I Am Not An Animal!

All of one’s normal standards of behaviour, language, food quality, cleanliness and humour along with everything else that differentiates us from our poo-flinging primate cousins take a dive within a few days of one’s first arrival in KAF. Sure, we manage to crawl up out of the sewer and feign at least of modicum of civility when we get back to the real world on leave…but this place drags you right back down again.

In that vein, along with the usual culinary bouquets and brickbats, you’ll get to read some KAF-funny jokes, inappropriate details about digestion, and some of the little things that seem so KAF-good but really just don’t suck as much as they could. Pretty exciting, huh?

But first…how would you like to open your door and find this?

There is no reason this should exist.

There is no reason this should exist.

You’re Welcome

Sometimes I just want to get the credit I deserve. I mean, no one ever thanked me for winning the Cold War back in ’90 nor has anyone ever acknowledged that my current employer’s stock price has quintupled since I joined them. Now, I’m not saying I’m, like, totally responsible for these two momentous occurrences but it does stand to reason that I am mostly responsible. Alas, the past is the past and I have to let these previous snubs go. This time, however, I want my 15 fucking minutes.

Respect my Authoritay, Bitches!

Respect my Authoritay, Bitches!

Bacon is back at the Northline breakfast! Let’s take a look the events leading up to this far too long in coming gloriousness and the central role I played. On 4 November, I posted a blog lamenting the lack of bacon at the Northline for breakfast in which I beseeched the Northline-Guy-What’s-In-Charge-Of-Deciding-What-To-Offer to put it on the breakfast menu. On 11 November, my blog got a new follower who, a quick Google search informed me, is pretty much either the Northline-Guy-What’s-In-Charge-Of-Deciding-What-To-Offer or his boss or his boss’s boss. Anyway, on 12 November, there’s bacon on the breakfast menu.

Oh, um, Northline-Guy-What’s-In-Charge-Of-Deciding-What-To-Offer’s boss’s boss? You, like, have a great sense of humour…right? And, uh, thanks for the bacon.

Say What?

Where did this come from?

Where did this come from?

Speaking of Northline, all you folks who were chowing down on the banana pudding the last few days; aren’t you at all concerned that we haven’t bananas for well over a week?

At lunch the other day, D waited in the lengthy main steamline queue only to find out that what he wanted was sold out. He then went over to wait in the ironically lengthy short order line and found an empty chicken wings tray. “Are you going to get more wings?” he asked in his nice voice. “Nuba dalbita dulaba” responded the server as he turned and walked away. “Does that mean he’s getting more wings?” D asked the American behind him in line only to be met with a shrug. He waited several minutes and gave up. After our regular leisurely lunch break/bitch session, as we were walking towards the exit, D noticed several people sitting down with heaping plates of wings. “I guess ‘nuba dalbita dulaba’ meant ‘you wanna wait in line for a fucking hour?’

Quick Question

There must be some minimum time it should take for a human body to fully process a DFAC burrito, right? I’m thinking 20 minutes is way too fast.

Separated At Birth

Can anyone tell the difference between the Monti and IH once they get inside? Seriously, I never know which one I’m coming out of after dinner. As a consequence, anything I write about the Monti could actually be the IH and vice versa. I used to take notes to keep it straight but I just don’t give that much of a shit anymore.

Be more careful.

Be more careful.

Anyway, it was steak night at one of them the other day. D claimed the steak was pretty good but I can’t get past the fact that the “rare” steaks are the same shade of brown as the “well done” ones while the “mediums” are grey. “How the hell do you make a steak grey?” I wondered aloud. “Depends how long you boil them.” D offered helpfully. Whatever. I had the curry chicken. What the fuck is up with the potatoes? The last time we had the curry it had potatoes too,

mmm...bucket sauce.

mmm…bucket sauce.

prompting D to figure “It must have been an accident…’oops, I dropped some potatoes in the curry, I hope no one notices'”. But a second time…”I don’t think that could happen by accident twice” D, ever the Holmesian master of deduction, opined.  R tried to tell us that potatoes in curry is normal in the UK. We patiently told her that “that could not be true because potatoes in curry fucking suck. Now you just stop your lying!”

Nothing is more appetizing than buckets of steak sauce and ketchup. Amiright?

Mmm...fetid...

Mmm…fetid…

At the Monti tonight the curry line up was huge and roast beef was the suspiciously unnatural shade of brown of those pre-cooked roasts you see on TV commercials aimed at lazy, stupid people. Yes, I realize I have to watch shows aimed at the lazy, stupid demographic to have seen these…fuck off.  Anyway, I can’t believe the advertisers think that colour is appetizing. Consequently, I had a hotdog. It was the best fucking hot dog I’ve had in KAF…better than Nathan’s now that I know to microwave the bun for 10 seconds to impart a pseudo-fresh texture to it. I knew it was gonna be good when I saw the dogs moldering in a fetid pool of lukewarm water…just like the ones I vaguely remember getting from Halifax street vendors at 4 am. Who knew they’d taste good sober too?
High in fibre

High in fibre

D had great things to say about his dessert tonight…going so far as to figure out and memorize the recipe. “You see, you just take a giant can of blueberry pie filling and dump it into a tray. Then you have to head on over to the carpentry shop and pick up several buckets of sawdust. Sprinkle it generously over the pie filling et voila….you have this shit.”

Chipper Chippy

Hey, a hat tip to the new(?) server guy at the Cambridge chippy who made a point of smiling and saying “How are you?” to every customer as he took their plate. A word of caution; however. Your refusal to hand the plate back until the grumpy, armed customer responds may not be the wisest choice. Sorry for my own delayed response…I was so taken aback by a DFAC server acknowledging my existence that I got all confuzzled.

That’s Not Funny

Apropos of either nothing or something so inane I forgot what it was, we discussed the old Queer Eye for the Straight Guy show of which D had never heard. I described how they would buy the straight guy high end furniture and clothes etc because “married gay men are one of the richest demographics”. “Hey, that sounds ok. Could I be gay but without the sex with men thing?” D asked. “Umm…no, D. I’m afraid you’re obnoxiously heterosexual” R explained.

So I told some stupid joke the other day that just fell totally flat. “Sorry, I’ve been here so long, I don’t even know what funny means anymore. Hell, I don’t even know what clean means, “ I apologized. “Clean means no visible poo’…er, well, maybe just a little” R clarified.

J, who’s mother is Dutch, recounted talking to a Belgian soldier in Dutch today. “The Belgians call it Flemish. You should get along great our new roomies. They’re talking phlegmish all the time.”

I'm so proud.

I’m so proud.

Canadians used to get all excited if some American star has a two hour layover in Montreal or some US newsanchor mentions their northern border. We just wanted the lumbering giant to the south to notice us. Well, be careful what you wish for. With Mayor Rob Ford smoking crack all over CNN and Sky News in the DFAC, we’re getting noticed all right. Tonight the CNN caption said “Ford gets boos”. “More booze…that’s the last thing he needs” quipped J. Which then, inexplicably, led him into a diatribe about his neighbour who has started raising chickens. A piped in with his disdain for city folk who think roosters only crow at daybreak. J then said the chickens are always running free, crossing the road in front of his car. I was quickly losing interest in this tiresome conversation just as you are while reading this paragraph…but it all became worth it when D asked “So why were they crossing the road”.

Happy Quotes That Are Just Sad

Lucky, lucky bastard.

Lucky, lucky bastard.

D: “Look! I got two knifes in my utensil pack. That’s the best thing that’s happened to me all fucking day!”

R:”This has been a good day!”
Me: “Really…seems like it’s been a bit of a pain”
R: “I mean good by KAF standards”
Me: “Oh, hell, I consider a day without diarrhea good by KAF standards.”

Baa-Boom!

R and K witnessed two sheep step on a landmine outside the wire a few days ago. This prompted R to muse “They should always send the sheep in to do the de-mining. They’re cheap AND delicious”.

Bottom Line

I’m so ready to start living in civilization again…I’m just not sure it’s ready for me. Not sure I can get through a whole meal without a discussion involving poo.

“Barbarism is the absence of standards to which appeal can be made.” – Jose Ortega y Gasset

I said you don’t have to live like a refugee” – Tom Petty

 

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5 thoughts on “I Am Not An Animal!

  1. There are an alarming number of occurrences of Lederhosen in your life lately, Mark. Either you don’t have enough happening or…well, I don’t know why else they’re fascinating you.

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