The tanks have arms
We found a load of tank arms to take us close enough to the house to stop off for a reset. I had no idea tanks had arms, and I’m probably unknowingly divulging national secrets by telling you, so I’m just going to shut up now, before my memory is erased and the government implants a chip in my dog that makes him able to talk and only when we’re alone, like the singing frog in the cartoon. I’ll eventually end up wandering the sidewalk, alone and disheveled, muttering to myself, like all the other writers I know. Ha ha, guys, I’m totally kidding. I know your dogs really do talk. (Wink wink.)
The other writers I know are probably incensed I’m including myself in their ilk, because, according to the nice lady in Barnes and Noble, there is a HUGE difference between real writers and bloggers. She explained in great detail how bloggers are hacks, and writer wannabes. I was too depressed by her assessments to bother telling her I found someone who pays me real American money every month to be a hack. I went and bought a cute cat calender to cheer myself up instead.
Anyway, back to the tank arms. Or whatever they were. I can’t confirm they were actually arms. Where’s my dog?
We had never been to a DOD installation and were somewhat surprised to find ourselves at the gates of one, as there was no mention in the paperwork, or from the agent, of having to open every single compartment in the truck while simultaneously handing over our ID’s and all forms of recording device and communication when we got to where we were going. Here’s a side note for any agents or dispatchers sending people to DOD installations who have never been to one: it’s nice to know ahead of time if you’re going to have to display your entire life to people who do not smile, or respond to nervous chatter while you’re attempting to hide your underwear, which happens to be in one of the 50 bins/bags or cartons the unsmiling person had to stand there and wait for me to open.
It would also be mighty nice to be able to give the kids a heads-up and let them know their parents won’t have a cell phone for three or four hours, because they keep them at the gate. These are just small considerations that would make life a lot easier. Thanks so much and bite me.
Because of a lack of communication or knowledge on both parts, the situation was on us, now we know, and I apologize to the guards at the gate for not having all my cereal in one sock. I will be better prepared next time. Which means I will have George drop me off down the street, with my underwear bin, so I don’t have to go through the humiliation of showing my panties to the NSA. If they want to see my skivvies, they’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way and download the pictures from George’s phone, like decent spies should.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been completely without communication devices for any amount of time. If I don’t have my phone in my hand, I’m on the computer, or staring out the window with the camera, taking horrible, blurry pictures. I was more than a little nervous that someone else had my beloved laptop, not to mention my phone and the only form of picture ID I carry.
“They could totally clone us and kill us and no one would ever know. At the very least, they’re going to take weird pictures with our phone cameras. Check your photos for unfamiliar man-junk when they give them back.”
“Um, any pictures of man-junk on my phone would be unfamiliar. How many pictures of junk do you have on your phone?”
“None, unless you sent me a picture of yours. I can’t remember.”
“Well then I’m glad I’ve never sent you a picture of my junk, because that would be hurtful.”
“Whatever. We need to carve the date and something to make us remember who we are in the bunk, so we can make sure we’re not clones when we leave.”
“OK, how about, ‘She doesn’t remember my junk, February 2014’?”
“I really don’t like it when you refer to me as ‘guy’. Especially when you don’t remember my junk.”
“So, if I carve ‘shut the hell up’ in the bunk, we’ll both understand, right?”
This debate ends up going on for the entire hour and a half it took the droids to unload us (these are not the droids you seek), so I never carved anything in the bunk to make sure I’m not a cloned, reincarnated, reconstituted zombie. Only time will tell. Or will it? I’ll ask the dog when he gets back.
"There probably should be some minimum standards. But as long as the ...