Wonderland

KAF is indeed a wonderland…in the sense that it makes you wonder about stuff that normally wouldn’t come to mind in the real world. So, in with the usual inane anecdotes and pointless fooducation, I’ll sprinkle some of the stuff one wonders about only if they’re here.  But first, here’s some guys with a bitch of a commute:

I prefer it on this side of the wire, thanks.

I came across this poster in the barber shop on the boardwalk. Apparently, the American PX is going to be downsizing soon as part of the overall ISAF pull out from KAF in preparation for the Taliban’s takeover handover to the Afghan security forces at the end of 2014. This ad seems to be trying to say that everything we need will still be available. Well, yeah, I know it’s really cool of the Yanks to let all of us furners shop there and they do carry all kinds of unexpected and awesome shit but I really have to wonder about their priorities.

Priorities…

A couple of months back, the PX was out of toothpaste for an extended period. Then, just recently they were out of soap for quite a while. They finally got some soap in but we’re limited to one bar per person. “Wah, wah, you big baby. There is a fucking war going on, you know. Maybe getting bullets into Kandahar is more important than your goddamn Dove with Aloe Vera, resultant baby smooth skin, and delightfully fresh scent”, you may be thinking to yourself. Well, then what the fuck is the deal with the Wall O’ Jerky? Seriously, Mr. PX-Guy-What-Orders-Shit, couldn’t you ask that a pallet or two on a jerky laden C-17 be set aside for soap? I’ve managed to go years at a time without eating beef jerky with no ill effects; however, going just a few days without soap is unpleasant for me and everyone around me. There are enough people in KAF who eschew regular destinkification…don’t force the rest of us to contribute to the pall of B.O. that cloaks so many DFAC queues. And I’m thinking a diet heavy in jerky would require more soap…not less.

I wonder if you can catch cholera from a toilet seat?

Speaking of being at the barber, there’s a weird phenomenon here that really reduces my haircut waiting times; it was especially prevalent at the old Canadian military CANEX barber but still occurs occasionally at the Boardwalk coiffure. Young military guys will readily give up their turn for a cut if a male barber becomes available. It seems they’d all rather wait for a woman to cut their hair. I’m not sure what to make of this. Either, they think “Oh yeah, that stylist is going to be so turned on by my ridiculous USMC ‘high and tight’ hair that she’s bound to ask me back to her room that she shares with 3 others.” or “Just having a woman touch my hair is all I need.  I’m so lonely”.  For fuck’s sake, you’re there to get a haircut, dudes. But, hey, if it means I get to move to the front of the line and get away from you pathetic losers more quickly, please, carry on.

Rockin’ it.

D wonders “Why can Afghans totally rock manjammies with a vest but we’d look ridiculous in them. They look so fucking comfortable”.

“Hey, if you’d never used an ice cream dispenser before and, after a minute or two, figured out you had to pull the handle forward to get ice cream, what would you do when you had enough delicious ice cream in your bowl?” M asked in the Monti upon returning to the table with his three desserts. “Well, I suppose I’d push the handle back”, D replied shooting me an is-M-fucked-in-the-head look to which I responded with a nod. “Well, then, you’d be wrong.” M triumphantly exclaimed. “As I approached the dispenser, the handle was pulled forward and ice cream was slowly streaming out of it. Whoever the moron ahead of me was must have thought ‘oh, that’s enough’ and just walked away.” Holy fuck…what is wrong with people?

I wonder what the multivitamin fruit looks like.

Lock and unload.

Speaking of morons. M related an odd tale of rocket etiquette the other day. It seems he went to use one of the rockets outside the gym and, seeing the international symbol for “no one is currently shitting in here”, the green on the latch, he opened the door. Upon espying a pooper in mid-poop, M apologized, closed the door and used the one next door. Well, it seems that said pooper was a tad upset about being seen excreting waste. He started yelling profanities from upon the throne, asking M “What the hell? You should fucking knock, you fucking moron.” His diatribe went on for quite a while and when he finally became quiet, M calmly replied “Moron? I’m not the one shitting with the door unlocked”. M:1 Pooper: 0.

I wonder how many bowel movements a day are normal.

At the Monti yesterday, M got the onion rings. In the real world I kinda like onion rings but I’ve never enjoyed them in KAF and I didn’t know why…til now. M pointed out that there doesn’t actually seem to be a ring of onion inside the breading as much as a sort of onion mush or paste. Yes, we do verily believe that they are made with extruded onion paste. Hungry?

On a more positive note, last night the Monti had Pink Lemonade for the first time that I’ve seen. Sure, it tasted a little funky but it looked right and had a flavour that could be vaguely reminiscent of lemons if you’d only ever tasted lemons that were a bit off. But, hey, I take what I can get.

Both M and I wanted a little salad dressing with our salads. However, this being an American-style DFAC, one can’t just have a little salad dressing. The packets are fucking huge. I guess this is to prevent any accidental salad-induced weight loss as that could make readjustment to American society awkward after one’s deployment. “What the hail happened to ya’ll over in Afghania? Yer ass don’t nearly fill two seats at the ballgame no more!”

I wonder what species of salmon has grey meat?

As M and I discussed whether the US should intervene in Syria we could see no course of action that would result in a desirable outcome…until D chimed in. “I think the fighting in Syria should stop”. I’ve alerted John Kerry.

Pocsotpsc

At the Cambridge tonight, D asked “Is the pear crumble warm?” “Well, it is but maybe that’s just from sitting on my plate for a while”, M replied. Glancing down at the remains of his roast beef, D observed, “I don’t see how that could be. Nothing on my plate was warm.” While D did eventually go get some pear crumble he also brought back a plasticky looking orange hunk of something. “What’s that”, I asked. “Ponscot…or pupcos…I don’t know, I didn’t put my glasses on. It was spelled pee oh cee or maybe it was two ohs. Well, there were pees ohs and cees in it anyway. That’s what it is. It isn’t bad, tastes like melon”. “It’s just a little too shiny for my liking”, I offered. Whatever it is, D like it.

Yeah, they’re identical

It was steak night at Lux a couple of days ago. In the absence of anything that looked remotely appetizing but against my better judgement I had the steak. We had the choice of either medium or well done. Both D and I went for the medium. I was pleasantly surprised to find it was actually rare. My experience ceased to be either pleasant or surprising as I discovered it was virtually uncuttable. I’m also at a bit of a loss to understand how the Lux steak cooker determines the doneness of his gristle steaks. Mine was blood red while D’s was brown right through. To be fair, they were equally shitty…so there was some consistency.

D on the Queen Pudding at the Lux. “If the Queen had a pudding, you’d think it’d be good”.

I wonder if an airbag would even deploy in a 20 km/hr crash? I wonder why my Prado has no airbags?

Sooo comfy

I’ve mentioned this before but I remain perplexed as to why anyone sits in the uncomfy chairs at the Monti. The first seating area has these blue molded plastic pieces of shit while, if you walk a further 20 paces, there are the most comfortable, padded, awesomest DFAC chairs in KAF. D and I noted that the comfy chairs were occupied primarily by mildly decrepit contractors like us along with US marines…two groups of decidedly different fitness levels and comfort requirements. The uncomfy chairs were occupied primarily by US Army personnel. D conjectured that, perhaps, soldiers pride themselves on accepting discomfort. I have a different hypothesis.

Bottom Line

Mostly, I wonder “What am I doing here?”. Then payday rolls around and it all makes perfect sense.

“It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense” – Mark Twain

“When someone is impatient and says, ‘I haven’t got all day,’ I always wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?” – George Carlin