home with a CoC that he doesn't like or even respect. That, my friends, is something to feel bad about.

Prepare Thyself. . .

The boys are finally meandering their way home, a few at a time, spread out over a month, and it's about fucking time!! It's a timeline with a lot of room for error and which leaves all of us wives with a very serious question that needs answering: will I have time after I get the call to go in for a bikini wax or should I get it done now and pray that nothing looks "unkempt" by the time he does get home??

That may sound fucking stupid that this is a major concern for a wife, but if everything is going to be fucking perfect when he does finally gets boots on the ground, then I need an answer to this question!! Personally, I wait until the 3 day window after the call for all the plucking, waxing, shaving, painting, and female beautification routines. I spend the time up to then cleaning like a mad woman, repainting baseboards, engaging in general home repair, bleaching, stripping, scrubbing and generally suffocating everyone with a combination of deadly fumes from some evil cleaning products.

And then comes another important question that most wives like to answer well before the arrival of the husband: what the fuck am I going to wear?? OK. It's fucking February, so dress warm. Wear something cute, but not slutty. Save the fucking S&M leather corset and collar for the bedroom at home. Or the ultra mini "dress" that you made out of his ACUs. The daisy dukes on your size 34W ass I can also do without. And please, please try to refrain from showing up without your panties! There is nowhere at the hangar where you can get a quickie in. Believe me, bitch, no one wants see your twat when you sit down on the bleachers and show that nasty thing to the entire fucking hangar!! Thank you very much.

I already have the house mostly clean, laundry caught up, one room left to paint, outfit selected, the list of people to call, hair removal plan in place. . . There's a lot that needs to be done before he's boots on the ground. And there's nothing that needs to be done before he gets here. I know that sounds fucked up, but what I mean is this: we wives put the pressure to have everything perfect on ourselves! Our husbands don't care if there are dishes in the sink or dust on the baseboard or a load of laundry in the dryer. He doesn't care if you shaved your damn legs that morning or not. He wants his family and that's it. Dirty, hair in Pippi Longstocking braids, wearing fucking flannel with no makeup. Doesn't matter. Just show up at homecoming.

That's all you have to do to make him happy. The rest is bullshit.

I Can't Take Them Anywhere!

My kids go everywhere with me and I do mean everywhere. Well, the teenagers are becoming more independent and stay home from some stuff, but when they were little, you didn't see Kate without the Irish twins in tow. I homeschool and finding a babysitter in the middle of the day is a fucking nightmare, and I actually spank my kids so they know to behave in public. We save the acting like a monkey for at home. Needless to say, I am very lucky that I could take them with me to meetings or fundraisers or whatever.

After the invasion, the battalion CO had an AAR (after action review) with the FRG leaders and rear-d to see what went well on the homefront and what was fucked up. I was the battalion secretary at the time and had to be there to take notes, so the kids got an extended lunch break to tag along with Mama and the battalion leadership got a show.

Everyone brought their kids to this shit--mine just happened to be about 4 or 5 years older than the rest of the rug rats and so got sent to the corner with the rest under orders to keep the little ones occupied. And my two were happy to do it. They love little kids. So off they go to the other side of the room with 7 or 8 little ones to put in a movie and play while the grown-ups discuss important things.

Halfway through the meeting, the LT across from me starts biting his hand and kicking me under the table. I'm thinking, you fucker. But he's trying not to laugh and starts pointing over my shoulder to the other side of the room. The colonel by now has seen what is going on behind me and is gagging from trying to hold the laughing in. By this point, I do not want to know what the fuck is going on. I am afraid to turn around. But the whole room is trying to maintain some level of professionalism and failing miserably, so now I have no choice. I turn around.

And there, on the other side of the room, are my two wonderful kids. They have all the little ones in a single file line and are leading them around in this twisted game of follow the leader. No big deal. The truly horrible/funny thing is that they have found magazines which they have passed out to all the children and have taught them something that they probably shouldn't know, but their mother is a bad parent and has let them watch selected parts of the Holy Grail at the ripe old ages of 7 and 8. These children are parading around chanting in Latin, "Pie Jesu Domine. Dona Eis Requiem" and then beating themselves on the head with the magazines.

Fuck.  Me.

The Perfect Army Wife

And it sure as hell isn't me. Not by a long shot. Beatrice Patton, the wife of General George Patton, is, in my opinion, the epitome of what an Army wife should be: generous, devoted, encouraging, and not afraid to pull strings. Both Patton and Beatrice were from very wealthy families and had tons of connections. After WWI, Beatrice used some of her acquaintances to get her husband a posting in Washington DC and to endure that they would be included in high society/military functions.

At this point the general was a full bird colonel and escorting his wife to a military ball at some hoity-toity venue. She's in this full length gorgeous gown, walking on the arm of her husband in his dress uniform with all the ribbons and medals he's earned during the war. The ideal picture of a soldier with his beautiful bride dressed to the nines. They are walking up the stairs to enter the ball when she hears some jackass say, "Well, they'll promote anyone these days!"

Beatrice has no idea what happened. She was fucking pissed and blocked out everything and everyone but the fucker who had been so demeaning to her husband. She came back to her senses to find that three men were escorting her inside.

Apparently, as soon as she heard what the bastard had to say, she had let go of her husband's arm, vaulted herself up the steps and launched herself at the idiot. Taken by surprise, he collapsed under her whereupon she straddled him to sit on his shoulders and proceeded to pound his head into the marble floor. It took three men to pry her off of him.

Now, that's a fucking Army wife!!!

What FRG??

I bitch. A lot! And a reoccurring theme of my bitching lately has been the CoC, which is an insurmountable disappointment in so many ways. I've also bitched about rear-d and the psycho wives and cheating assholes. The Army in general hasn't avoided the wrath of Kate either. However, this weekend reminded me of one very specific group that I have overlooked in my bitch sessions and not wanting them to feel left out, please allow me to take this opportunity to say that FRG is fucked up five ways from Sunday and that it's a fucking miracle that the people who do volunteer haven't all run screaming for the hills.

Why the sudden onslaught against the FRG, you ask. Well, it's been a long time coming and this weekend's festivites/complete and total nut-fuck was the final straw that broke the camel's back. How is it that you decide to make up barracks rooms for the boys, schedule times to go in, ask for volunteers, and NOT have enough stuff to make up all the rooms?? We still need 35 sets of sheets, and 55 towels and pillows! WTF??

Last deployment, we didn't have this issue. We planned months in advance and sent out flyers to everyone about what we wanted to do. And the donations came flowing in. By the time we were done, all the boys had sheets, pillow, towels, blankets, shower shoes, toilteries, tp, snacks and posters and cards in their rooms. We had so much stuff that the single guys who didn't even fucking live in the barracks could all take stuff home!! So all I want to know is, who the hell dropped the fucking ball? Because the FRG is the so-called "brains" behind this one.

I posted a very simple Facebook status and have been answering emails from parents all weekend. They want to help. Parents are the most a-fucking-mazing people and want to do things for the boys, which isn't always convenient because they don't live here to do them. However, if they know what is going on well enough in advance, parents can send a check or send sheets or ask their church to pitch in. But the key thing here is to let them know what the fuck is going on with the boys!! If they don't fucking know, they can't help.

That's my gripe for this evening. People bitch about the FRG and unfortunately, I can't deny that they are right. In four deployments, this is the most unorganized, careless FRG I have ever seen! In past deployments, if you wanted to see a good FRG, you came to the Rakassans. Fuck, division sent CNN to interview Angel Co because we had the best fucking FRG on the post!! We were the shit. Now the FRG is shit. And it all boils down to piss-poor planning and not giving a fuck about anyone.

Bad Parenting

Days like today make me think that I have got to be the worst fucking parent ever. The baby decided that jumping on mam's bed sounded like fun and he doesn't have what you would call great balance. So the poor boy flips face first onto the headboard. I think we can expect to see black eye number 4 tomorrow. Number one involved him rolling off the couch onto the rocking horse (more about this horse later). Number 2 was falling onto the corner of the coffee table while he was learning to walk. Number three is my all time fave, though. That earned him not only a black eye, but a nice scar on his brow bone. He was playing in the tub with the five year old, decided he was done with that shit because the five year old kept stealing his toys, and attempted to climb out. He was doing fine, with one leg slung over the side of the tub, but apparently, wet balls are slippery and once those rubbed the tub wall, he slipped off and whacked his fucking eye again! Two big cuts, gushing blood, and bruised all to hell.

That's my youngest. My five year old just liked to poop on the living room floor when we had company over. My daughter, on the other hand, had a talent for nose bleeds. First one ever was in Walmart. She walked straight into a cart and started pouring blood all over the floor. Some Walmart person runs for the manager who gave her a free ICEE to make her feel better. Bad idea. So for about a year, every fucking trip to Walmart invariably ended with the girl crying and bleeding and an ICEE in her grubby little manipulative hand.

Then there's my oldest, my darling son, who is too damn smart for his own good. He's a bit OCD and always has been, so he's never been much for doing things that will actually hurt him. Our problems with him are of an entirely different nature. He said his first word at three and half months old and it wasn't the usual baby gibberish. No. He was playing with my mom's dog, who got sick of getting his hair pulled and his eyes poked and said, "Fuck that. I'm gone!!" The dog walks away and my son yells the dog's name, Scruffy. I thought that I was going nuts and just trying to hear actual words, but my sister freaked out and started screaming that he's said the dog's name. That poor boy. The two of us are in his face trying to get him to say it again to no avail. The kid didn't talk for another two months and when he did, I wished he hadn't.

My grandfather died when his great-grandson was five and a half months old. We went to the funeral and afterwards headed for a family dinner at the house. My grandfather's brother built this beautiful wooden rocking horse for my son, so of course we have to try him out on it. He did fine for a while, but again, balance issues and he fell off. The boy doesn't cry. Doesn't scream. Doesn't make any kind of fuss. Just sits there, looks around, and says "FUCK!"

Rated R

If you at all follow this blog, are a friend of mine on Facebook, or actually personally know me, then you are fully aware that I am not a nice person and I don't have a filter on my mouth. I am R rated.

That having been said, tomorrow is yet another round of prepping the barrack for the boys' homecoming. Nothing tremendous--just making beds and putting out towels and bags of toiletries and snacks. Just some little things to make sure that the boys will be able to rest when they get home and not have to make an emergency Wal-mart run as soon as they land stateside. My two teenagers want to go and so the three of us will be there as usual for the boys.

Now why the fuck are we doing this? I don't do it to let everyone know how fucking wonderful I am. And I don't do it to try to make my husband look good. And I sure as fuck don't do it to make the CoC look like it actually gives a flying fuck about anyone but themselves. There is one reason for doing this and my kids feel the same way I do. It's for the boys. Plain and simple. Because they are fucking heroes and we love them. That's all.

So how does tomorrow's activities fit in with that shit about me being rated R? Well, there are always lots of opportunities during deployment to volunteer with the FRG and there are not always so many people who are willing to volunteer their time. Two of my very good friends have been put in for awards for their work over the course of this deployment and I am just ecstatic for them. Seriously. They really deserve to be recognized. I volunteer too. SO am I harboring just the tiniest bit of jealousy that they are getting awards and I am not (at least not that I know of)?? FUCK NO!!!

It just spares me the horror of having to shake hands with some high ranking mother fucker who I hate with a passion and trying very hard not to tell him to take his award and go fuck himself with it.

Bring Out Your Dead. . .

I know a lot of wives who would qualify themselves as "dead" at this point in deployment. Between insomnia, worry, and lack of news on when the fuck my husband will be home, that whole suck starting a pistol thing is looking pretty damn good to me again. Then top off all my everyday "living life and it sucks" problems to my husband who is probably even more anxious about homecoming than I am, so he turns into some moody asshole, and suddenly a whole new world of ways to off myself are becoming more and more attractive. However, suicide would negate the possibility of getting laid anytime soon, so there's another fine plan down the shitter.

Since suicide is out, I've been toying with the idea of running away, but again that means no sex. So I'm stuck in this never-ending, fucked up version of Groundhog Day. 0530- kids up for school. Smoke. Check email. Smoke again. Then homeschool with the eldest, cleaning, laundry, chasing the baby. Lunch. Smoke again. Check email. Review lessons and lit class with eldest. Baby down for a nap. Smoke and maybe sit down to read. Kids home from school. Homework. Make dinner. Finish laundry. Dishes. Clothes and lunches out for kids for school. Check email. Blog. Try to find something on TV. Fail. Go read a book. Check email. Smoke again. Start dishwasher. Lay down and stare at ceiling for one hour. Give up and go read some more. Finish off pack of smokes. Finish book and lay down again. More ceiling staring. 0200- baby wants to get up and play. 0400- baby back in bed and Kate can actually get to sleep. 0530- kids up for school. Rinse/Repeat.

I know that this is not everything I do. FRG, husband's shit, helping friends. I know that life is not this shit hole that it seems to be, but if there's a light at the end of this tunnel, I must be fucking blind because I just don't see it!!

Army Babies

My first two kids were born in the pre-Army days, but T was in the National Guard at the time. Our oldest decided to arrive a little early and spare his father the joys of yet another drill. Our daughter started life trying to be a pain in the ass, just to give us fair warning of things to come. T was playing weekend warrior at the Olympics in Georgia and my doctor was in Egypt visiting his family. Had she been accommodating enough to be born early like her brother or wait an extra day or two, both her daddy and the doctor would have been there to welcome her arrival. But nooooo!! She had to show up right on time, and so neither T nor the doc were there. She was delivered by the nurse. And of course the Army National Guard made T wait until the Olympics were over before he could come home. So our daughter was five days old before she met her dad. Oh well.

Then came the active duty days. Our oldest was nine and his sister was eight (Irish twins) when their father became a drill sergeant. And I got pregnant a year later. First words out of T's mouth, "Who's kid is it?" WTF? Um, remember that one night you weren't so tired that you passed out in your dinner plate? Well, hello baby!

The hospital at Fort Jackson doesn't do OB-GYN, so you have to go to a hospital off post to have a kid. And the doctors at the hospital were ecstatic to learn I was an Army wife. They were hoping my husband was deployed and were absolutely broken-hearted to learn that he was a drill sergeant. Why? Boys and their fucking toys. The hospital had a new thing where they could patch a live feed to Iraq or Afghanistan and broadcast the birth to deployed soldiers and these idiots were hoping I would let them use me as a fucking guinea pig! Fuck that!! Like I want me pushing out a kid broadcast over the internet to my husband sitting in a room where any of his boys could walk by and get a full view shot of my twat! I don't think so.

Then there's number four. Every deployment women start talking about trying for babies when their hubby gets home. Same thing last deployment and I got asked if we weren't going to have another one. My response?? Fuck no! So who got knocked up first when they got home. Oh, that's right. . . ME! Baby number four arrived nine months to the day of homecoming. My response when people ask me now if I want any more is he is getting snipped.

Cock and Ass

The phone rings early one Saturday morning and the caller ID announces that it's a Fort Campbell number. I answer the phone, expecting that one of the boys wants to invite himself over for dinner. What I get was, "Kate. Shit. Is SGT T there?? I really need to talk to him." OK. I hand the phone over to my husband who says, "What's wrong?" and then proceeds to start laughing. He then hangs up the phone, runs out the door, and says that he'll be back after he takes the boy to the hospital.

Now the laughing and the need to go to the hospital just don't match up. What the fuck is so damn funny about the kid needing medical assistance? Well, now I know: the kid was in the shower room at the old barracks sitting on the bench talking to his girlfriend. These benches are made of wood and they're old. He got a splinter in his ass. He pulled out about half of it, could still feel some in his ass cheek, and called for a rescue. The piece the kid pulled was an inch long and the nurse cut his ass cheek open to find another inch in there. So this poor kid got shit daily for "taking it up the ass!"

Then there was Psycho Boy. You know the type. All you have to hear is his name involved with an incident. "OK. Makes perfect sense now." Psycho Boy loved going out to the field just so he could fuck with people. His favorite method of messing with people was to stay up until everyone else was asleep. At this point, out comes the ink pad from his ruck and out comes the penis. Into the ink pad with the dick and smack!!! onto some poor sleeping bastard's forehead. The infamous Mushroom Stamp!

Then there are the stupid things my husband will do to entertain his soldiers. During the invasion, Christmas was approaching and everyone was depressed, so my husband pulled one of his dumbass stunts to make the boys laugh. After the boys got home, we went on block leave to visit my parents and T loads his photos on the computer to show my mom. Sand, tank, trees, Saddam's palace, some idiot jumping in the lake, more sand, my husband's balls. . . WTF?!? Yep. There on the screen to my mother's great surprise and amusement are my husband's balls tied up in blue ribbons hanging out of his spears gear. Merry Christmas!

Killing Time

Enough bitching about the useless fucked up bullshit that the CoC tries to pass off as an "informative" meeting about redeployment. I have my own useless information to pass along: how the boys kill time during deployment.

During the invasion, as always, I contacted all the parents of my husband's boys and tried to keep them informed about what was going on. They all had my email and phone number and knew to call me if they had questions or needed help with anything. About four months into deployment in June 2003, I get a panicked phone call from one of the boys' stepmothers. The kid's mom had just gotten off the phone with some doctor and was freaking the fuck out. Her son had stepped on a landmine and had gotten hurt and she wanted to know what the hell was going on. She called his stepmother who then called me.

I had heard nothing about this from rear-d or my husband and, wanting to help, started making calls. No one knew anything about it and I'm getting a little pissed off. How the fuck can we have a guy step on a landmine and no one knows anything?!? My husband calls later that evening and I finally get the whole story.

Things were pretty quiet over there and the boys had a bit more down time than they had previously had. It's getting dark and they are getting bored, so they decide that it would be a good idea to get a game of tag going. OK. Whatever. Landmine boy is IT and chasing some other jackass around the corner of a tent, where there happens to be a clothes line strung up. The jackass runs under it, but landmine boy, who is like 6' 5", does not know it's there and didn't duck. He took it across the throat, got thrown to the ground and was knocked the fuck out for around ten minutes, which is why he got sent to the hospital. So I have to call the family and tell them that he didn't step on a landmine; he got "clothes-lined"!!!

But the best one I ever heard is from deployment number three. My husband and a bunch of the guys, bored to tears, decided to have a penis growing contest?? I shit you not. They each purchased a different male enhancement product and began taking/using them to see which would work the best. Before this began, they had to all present their penises for measuring and then had weekly penis checks to measure and record the results. These had to be done with witnesses to prevent any cheating. Who the hell out of sheer boredom decides that it's a good idea to have a room full of men whipping out their dicks and literally measuring them?!? Apparently, my husband. . .

I'm a lucky woman.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Coming in the Army, I didn't know what the fuck a First Sergeant or Squad Leader or CO was. Fuck. I figured I was doing good to be able to translate that 1800 was 6PM! Once I did start to figure out who the hell was who, I knew that you didn't want to piss off the First Sergeant who could ruin your life, the Squad Leader was your main boss, and the CO was the head honcho. All of them terrified me. But I also respected them and valued their opinion, and I'm just a wife. How much more must any soldier feel this about these men who are over them?

My hubby has long since passed the days of junior enlisted and has a bit more rank now, but he never forgot where he came from. I love his philosophy/rules about how to be a good NCO:
1. Never ask your men to do something you aren't willing to do yourself.
2. If a soldier needs your help, you fucking help if you can.
3. Sometimes you have to be willing to take it up the ass for one of your boys.
4. Never put yourself in a position where you can take anything from the men under you.
5. Don't ever start thinking you are better than the men you serve with.

Nice, simple set of rules that you can apply in not only the Army, but in life. And T lives by these ideals. But then he's old school Army. I think he has the right idea, though. His boys fucking love and respect and trust him and would go to hell and back if he told them to. He would do it for any one of them and they all know it.

And then we have our current CoC who are definitely not old school Army and who seem to have a knack for doing exactly what will make their subordinates (and their wives) hate, not respect and definitely not trust them, especially regarding this redeployment. Do they have a school for how to be a head asshole in charge?? 'Cause these bastards must have made the Commandant's List!

So, here's how to make absolutely fucking sure that Kate does not respect you and will, in fact, hold you in the same contempt she does a cockroach (if anyone really gives a fuck what I think):
a. Get sent back from Afghanistan to take over rear-d and announce this fact in front of everyone at a meeting thinking that it makes you sound bad ass when it really just announces that you are a fuck up that they didn't want in theater.
b. Tell us that they will call when they get the manifest and that the manifest is the final word on who is coming when, but then announce that you had a couple of soldiers that you didn't know were on the plane. So the manifest is just some more fucking paperwork that means jack and shit and you all are fucking incompetent.
c. And finally, after all the red tape every single wife/soldier has to deal with from the DoD on a daily basis and the reams of paper the Army wastes, telling me you don't know when who is coming home (especially not when you already know when the next fucking deployment will be) means that you are really fucking lazy pieces of shit who don't know what your job is or that regardless of how important you claim family is, you really couldn't give a fuck less about anyone but yourself and whose ass you need to kiss to make sure you get that eagle or next stripe.


You think after this cluster fuck of a redeployment that I could ever trust or respect you? I don't just not think so, I know so! In case you forgot, allow me to remind you:

RESPECT IS EARNED, NOT GIVEN!