Tattoos

Tattoos are everywhere in the Corps. Well, perhaps not so much these days, but when I was in, there was a bit more in the way of making your own choices. Marines were free for the most part to get what they wanted where they wanted. And there was variety, let me tell ya.

The first tattoos usually started right after boot camp and schools immediately after, when most felt compelled to run out and get their 'oorah tat'. This was the near obligatory tattoo that had something to do with the Marine Corps and certain MOSs.

I remember once, immediately after a hump, hearing about a Marine that had asked for the doc. One would expect complaints dealing with the blisters, sprained ankles, or cramps, something like that. When he complained about his shoulders, well, that kind of threw the doc for a loop. A short investigation revealed that the Marine had felt sufficiently motivated to get a rather large tattoo, the word 'FREEDOM', in two inch high letters, across his shoulders. Right before heading out to the field.

Nice.

It actually was pretty nice, a really intricate design, and the 'O' was actually the symbol of the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, representing the Corps. Problem was, if you get a tat, you generally want to keep it clean for a while after you get it. Going out to the field for a couple of weeks for training is not a good way to maintain the utmost in personal cleanliness. That hump must have been really interesting, to tote a pack right on top of a fresh tat!

Meat tags also became somewhat popular, at one time. These are the tats that are usually located somewhere on the torso, more or less on the ribs (to make the experience more... interesting). The tattoo itself is about the size of dog tags, and has more or less the same info. I wasn't ever really sure why one would get this stuff, because Marines have just about everything else marked with ink or actual dog tags, but hey, whatever floats yer boat, I suppose.

I especially liked the liberty tats. These are the ones that usually involve several days of liberty and a few choice beverages. On occasion, the virtue of a certain lady back home was involved. This would be where one would generally expect to see cartoon characters like Speedy Gonzales, Mighty Mouse, or Goofy. Skulls and snakes were regularly popular, as were fire-breathing dragons. Ladies in varying levels of dress were also popular, but they were available in too many other formats to make the inked version too popular, at least for me. As long as we're talking moi, guess I should say that 'present', instead of 'available.' Available makes it sound like I had some measure of success, or something... Sheesh.


One guy had such a fascination with spiders and webs that he got both elbows and a good portion of his arms covered in webs. I kind of thought that was a prison thing...

Another guy got a Bud Light label-lookin' tattoo. On his ass. Long night, that one...

My favorite, however, was a variation of the 'Freedom' tattoo, except with the unusual spelling of 'Fredome'. Thus the lesson was learned, either get the work done in the states, or be really sure of your spelling abilities.

Whoops.

Oleocapsicum Resin, A Violent Meeting with My Pain Threshold, and Yet Another Libo Story...

Camp Lejeune was the base where I had the dubious privilege to learn about non-lethals, and more specifically to this story, OC. A small number of Marines were sent to school to learn all about this stuff, and then turned loose on us. The reason that we got this training was for the possibility that while we were cruising around the world, if there was an embassy that needed evacuating, or some sort of ass-kicking that needed to be done with less than lethal tools, we would have the means to accomplish it.


If we were going to use the stuff, we needed to know how it worked.


For any doubters out there, the stuff the military uses works like a champ!!


Anyways, the instructors were well versed in all of the ins and outs of 'liquid pain', as I like to call it. They even brought up an interesting point. For a very, very small percentage of the populace, there is what can vary from just a little to no effect of the stuff. There are some theories on exactly who might be less affected, but seems that you find out by trying it, basically. That is why in a real situation you always have someone nearby who is not using the spray, and who is able to convey your intent to the person or persons with the standard issue M-16 'universal translator'.

The instructors completed their classes, and we moved out to the courtyard in front of the barracks to complete the practical application portion of the training. Yippee! Pain, hate, & discontent!

As we were standing in formation, the CO revealed that were were to have an evening of liberty, once completion of the training was attained.


This was a Big Deal.


As we were trying to squeeze a normally 5 month long work-up into a 2.5 month long work-up, we were quite busy. Up to that point, we had received no liberty to speak of, and definitely nothing off base. Everyone was quite eager to get sprayed with the OC, and get their party started...


Until the first few guys got sprayed, that is.


A good time was had by all when the C.O. and his X.O. went through first, but there was a very important distinction that most realized later. The fact of the matter was that Officers of Marines have quite a bit in the way of pride, especially in front of their Marines, too much so to reveal how much that shit burns!!!

A few of the lower ranked Marines had no such pride restriction, and they very vocally let us know it!

It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt... then it's just fun!

It was funny for about the first ten minutes, and then when they didn't shut up, some of us got kinda worried. One guy was rolling around on the ground screaming about how he couldn't breathe...until one of the instructors pointed out how if he had air to scream 'like a little biatch!', he had enough to breathe. Those of us not yet sprayed found that amusing, the poor schmuck rolling around on the ground... not so much.

After a few more chuckles, I stepped up to the plate.

I assumed the Position of Attention, and sounded off my name for the admin guy to note that I had completed this portion of training. After watching the first few guys, I definitely didn't want to have to do this over.

I then closed my eyes and waited....

Immediately upon being sprayed across the forehead, I dropped down and started cranking out push-ups...

After the push-ups, I got up and ran over to the punching bags and started wailing away. This is supposed to simulated having to go hands on with someone after deploying the spray. It was during this portion of the practical application that I realized that there was no pain.

Nothing.

Nada.

No burning or itching in any way!!!


Continuing through the gauntlet, I was way passed the point where many others had dropped to the ground, wailing to all known (and a few unkown) gods to deliver them from the evil that is OC, hand clutching their faces, inadvertently grinding the OC deeper into their pores. I was thinking to myself, 'self, you RULE!!! you must be one of those that can drink this stuff with your coffee in the morning!' - when a tiny drop of sweat finally broke free from my brow and traveled down to the very crack of my left eye ball.

With a thunderous 'You Rock! You're the Friggin' Man! You Ru-"Holy SHIT, that burns!!!", I entered the self-defense portion of the class. This was where you were forced to keep your eyes open as two or three Marines with padded sticks beat the shit out of you while the liquid pain worked its way into your sockets.


Yeah, I got the shit kicked out of me like everyone else.


Roughly an hour later, long after the class had ended and most of the other Marines had gone into the barracks to prepare for evening liberty, I was just getting to the point where I could forcibly open my eyes without whimpering too much. I was surprised to note that the grass in the immediate vicinity had apparently not yet burst into flames and shrivled away.

As I laid there on the grass moaning and contemplating if hara-kiri was only slightly or waaaay less painful than the eye-fucking from Satan's minions that I had just endured, I resolved that I wasn't going off base that night, and if I was going anywhere, it would be to the px to buy the biggest vat of vanilla ice cream that I could find and a scoop.

1) Scoop out eyeballs, toss before they burst into flames and melt the scoop, 'cause you're gonna need it to-
2) Put ice cream into empty sockets.
3) Repeat as necessary.

The instructors were right, some Marines were able to fight through it with only a few problems, some couldn't do much at all, and some could breath & move tolerably (moi), but the pain, MAN!, that was something else! S'ok, call me a wuss, I've been called worse...



The next morning, some of the Marines had a very interesting story to tell.


As I was hitting the showers, in deathly fear of reactivating the spray, a small group of Marines had already cleaned up and headed out to enjoy the night life that surrounds any military base.

Of course, that means the local titty bar.

One of the group had just celebrated a birthday, and he was looking for some fun. The thing is, this guy was not all that and a bag of chips, but he was one of the lucky few that just seemed to have a way with the ladies.

Bastard.

Marines were always marveling at his ability to hook up with the hotties, and trying to figure out exactly how he was able to accomplish this. True to form, on this night, he hit it off with one of the strippers at the club.

Now, those of you not really enlightened in the ways of the nudie bar might be surprised to learn that the chicas are not really super-friendly out of the kindness of their hearts. Shocker, I know. Those in the group insisted that this girls was 'extra' friendly. She had been sitting in the birthday-boy's lap, running her fingers through his hair, playing some pocket pool, making plans for the rest of the evening, etc when she realized that she was due to be up on stage shortly. At the time that she realized this, they had been sucking face pretty seriously, trying to ignore the hurt look of the rest of the groups faces, when she finished nibbling on this Marines ear and neck, stood up and turned to the stage.


After about three paces, she stopped.


With a hand to her mouth, she turned around and said...


"What the Fu...- My mouth! It burns!!! Why is it burning?!?!!"


The Marines, being the delicate creatures that they are, were roaring with laughter at their hygenically challenged buddy, the poor girl went running to the nearest fountain to give that sink the night he'll always remember, the bouncers hustled over to hear the story, hell even the dj got into the act, berating the Marine for his inability to completely clean the spray from his face before the unsuspecting stripper started smooching all over him...


That made me feel better, but only a little bit.

Bravo Foxtrot (Blue Falcon)

Alternative titles:

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Why Nudie Bars are Bad

Troop Welfare, Murphy Style


One day, standing around waiting for formation, a bunch of us had noticed that Lcpl. Ware (all names changed to protect the guilty) was not his usual argumentative self. See, the good Lcpl. had been a college kid, very smart, and absolutely passionate about law, politics, history, news, primary colors, and just about everything and anything else. All it took to set him off was a minor disagreement, any conflict on any aspect of the above, and you would almost need to call in mortar fire on yourself to get him to shut up!

Seems that his and his girlfriend had called it quits, and had somewhat of a rough ending, at that. As a number of us had meet her, thought that she was a good catch, we were kind of curious. 'What happened?' inquiring minds queried, 'are you alright', others asked. Standard break up story, with a few twists. I will not go into too much detail here, but she did move on rather quickly ('bout a week and a half), and was quite happy in demonstrating her new found *ahem* freedoms. Via videotape. With her new... 'friend'. Some of the guys actually wanted to see the tape, all in the interest of commiserating with the Lcpl. and condemning the cold & heartless bitch, of course.

Right.

I took it upon myself to see if there was something that I could do to cheer him up. This would be a good example of troop welfare, for those interested in what makes the military tick.

Naturally, this involved strippers and copious amounts of liquid happiness. On second thought, probably not the ideal example of troop welfare...

Now, I -er...I mean I have heard- this theory about strip clubs. It something like 'the percentage'. In most clubs, there will be a small number of really hot strippers, perfection defined. Following them is the majority, decent looking 'ladies' that rapidly improve in appearance upon demonstration of flexibility, the amount of liquor you have sucked down, and any show of kinky skills. Then there is the last, smallest group. *shudder*

This club fit right into that theory. After a while, everyone was feeling good, and I turned to him to inquire if he needed another drink. His reply? "Yeah, she's probably getting slut-fucked right now". *Sigh* I tried to point out that there just happened to be a bunch of half-nekkid women running around all over the place, I was buying his drinks for the night, and all he could think about was the ex? This called for the heavy artillery. I called one of the girls over, inquired as to the appropriate (damn she was hot!) amount, and arranged him a little 'personal time'.

No, it wasn't that kind of 'personal time', just a lap dance in the roped off section of the club. I was trying to take his mind off of his troubles and get him happy drunk, not to have him piss fire (or worse) the next day.

By the way, why is it you need to take out a personal loan in order to by a buddy a few drinks and lap dances? I know I'm a cheap bastard, and that is why I don't usually go to those clubs in the first place. I also happen to prefer getting my frustration on in a place where I don't have to pay so much for the privilege. Apparently it is an art form to figure out how much guys are willing to pay for the privilege of a little frustration/entertainment for the next 3 minute song or so...

Weeelll, that perked him right up. He came back to the table with a huge grin on his face, sucked down another very overpriced drink, slammed it down, ordered another, and slurred to me 'Duuude, sshe likes... me!" Sure buddy. I tried to explain that she was just being friendly, but to no avail. Eventually, I let it drop because cheering him up was the whole point of the night. Hell, I even got him another dance. During his second lap dance, IT came out on the stage. [insert movie scream here]

I really hope not, but have you ever seen something so terrible, you just did not want to watch, but found yourself looking anyways? Eyes through your upraised hands, a-la-9 yrs old watching that really scary movie mortified?

My memory and descriptive skills could not do this situation any justice. Let me just say that she definitely been 'rode hard, put up wet' (bad pun intended).

She finished what passed for her stage dance, and then begun to work the crowd. As she would approach a table, all of the guys would somehow realize that they needed to use the restroom, go to the bar to get a drink, or tie their shoelaces/hide under the table. Marine loyalty be damned, I was the only one at the table when she approached (so much for never leave your buddy behind, assholes!). I was not too concerned about her trying to hit me up for a lap dance, because my funds were pretty much depleted from the course of the night.

"Hey sugar, want some of this?" Hell no! I mentally screamed. "I'm sorry ma'am, see I came here to take care of my buddy- (who was now totally smashed, convinced that he was going to score with the stripper who I had pretty much given my wallet, and staggering up to the table) I'm sure that it would be really nice (pause to swallow a little vomit), but I really don't have any more -"


You might realize that a very drunk Lcpl. Ware, having all of his many, many drinks and dances paid for by yours truly, would feel somewhat appreciative. I can understand that. I can understand 'beer goggles', having read about it somewhere, -cough, cough. I can understand him wanting to repay me for the kind gesture that I displayed.

What I will never forgive him for is taking that moment, when I was pressed up in the back of my chair, trying not to notice the yuck-mouth, cottage cheese, friggin overactive sweat glands, waaay too much junk in the trunk, lazy eye, thong about 7 sizes to tight, etc ad nauseum (heavy emphasis on the nauseum) to reach into his still full wallet, pluck out the appropriate bills, and slap them down on the table, with a resounding, drunken, "lesh get thish man a dansh, WOOO!!!!". That roughly translates to; 'why yes ma'am, I would love to provide for a few moments of your time for my buddy, here.'

The horror.

*Shudder*


He thought it was hilarious.

I couldn't decide if I needed to scrape my eyeballs out of their sockets, or attempt to stifle his chuckles with a grande bottle of tequila, administered by way of the anus.

Proper Liberty Attire

'Proper' libo attire wasn't something that was too harshly hit upon, until it got out of control. Marines start dressing crazy, and that's when the higher ups tend to take notice and crack down. Left to their own devices, the occasional Lance Corporal is going to decide that flip-flops, extra large sombrero, and butt-floss grape smuggler is a-ok for a night out on the town.

Perhaps not that extreme, but you would be surprised what they try to get away with. Case in point...


SSGT: Remember gents, we are guests on this base, no crazy shit on your body, in your body, or out on the town! Liberty expires 1800 hours on Sunday! Be the one that's late! Any questions? Good! Fall out!

The platoon made a mad dash for the barracks, tore off our cammies, and hit the showers. I was one of the first done and changed over into civvies, so I grabbed a chair and waited for the inevitable. Sure enough, here comes Popeye, dressed to the nines in swim trunks, mangled cap, ratty pt shoes (sans socks), and a wife beater. He was gamely attempting to walk out the hatch, right by me with the old 'if I don't look at my Corporal, maybe he won't notice me slinking out the door' look on his face.


ME: Popeye, come here.

POPEYE: Yes Corporal?

ME: Tell me you are going to the pool...

POPEYE: Eh? Naw, Corp, I'm gonna get sloppy drunk at the titty bar!

ME: Yeah, me too, but you know the First Sergeant is wandering around, right?

POPEYE: Yeah, but-

ME: Are you trying to see how far he can fit in my ass? I don't care if you take a bag with all yer freaky deaky duds, but wear some stuff as far as the gates that won't get my ass a target, ok?

POPEYE: *turning around* Roger, Corporal.

As he was walking away, who should come by but one of the machine gunners, a PFC Loco. Loco was an... interesting character, and his dress reflected it. He was dressed in flip-flops, board shorts with pretty flames all up the legs, a mesh yellow sleeveless shirt that showed off his dubious assets, and an amber shade of sun glasses that had the 'arms' that, instead of lying horizontal over the ears, wrapped up vertical over his head. He had so much bling on that Mr. T would have been envious. Not that Loco would have heard him, due to the Princess Leah lookin' head phones blasting out rap en espanol. To Popeye's chagrin, I merely nodded at Loco, and wished him happy hunting.

POPEYE: Corporal?

ME: Hmm?

POPEYE: What the fuck, over?

ME: Loco isn't one of my bubbas. You are. First Sergeant is down that hall that Loco just went down, and I'm going to hang out and watch the festivities. Where is Corporal Jones (Loco's team leader), anyways?

Right on cue, all within roughly 5 miles could hear the distinctive, booming, former drill instructor voice of the First Sergeant. "OH! HELL! NO! MARINE, YOU MUST BE HIGH ON DRUGS, DRESSING LIKE THAT!!! WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY CAN I SEE YOUR NIPPLES?!?! WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THOSE FLAMES?!? ARE YOU A FLAMER!!? SHUT UP, DON'T ANSWER THAT!!! WHO'S YOUR TEAM LEADER, NUMBNUTS!?!?!" *mumbled response* "OH, GREAT, WHISPER AT ME TOO!!! CORPORAL JONES, GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!"

Looking forward to a cold beer, classy ladies, and a night of the First Sergeant not knee deep in my ass for something one of my yahoos did?

Life is good...

Libo, Booze, and a Hasty Field Day

Navy ships can be awesome weapons, capable of projecting massive amounts of firepower incredible distances to basically lay waste and sow huge amounts of pain and hate. And then there was the PoS that I was on. Built in the early 70s, I believe that it has now finally been de-commissioned. In one of its last cruises before being put out of its misery, it got assigned to carry a bunch of Marines around the coast of South America. I am only half-way joking here when I say that quite a few of the engine bunnies actually had a poll going on when (not if) the engines would die on us. By a couple of countries into the float, so did we.

The berthing room that housed the mortars platoon was a comfy little nook, positioned directly above the engine room and next to the heads. After the a/c broke down about 2 weeks into the float, we were hard pressed to decide what was worse, the heat and fumes from the engines, or the reeking shitters next door. I spent a lot of time at the gym, in the library, the smoker's deck, hell, anywhere but in that room of man-reek of epic proportions. Liberty was a godsend, and another opportunity to see what kind of mischief we could get into. Said mischief was not limited to the time that were actually fuschnukered and out on the town...

One night just as liberty expired, in stumbled the last of my wayward Marines. My guys were a great group, we were just one way or the other getting into some sort of trouble. They worked hard, and partied harder. Perhaps a little too hard. Back to the story, the last Marine in was our platoon mascot of sorts ('Mascot' of course, his name for the purposes of this little blog), being not too bright, pretty short, very stocky with an abnormally amount of junk in his trunk, and usually spotted with a cig in one corner, the largest dip of cope you have ever seen in the whole other cheek, and if at all possible the cheapest and largest beer can in one of his paws. He kind of resembled that axe-wielding troll guy from the Lord of the Rings movie.

Anyways, he stumbled in, reeking of cheap hookers, dried beer and cigar smoke, and crawled into the rack. Not the freshest smelling of fellows on a normal day, we started to make noises in his general direction re taking a shower. After a good 20 minutes of laying in his rack and drunkenly slurring to us to "Shut up, bishes, 'fore I stick my c@ck in yer...", and in an un-precedented display of speed and coordination for a definitely un-coordinated guy, he leaped out of the rack. Not to obey our request, no. He was puking like it was going out of style.

Ever see in the movies how you have to go ass-hole to belly button to pass someone in the passage way? That's how it was in our quarters. Picture if you can, 30 Marines crammed into a small room, some still in their garish Hawaiian shirt-style libo attire, others drunkenly attempting to display their prowess on the x-box, and a few actually attempting to prep their gear for the next training evolution.

Into this picture place a short, stubby, puking Marine. Despite moving with all haste, he threw up about 5 times before he made it to the shitters. He spewed on Marines, laptops, down the ladder-well to the engine compartment, field gear, other Marines, himself, at least two racks, and for good measure, a sailor that was passing through (poor lil' guy). His awesome display of projection was the trigger for two others to display what fine-dining establishment they had attended that night.

The room was stunned silent. There was puke dripping from cots, Marines, and the walls. Heck, I think there was some on the ceiling. A sailor came up the ladder well from the engine room to inquire WTF?!! and if it was safe to pass.

Mascot returned from the head. As he entered the room, we could see that he had managed to puke all down his front side, back side, and general everywhere. With a 1000 beer stare, he trudged through the room, around Marines, and crawled into his rack.

The room was still stunned silent. There was still puke dripping from the cots, Marines, and the walls. There was definitely puke on the ceiling. A gathering of sailors and Marines grouped, not inside our berthing, but at the hatch that wasn't covered in tossed cookies. Mascot laid down, sighed, and prepared to rack out.

It was almost mutiny. We were hard pressed (the Corporals) from keeping everyone else from slaughtering the guy. Kind of like family, we would have stood up for him to anybody else, for just about anything, just because of the platoon thing, but here, in our berthing, like this?

Oh. Hell. No.

Drunk or no, he was going to clean up himself and his impromptu interior decor. After enough threats we got Mascot up and out of the rack, got him hosed down, and made sure that he had ample opportunity to clean up the room. He looked so miserable, still 3 sheets to the wind and swabbing the deck with the broken off, bottom-half of an old, old mop that despite the carnage and the smell, I just had to chuckle.

Ahh, the end of another successful liberty pass...