Friday, November 11, 2005


I have a friend, Stanley, who still can get into his dress blues to go to the annual Marine Corps Birthday dance (which was held last night by the way) at the armory in Orlando each year. I love the guy most of the time... he's one of those squared away guys who seems to go on and go on, never changing, just getting a little greyer each year. But, he can still stuff his ass into that formal uniform that his mom bought for him when he and I both graduated from Paris Island boot training a couple of thousand lifetimes ago. I admit it... I hate him. But there you go. Shit happens. If you feed a teenaged grunt he will blossom into a middle aged fat guy wearing an oooold... I mean an old greasy cover with my name still stenciled inside it, a smile coming from the memory of better days, and a complete set of war stories to make easy listening for all the new teenaged grunts in the pipeline to Falujah.

Now, at last... there's hope for us progressively fatter and fatter guys. The magicians at the doctor spot have isolated a hormone for fatness. Check this out.

Just think... I may live long enough to cram my fat ass into those pants. I gaurawn-tee you that the things are somewhere in my Mom's house over in Center Hill. She never threw anything of mine away. Busy making some kind of a shrine of everything that ever touched her precious son I suppose. I always figured that it was kind of like the priests saving the bowel movements of the Chinese princes. Ugh.