3 Things People Who Served In The Military Do That Make Them Look Like Tools

Regardless of how much the media likes to depict everyone who serves in the military as the essence of integrity, professionalism, and selfless service, there are lot of people who are total fucking tools. Just like any large organization, the military has its share of window-licking, mouth-breathers whose only talent in life is not choking on their own tongue when they sleep. What happens when people like this get to wear the service uniform for the holy cock of freedom that is the United States? They use it to compensate for their many other shortcomings, of course.

1. Wearing Dog Tags As A Fashion Accessory

Just like many of the other ills in America, Hollywood is to blame for this trend. In the movies, you’ll see a battle-hardened Special Ops guy in an olive-drab tank top sitting alone at the bar drinking straight whiskey. He clutches his dog tags that hang around his neck and begins to reminisce about combat. Cue CCR’s “Fortunate Son” and flash back to Vietnam 1969.

The reality is that the scrawny guy wearing his dog tags over his Abercrombie & Fitch shirt is more than likely a cherry fucking private who just finished Basic Combat Training and thinks he’s a real soldier now. He has to show the whole world how much of a Billy Badass he is because having a high and tight and weighing a buck thirty-five isn’t enough of an indication that he’s a soldier. Wearing dog tags will surely be a conversation starter with the fairer sex and moisten her panties.

He doesn’t know that there are other soldiers and veterans at the bar with multiple deployments who aren’t as blatantly obvious about it and think he looks like a total tool. They’ll chuckle among themselves and shake their heads in disgust. Looks like they’ll let any kind of retard in the military these days.

2. Posting Moronic Memes On Facebook

If you’ve had anyone in the military as a friend on Facebook, you’ve probably seen a meme saying something similar to this: “Share if you think a person in camouflage should make more money than one in a jersey.” This will be accompanied with a picture of a soldier covered in mud hating his miserable existence in contrast to one of a famous football player in a packed stadium. This ensures the poster gets guilt-driven Likes and Shares because if you don’t think that, you obviously hate the troops.

When a person posts that, what they’re really telling you is that not only aren’t they the sharpest tool in the shed—they aren’t even in the shed. They’re so dull that they fail to grasp how the free market and the premise of supply and demand work—you know, the very things our men and women in uniform are fighting to preserve.

People in the military are all about telling the harsh truth. Well, here is one: It takes considerably more talent, skill, and hard work to be a professional athlete than it does to be a common Joe in the military. Have you been training since the age of five to be a soldier? Did you stand out as an All-Star in high school, get a scholarship to a Division One school, and then, despite the 1-in-100 odds, get drafted to a professional team? There is a reason why guys who sacrifice million-dollar contracts who decide to join the military make the news, while Joe Snuffy—who dropped out of community college while working at Subway and didn’t know what else to do with his life so he joined the Army National Guard—doesn’t.

3. Mentioning Something About Their Military Service In Every Conversation

You’re in your college US History class discussing the Great War and how gruesome it was. Then a longhaired, unshaven, and overweight former Marine wearing a “Mess With The Best, Die Like The Rest” Devil Dog T-shirt raises his hand.

“Oh yeah, my former unit that I served in Iraq with, the 5th Marine Regiment, was in the Great War.” Then he smugly lowers his hand and coyly looks around to see who is highly impressed with the fact the he is a veteran. You sit there thinking, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Very few things indicate that a service member has no depth to their personality than their inability not to talk about the military regardless of how irrelevant to the conversation it may be. You could be talking about how much you love puppies; they’ll talk about the scraggly dogs in Mosul. It’s a bit a chilly out today. “This is fucking nothing. When I was in the mountains of Afghanistan, we froze our balls off.” You’re trying to decide where to get lunch. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anything is better than eating MREs like we had to do in the FOB.”

While the military is a vicious, soul-sucking beast that leaves a lasting impact on those who serve, it’s not so consuming that it leaves an individual with no personality and unable to have other hobbies and interests. While it’s great to be proud of one’s service, it’s also the mark of a huge tool bag if he is unable to talk about anything but his time in the belly of the beast.

~Raul Felix

Check out more of my work at Thought Catalog.

Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield

You’re a cherry fucking bitch. That’s the label you get when you arrive at your first unit. You haven’t yet been deployed to the mountains of Afghanistan or the streets of Iraq to prove yourself. Your superiors have several deployments under their belts. Some of the more senior noncommissioned officers (NCO) are men who were in before 9/11 and were among the first into Afghanistan and then Iraq. Your role as a cherry private is to be a sponge for all the knowledge they’re going to bequeath upon you. They’re there to mentor and mold you into a capable soldier who will aggressively and effectively put two bullets into the chest and one into the head of Haji.

As a cherry private, you live in constant fear—not of the enemy, but of your Team Leader and Squad Leader. You fear making a mistake, however small, that will bring their wrath upon your poor soul. And you will make many fucking mistakes.

You have a brain fart and forget the fourth stanza of the Ranger Creed because you’re so nervous. “Do fucking pushups, motherfucker!”

You miss a spot when you shaved that morning. “Hit the fucking ropes!”

You’re two minutes late to being five minutes early to formation. “I’m going to fucking crush your balls after formation.”

You didn’t properly tie down your night-vision goggles. “Start fucking low-crawling, you fucking retard.” Other times you will get smoked merely for being a cherry private.

Little by little, you start to learn how to do things the right way. You’re always on high alert, making sure your uniform is on properly, your equipment is accounted for and is serviceable, and that you’re not fucking up somehow. Yet you always feel like you are. The mere sight of an NCO in the distance causes your heart to race. You’ll spot-check yourself and your buddies again. If he calls you over, you run quickly to him, hoping you didn’t do something that will ensure a soul-fucking.

You shoot thousands of rounds at the range, getting your shot groups tighter and more consistent. You conduct close-quarter combat exercises, live-fire exercises, jump out of airplanes, drive Humvees and Strykers, and fast-rope out of helicopters. You’ll do first-responder training and land navigation. You will work out every morning. You also do countless shitty details and spend lots of time hurrying up and waiting.

You’re eager to deploy. You’re tired of being a cherry bitch and want to get that deployment patch on your right shoulder. You want to stop hearing about what it’s like over there; you want to see it firsthand. You want to join the legions of men who came and fought before you. You want to do your part in fighting for your country and destroying those Haji fucks. This is your war.

It seems that every generation of young men must relearn how grim war is. We watch documentaries and war movies. We read books about the inexplicable horror and terrible waste of it all, yet with each generation, there are a handful who are eager to go on this grand journey. With each generation, there are old men who have lived their lives willing to send young men to fight and die when their young life has only begun. Sometimes it’s for a noble purpose; other times, it’s for profit.

Your deployment date approaches after months and months of training. You go home on leave one last time. Your mother is terrified and tells you to call her often. Your friends are proud of you and tell you to make it back alive, or they’ll kill you. Your fellow cherry privates are as excited as you are to get drunk as often as possible. You report back and find out some of them are idiots and got DUIs, beat their wives, or pissed hot for drugs. Looks like they ain’t going.

Your leadership makes sure you and your equipment are squared away. You’re given a packing list and are visually inspected to make sure you have all that’s required of you. You palletize your duffel bags, rucksacks, and other special equipment. You fill out your last will and square away your finances. You get medically evaluated and vaccinated. There are only a few days left and you serve half-days until you deploy.

The day is here. You sign out your M4, night-vision goggles, and carry your assault pack on your back. In there you have your laptop, a book, sleeping bag, and sleeping pad. Final manifest is called and you load onto the bus. The bus takes you to the Air Force base. There, you wait until the bird is ready. Once you’re told to load on the bird you follow the line of men in front of you. You step on the bird, take your seat, and wait for takeoff. You know that when you come back, you won’t be a cherry fucking bitch anymore.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work on Thought Catalog.

Where Are My Whores?

I feel like my generation has been gypped. I’m not speaking about the typical Generation-Y woes with the failing economy and our youthful optimism and ambitions being crushed by the real world. This feeling of unfairness is only felt by a select group of Americans; the men who served and fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is much talk in the news about how both the Bush and Obama administration mishandled those wars, but I’m not here to get into those politics. While these modern wars gave us luxuries unheard of in past generations, there is one thing that past generations of veterans had access to that we were completely fucked out of: liberated groupies and prostitutes.

After the long, intense, brutal fighting of the D Day invasion against the Nazis and slowly reclaiming Europe, the Allied forces were met and seen as liberators of France. With panties drenched in lust for their liberators, French women would fuck soldiers left and right to show their gratitude. Joe was a hero and his reward, if he chose to act upon it, was that wonderful European pussy. In war, no man knows which day will be his last, so it would be logical for him to act upon it. These women knew what their valiant saviors desired and wanted, and provided it with the utmost eagerness.

Such a simpler time.

Such a simpler time.

What happened in Iraq and Afghanistan? Whether we liberated them from the Taliban or Saddam, they may have been grateful, but the women of these nations were not throwing themselves at American troops. They weren’t happily repaying us for their new found freedom from tyranny by eagerly showing us their beautiful Middle Eastern bodies. We didn’t have free rein to fuck Haji bitches and get them addicted to our American dick. No Haji foxy lady ever gave us the “I want to fuck you eyes”. Most of them were quite the opposite, covered up head to toe in veils. Denying the horny and sex deprived American fighting male the eye candy he sorely needs in an effort to keep his sanity. A pure selfish act on their part.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Well, if we couldn’t win the hearts, minds, and pussies of the local women, we should have been able to use the free market and purchase it at a mutually agreed upon price dictated by the laws of supply and demand, correct? That’s what our fighting men were able to do in the Korean and Vietnam War. After killing hoards of gooks, our brave and battle hardened men were able to go back to base and take a few days of R&R. Around the bases, there would be bars and massage parlors where a GI in need of company could easily acquire it. There would be an overabundance of young, feminine, and attractive asian women with adorable accents to chose from and eager to love him long time. He’d then ravage her delicate little body to his heart’s content and consequently, she would then get paid a handsome price, it was truly a win-win situation.

The free market at work.

The free market at work.

In an effort to not piss off the delicate Muslim psyche, the US Military has made it almost impossible for a man to get a prostitute while he is in the war zone. There is no interaction with the local populace outside of missions for most troops. There are no flings with Afghan or Iraqi women or meeting a prostitute with a heart of gold. There are no love affairs that are complicated by the horrors of war and cultural differences as drama slowly unfolds, when both parties learn that love can truly conquer anything. There are no bastard children of American men left behind. The closest we came to finding love overseas is through porn and nude pictures of our and other troops whorish, cheating ex-girlfriends we uploaded to “The Drive” and shared with the rest of the base.

Sex was happening in Afghanistan and Iraq, but that occurred in support units where there were mixed genders and among government contractors. As for the combat arms units compromised of solely men(the ones that actually did the fighting), were left in a state of sexual purgatory, without any hope of female companionship. No Afghan damsel worrying whether the American man she loves will make it back. No Iraqi prostitutes eagerly awaiting for her core American cliental to come by. Nothing but masturbation for us while our girlfriends from back home cheated on us or stopped answering our phone calls. Men at war and whores go hand and hand, too bad our times did away with that beautiful tradition.

~Raul Felix

“Me so horny for more blog baby. Give me blog, me love you long time!” Alright: The Military’s Parasite Problem