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Also this happened.
13 years ago
Cross-posted from Facebook and edited from a post on F2F. True story.
I've discovered the reason I need to quit smoking today. It isn't PT, it isn't health, it isn't even finances. It's better if I just explain it.
I'm from Texas originally. That isn't to say that I don't go insane and freak out when it rains, all fourth-grade reading level and "OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS WET STUFF FALLING FROM THE SKY?!" But then again, in Texas, we don't have torrential downpours that threaten to pick up buildings and drag them out to sea mercilessly.
I ate dinner in my room tonight. Which means I had trash in my room. And rather than wake up earlier tomorrow morning to take it out, I instead opted to get it out tonight and sleep in a little later, essentially killing two proverbial birds with one proverbial stone. I knew it was going to rain tonight, because I pay attention to the weather. Without having a car, that tells me when I need to mooch a ride and when I can get away with hoofing it. It was only drizzling when I went to throw trash away, so I thought "Hey, why not stop for a quick smoke? I could use a break, I've been cooped up for hours!"
So I jogged to the dumpster, threw my refuse inside, and headed to the tiny gazebo that our barracks considers a smoke pit. There was one other person there, and we conversed politely as I lit up my cigarette and waited for the rain to let up while I wasted time.
Then, rather suddenly, it was like somebody flushed every toilet in heaven, turned on God's irrigation system, imported Niagra Falls, and a thousand angels vomited all at once.
It started coming down in sheets sideways, so thick I couldn't see a mere 10 feet in front of me. The smoke pit offered little protection against the marvelous and awe-inspiring onslaught. Were I watching it on television, I would have been impressed. Within a minute, I was soaked from my feet to my buttocks from behind by the horizontal version of God's super-soaker of doom. I debated giving up and making a break for it, but I was still relatively dry from waist-up, and I had cancer in my hand. I decided to finish my smoke in the futile and feeble hope that the rain would let up its incessant battery of the earth for a few moments, but to no avail.
The rain came down harder than ever, and after I deposited my spent cigarette butt in the proper receptacle, I realized that I was going to be forced to make a run for it. However, with it being dark and all the streetlights spazzing out and having retard moments, I couldn't see that the ground before me had turned into a veritable ocean. A lightning flash at the exact moment that I began to step forward showed me the black, bottomless abyss that waited patiently before me, but I was committed now. I was going inside. The water was ice cold and as deep as my lower-mid shins. I would not have been surprised if, when I stepped in it (and quite surprisingly felt as though I had been submerged up to my knees by the splashes and the rain) a giant squid came rocketing out of the pitch black depths and took down the Black Pearl, which for all I know could have been floating right next to me and I NEVER would have seen or heard it.
The barracks seemed miles away now, unreachable but through a veritable holocaust of sideways-water bullets. But I was already in the fray, deep in the shit. Charlie was everywhere, and it was either make a break for safety, or retreat in shame to the relative safety of the gazebo where I would continue to wait until the damn liberal hippie protesters ended the war and Mr. Ford could bring me home. (Yeah, I know, Nixon started the whole thing, but the war ended during Ford's presidency. Cut me some slack, here.)
I chose to run rather than look the fool in front of the group of Marines also taking refuge for their nicotine fix, and took off at a full sprint towards the barracks. The barrage blinded me even behind my glasses (which were useless at this point anyway) as I fled the ocean of despair and the assault of tiny, oval, two-part-hydrogen-one-part-oxygen stinger missiles flying through the air at me like a swarm of Africanized honey bees.
Eventually, I made it around the corner and under the protective cover of the floor above me, a mere two feet separating dry earth and torrential seas, and took the time to shake off. I assessed the battle damage, and to my sorrow found that my cigarette pack was drenched. There may be no salvaging it. Thankfully, my phone was relatively unharmed. I, on the other hand, was drenched head-to-foot in angel vomit and discharged sky-waste.
As I walked around the corner, I saw the barracks petty officer on watch coming out of his lounge to smoke, cigarette already in hand. It's important that we follow the rules here; it's a training command. That means only smoking in the designated areas. As much as the petty officers here loathe the rules, too, they abide by them to set an example. With this in mind, I figured that this guy was either insane or a hardcore smoker, and I decided to warn him about the potential dangers of traveling through a mixture of Vietnam, Finding Nemo, and a hurricane just to get a little nicotine in his system. So I looked at him and commented sarcastically, "Now's a good time to quit smoking, ya know?"
He took one look at me, at my disheveled and soaked-to-skin state, burst into laughter, and said, and this I quote, "Fuck the rules, you should have smoked on the stairs, dumbass!"
I am officially too stupid to smoke cigarettes. It's time to quit now.
I've discovered the reason I need to quit smoking today. It isn't PT, it isn't health, it isn't even finances. It's better if I just explain it.
I'm from Texas originally. That isn't to say that I don't go insane and freak out when it rains, all fourth-grade reading level and "OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS WET STUFF FALLING FROM THE SKY?!" But then again, in Texas, we don't have torrential downpours that threaten to pick up buildings and drag them out to sea mercilessly.
I ate dinner in my room tonight. Which means I had trash in my room. And rather than wake up earlier tomorrow morning to take it out, I instead opted to get it out tonight and sleep in a little later, essentially killing two proverbial birds with one proverbial stone. I knew it was going to rain tonight, because I pay attention to the weather. Without having a car, that tells me when I need to mooch a ride and when I can get away with hoofing it. It was only drizzling when I went to throw trash away, so I thought "Hey, why not stop for a quick smoke? I could use a break, I've been cooped up for hours!"
So I jogged to the dumpster, threw my refuse inside, and headed to the tiny gazebo that our barracks considers a smoke pit. There was one other person there, and we conversed politely as I lit up my cigarette and waited for the rain to let up while I wasted time.
Then, rather suddenly, it was like somebody flushed every toilet in heaven, turned on God's irrigation system, imported Niagra Falls, and a thousand angels vomited all at once.
It started coming down in sheets sideways, so thick I couldn't see a mere 10 feet in front of me. The smoke pit offered little protection against the marvelous and awe-inspiring onslaught. Were I watching it on television, I would have been impressed. Within a minute, I was soaked from my feet to my buttocks from behind by the horizontal version of God's super-soaker of doom. I debated giving up and making a break for it, but I was still relatively dry from waist-up, and I had cancer in my hand. I decided to finish my smoke in the futile and feeble hope that the rain would let up its incessant battery of the earth for a few moments, but to no avail.
The rain came down harder than ever, and after I deposited my spent cigarette butt in the proper receptacle, I realized that I was going to be forced to make a run for it. However, with it being dark and all the streetlights spazzing out and having retard moments, I couldn't see that the ground before me had turned into a veritable ocean. A lightning flash at the exact moment that I began to step forward showed me the black, bottomless abyss that waited patiently before me, but I was committed now. I was going inside. The water was ice cold and as deep as my lower-mid shins. I would not have been surprised if, when I stepped in it (and quite surprisingly felt as though I had been submerged up to my knees by the splashes and the rain) a giant squid came rocketing out of the pitch black depths and took down the Black Pearl, which for all I know could have been floating right next to me and I NEVER would have seen or heard it.
The barracks seemed miles away now, unreachable but through a veritable holocaust of sideways-water bullets. But I was already in the fray, deep in the shit. Charlie was everywhere, and it was either make a break for safety, or retreat in shame to the relative safety of the gazebo where I would continue to wait until the damn liberal hippie protesters ended the war and Mr. Ford could bring me home. (Yeah, I know, Nixon started the whole thing, but the war ended during Ford's presidency. Cut me some slack, here.)
I chose to run rather than look the fool in front of the group of Marines also taking refuge for their nicotine fix, and took off at a full sprint towards the barracks. The barrage blinded me even behind my glasses (which were useless at this point anyway) as I fled the ocean of despair and the assault of tiny, oval, two-part-hydrogen-one-part-oxygen stinger missiles flying through the air at me like a swarm of Africanized honey bees.
Eventually, I made it around the corner and under the protective cover of the floor above me, a mere two feet separating dry earth and torrential seas, and took the time to shake off. I assessed the battle damage, and to my sorrow found that my cigarette pack was drenched. There may be no salvaging it. Thankfully, my phone was relatively unharmed. I, on the other hand, was drenched head-to-foot in angel vomit and discharged sky-waste.
As I walked around the corner, I saw the barracks petty officer on watch coming out of his lounge to smoke, cigarette already in hand. It's important that we follow the rules here; it's a training command. That means only smoking in the designated areas. As much as the petty officers here loathe the rules, too, they abide by them to set an example. With this in mind, I figured that this guy was either insane or a hardcore smoker, and I decided to warn him about the potential dangers of traveling through a mixture of Vietnam, Finding Nemo, and a hurricane just to get a little nicotine in his system. So I looked at him and commented sarcastically, "Now's a good time to quit smoking, ya know?"
He took one look at me, at my disheveled and soaked-to-skin state, burst into laughter, and said, and this I quote, "Fuck the rules, you should have smoked on the stairs, dumbass!"
I am officially too stupid to smoke cigarettes. It's time to quit now.
