Powndouchery

One of the greatest gifts the Corps has given me is the ability to determine the potential FAIL of others rather than learning by my own failage. Granted, this is a rather easy example, doesn't take much to figure out which way this one is going to go, but it did make me chuckle.

Helpful suggestions for teh internets:

1. Get off of 'em every once in a while.
2. Don't piss n' moan about the Significant Other...
3. ... especially if she works 50 hours a week, takes a full load of classes, and is your baby momma.
4. If you do decide to piss n' moan about the SO, understand that it might come back to bite you in the ass.
5. Leaving your account logged in is an open invite to getting bit in the aforementioned ass, you ass.
6. Learn to quit while your not too far behind.

Sure there are more suggestions, but I've not finished reading the over 100 pages of peanut gallery color commentary.

LULZ

ETA: read Page 1 for the the set up, then Page 2 for her response. After that, it appears to all be icing on the cake, especially when the douchnozzle keeps responding...

It's Been That Kind Of Day

source.

Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, bumper sticker, and new set of cammies, afterward. Didn't find it humerous at the time, if I recall, but it sure puts a smile on my face, nowadays...

Pshaw, Whippersnappers

Not too terribly long ago, I was over at a track, killin' time trying to get a feel for how my shins were. I was wandering around looking for a semi dry spot to stretch when I saw something that caught my eye.

A pair of ratty old USMC issued PT sweatpants.

I sidled up to the owner of said sweatpants and asked the ever popular gettin' to know you question, "So, who're'you with?"

He told me his old unit, and it just so happened that it was the same bunch that my unit relieved over in Iraq.

"Great outfit, says I", deciding that my shins were merely tender (and thankfully not worse), "good group of guys. We actually relieved y'all at Camp Cupcake in '04..." I prattled off, reliving some fond memories.

He let me continue for a while, doing his own stretches, before he interrupted with a grunt and a "Sheeit dude, I wasn't there way back in 2004, I was in boot camp then."



"Way back", sheesh.

It Walks, It Talks...

Well, not really, but y'all already knew that.

See, what had happened was that families, doing what they do, tend to expand with the additions of new little ones. A particular little one, curious and with a mischievous monkey-like climbing abilities, managed to apparently to defeat the eagle eye of his mommy, hump up a set of stairs, and either did a max set of pull-ups on the fancy bed blanket thing or directly onto the bedside hooya where I kept my laptop.

Yup, "kept".

Seems to me that HP make a pretty good laptop, as it was fairly old, and considering who used it (moi), you can bet it was pretty much the definition of used hard and put up wet.

It was not, apparently, drop proof.

I thought it was a cute touch, however, when My Love had placed the laptop back on my bedside thingy (table? dresser?), with the power cable's new jaunty 45 degree angle connection to the laptop, and all but completely recessed into the body of the laptop.

Yeah, it was kaput. Would've cost more to fix it than it was worth, all my pics were duped onto the pc and on disc... so, yeah, it's sitting up on my closet shelf, perhaps waiting for a final use at the range, one of these days...

You might be pleased to know that while I declined to mete out any punishment due to the young age of the offender (under 3), not even researching local and country-wide orphanages, I have started a runing countdown, all for the momma's sake, of course, of when that little booger turns of legal age to be sent away to Marine boot camp.

Internet access has been apparently noticeably sporadic since, but hopefully, not too much longer.

Random Internetosity

"President Obama for the Heisman" (amongst other awards).




I LOLed.

A Joke and a Party

An oldie, recycled, but still somewhat humorous and applicable to a recent story.

Three vets are all walking towards the same intersection in the middle of a small town. They served in different branches of the service, doing different jobs, many years distant, but they had a few similarities. They liked to wear various Marine Corps or Army caps, perhaps a VFW pin, maybe even a set of old comfy boots. The one thing that they all have identically in common is that they are all dragging one leg behind them as they walk.


As they near talkin' distance, the first veteran slaps his right hip and says, "Vietnam, back in '69".


The second vet nods at the first, pats his thigh and says, "Fallujah, back in '04".


The third looks at the other two, grins, points a thumb over his shoulder and says, "Dog turd, 'bout 2 blocks back".



Vets can be like that, about their wounds.


War wounds might be brought up in conversation between vets as a part of story time, a sort of 'life really sucked, back when...'. Sometimes, when the source of a scar might have a more humorous shine to it, it can be more of a 'lemme tell you 'bout the time my dumb-ass tried to change a tire with my forehead right in the middle of a sand-storm'-type story. Other vets don't really run away from talking about their scars, they just don't ever seem to get around to it, either.

I was at a party recently, a birthday party of a buddy o' mine, as it were. Now, I knew that he had taken a round in Iraq back in the day, but that was about it. I didn't serve with him, so I wasn't there when he got hurt. We weren't shower buddies in the civvie world, so everytime I saw him, he had long pants on, so I never even saw his scars. Over time, the one conversation where he mentioned that he'd had a somewhat Really Bad Day more of less faded.

Until the party.

See, his kid was of an age that part of the festivities included various water activities, including getting tossed down a slip and slide, sprayed with a hose, or getting heaved into the kiddie pool. As this is Texas and it's currently hot enough to melt the hair on your head, just about everybody was in shorts and tees, haning out in the shade of the trees and occasionally getting hosed down with water.

Good times.

Good times were kept good by a discrete conversation with some about 1) letting him bring up the scars on his leg, if he wanted to, he would 2) yes, that's probably the entry wound. 3) yup, that would be the exit wound 4) that too, another exit 5) yeah, it's about half as big around as it should be, I would imagine that it hurt like hell - probably still does.

True to form, he came over a bit with a couple of beers (this guy, brining me a beer - sheesh!), patted his leg and said, "good thing I'm already married, 'cause I dunno if I could get many chicks with this leg, huh." I responded by telling him that different ladies go for different things but I still wouldn't want to test out that particular theory, as I've met his wife and have no desire to get on her bad side, at all.

Reminders

1. Stamps have now gone up to 44 cents.
2. The metric ass-ton of 1 and 2 cent stamps are still in the computer room/office/library/spare bedroom/ah, the hell with it toss that crap in The Room-room from the last time, and for the nest time.
3. Really should get those last of my bills set up for that automatic withdrawal thingy.
4. While I'm at it, I should probably take the stack of mail to the Post Office. This is all the crap that is addressed to the old owner of the house I live in. [Yup, the same guy that moved out Over Three Years Ago! Not too pissed about in essence delivering this guy's mail for him (and without those schnazzy shorts, neither), except for...]
5. Try not to think about my lost letters, plans for reduced delivery 'service', or their creative relocation programs while pondering too much about any of my mail (like say credit card apps.) getting sent to old addresses.
6. Better go ahead and check my credit report, again.
   

Is this thing still on...?

What the hell, am I made of money?

meh

Awhile back when My Love first pitched the idea of cutting back her hours at the office, she mentioned that she could always return to full-time hours, if needed. As I am the somewhat reluctant 'saver' in the relationship and she the buck-wild, former credit card melting, bane of savings accounts everywhere, patron saint of sales clerks' childrens college funds etc etc, I immediately told her she needed to stay full time. Heck, pick up some OT, while she was at it.

After further discussion, we decided that it would be a good idea for her to go part-time.

meh

She's now gone from part-time to no-time, at that job.

meh

Now that she's 'spending' (meh) alot more time at the house, making plans for future upgrades, paint-schemes, redecorating, future purchases and the like, I've been putting in quite a bit of time outside of the house, in the yard. Now, before I get to much further, I should mention that we're fortunate in that her quitting her job is not the end of the world, financially. (I just like to piss and moan). As it looks, we might have to tighten our belts a bit, but nothing that'll lead to me hanging out on the corner showin' a little leg... yet.


Back to the yard.


My yard is lookin' awesome.


Know what really helps out, yard maintenance-wise, besides a wife that's planning to paint the downstairs bathroom for the 12th time?

That's right, the recent run on ammo.


See, I haven't actually bought ammo for a quite a few months now, and while I'm not resigned to collecting rocks for slingshots or anything, I've started to keep an eye on my 'cache', with a mind to conservation. The question arose then of what to do with my ammo acquisition funds. I was mowing my rocks and weeds one day, thinking these deep thoughts, when the mowers started kicking up something totally unexpected. No, it wasn't forgotten lawn ornaments, my feet, feral cats, or small children, but grass. Lush, thick, green grass.


Yeah, 'WTH' was my thought, as well.


I remembered the fertilizer and composts that I was playing around with a couple years back. I had bought a few different type of compost, place some here, scattered some there, and in the end usually managed to sequester roughly half the bag in my pants cuffs for the trip inside the house. It worked pretty good, but after a buddy mentioned some types of fertilizer, I made a trip over to the local Home Depot. I bought a bag, brought it home, poured the stuff in the spreader, and started out. Of course something came up, as it usually does (if I remember correctly it was buying antique furniture), and the bag o' fertilizer spent a bit more time in the spreader than is probably recommended.


I believe it was about 3 or 4 months-ish.


Come spring time (of '08), I dragged the spreader out of the garage, and promptly dropped the ass-end of the spreader (and the solidified fertilizer it held) onto the driveway. I'm not a pro, but I figured that fertilizer on the driveway wouldn't help out too much, and the solid mass of of fertilizer should probably go in the yard. It wasn't all solid,though, there was some brownish liquid that spread out quite nicely with a healthy application of the hose. There was a strip of 'grass' between one side of my driveway and the neighbor's yard that was my lawn-products test strip, so that's where the fertilizer went. All of it (enough for most of the front and back yards) went in that strip.

So here we are, more than a year later, and I have some sort of mutant grass in that strip that grows roughly three inches by the time I've finished mowing it, isn't afraid to reach up and turn the spigot for itself when it gets thirsty, and, (coincidence?) the neighbor lady's cat Fluffy is still missing.


So yeah, I've been putting down compost and fertilizer all over the rest of the yard, in an effort to help it catch up to the mutant-strip.


That, putting in some plants and flowers, re-planting the flowers that died right after planting, replanting those flowers that somebody *innocent whistle* forgot (again?) to water, digging a garden we wanted, filling in the preliminary holes that we dug when we decided that we wanted our garden in a slightly different position, and well, that's what I've been doing for the past month or so.

Blergh.

My Great-Grandmother passed this weekend. At... [counting fingers n' toes]... well over 100 years old and with her slowly deteriorating condition (acute well-over-100-years-old-ia), nobody can really say that it was much of a surprise, and I'm sure her latest doc is relieved that she hasn't outlived him like his several predecessors, but it's still somewhat difficult, most of all for the fact that she lived in south America, leaving visits for those of us here in the States too few and far in between.


If this had been the only loss the (extended) family has undergone recently, it would be easier, but unfortunately that hasn't been the case. Been a rough few months, just part of life...


Add to this some fights with an insurance company (Grrrr), miscellaneous medical bills (save for one rump-rogering exception small but numerous), work (too much), sleep (lack of), and realizing that my pants gathered around my ankles is a good indicator of tax time and, well, postings have been at times somewhat of a struggle. This is just a heads up to those sorta kinda in the know and with those with curiosity how things are plodding along here.

More (hopefully frequent and amusing) soon...

Coming Back Home

Everything is so... damn... green...

I was staring out the window of the bus taking most of my platoon from the base where we landed to Camp Pendleton. I was touched by the reception of the Fire Department's water arch, the volunteers and vets shaking hands and handing out munchies, but my most distinct memory of that ride was the landscape.


It was early Spring, just past the end of Winter, so in reality the area was most likely moving along just as normal, just showing the start of real vegetative growth, but after the sand and rock of Iraq, it was a bit overwhelming. My wide-eye and nose-squishing view of the relative greenyness of real, live, actual grass (and, holy crap, trees!) was interrupted by the flashing red and blue lights of the escort squad cars, leap-frogging the bus convoy to block another intersection.


'Polowsky', in an actually pretty spot-on accent, exclaimed, "Oye, Cortez, la migra, la migra!". 'Cortez' responded with the appropriate (and expected) finger. Both were staring out the window, like myself.


As we approached the base, the buses first crossed the outskirts of the city, where we first started seeing the folks out on their front yards, then in front of their offices, and even a few just walking around. Seemed like a larger number than I would expect were waving and holding 'welcome back' signs. After extended periods of time seeing nothing but the same scruffy Marines, seeing random ladies waving and greeting us was a bit overwhelming, as well.


One of the last speeches that we got before stepping off the bus was from the platoon sergeant. He rose from his seat, called for our attention, and said a few short words. Paraphrasing, he acknowledged that he wasn't going to be too long, because he knew it wouldn't sink in if it was too long.


He told us to enjoy returning home, that we deserved it, for a hard job, done well He told us to remember that just because we were home, well, the job still wasn't completely done, quite yet. He told us to remember that there was quite a few of our Marines that were recuperating, waiting at Camp Pendleton, but still others in hospitals that hadn't recovered enough to greet us.

No reminder was necessary, but he mentioned the 12 Marines that were already home, but that we'd never eventually see or talk to again.


Coming back home was alot like that.


There was almost nearly constant surprise, seeing how much has changed, and realizing that some things had just changed in my perspective. The elation was off the charts, what with guys meeting newborns, reacquainting with wives, taking calls from long-distance family, and beginning the process of unwinding. Every once in a while, though...

From what I understand, a fairly usual homecoming.


Memory snippet above has been rolling around in my head for a bit, but was prompted by an email pointing out a music video by Pat McGee. Good stuff.

*snorfle*

Helluva idea.


link. (NSFW-ish.)


Dunno if it'll catch on, though...

So, got a call the other day, whilest I was fast asleep.


It was from Baby Sis, and My Love picked up the phone.


Know how you can be kinda-sorta asleep, aware enough to register familiar noises but not really be disturbed by them? Yeah, well this nap was not to be. I could tell almost immediately that My Love was going into comfort-mode, and that Baby Sis was crying. A few seconds more was enough to tell me that it wasn't due to a recent break-up or anything, but due to a 'death in the family'.


Shit.


When I was told that it was that Lazy Bum had died, my thoughts were roughly;


1) Thank God.

2) Er, that didn't sound right...

3)... thank God that it was just one of the cats.

4) Guess I can't really claim to be all that much of a cat person now, huh.


As nap time was pretty much kaput, I threw on some shoes and moseyed on over to Mom's house. Mom was kind of upset, completely understandable due to the fact that she's a stereotypical cat-lady and that this was one of 'Dad's cats'. Lazy Bum was everybodys cat, really, largely due to the fact that he was so dang lazy anyone could pick him up and pet him. Heck, he wouldn't even get outta the way of the over-amorous toy-poodle that Mom dotes on. But he and Dad used to cuddle on the couch, so...


So Mom and I hung out a bit, enough to establish that she'd be ok, more or less. We talked a bit about Dad, all of her 'beasties- those that have died and those that are still roaming around- and that she wanted to bury the cat in the back yard, mebbe plant a tree in a bit. I volunteered to dig the hole with Mom's 2ft shovel and reminisced about good times with an e-tool. Eventually got a little bit of a chuckle out of Mom, telling her about the days in the Corps when a young PFC Murphy had to complete his e-tool qualification, so that was good.


Meh, the whole time that Mom and I were talking, her mother was just sitting on the couch, with an odd expression on her face. See, to her, cats were for killing mice in the barn, and not really much else after that. She was trying to understand, you could see it on her face, but it just wasn't quite working. Guess Gramma definitely fits into the dog-person type.


So, here's to you, Lazy Bum, may the mousies run slow, the milk pour just right, and all the poodles find someone else to bother. Say 'Lo to Dad for me...

I remember a conversation that I had with a pair of my gun teams, in Iraq. The conversation was actually part 3(?) of what had started in an argument between a few of my guys. The argument itself wasn't really all that important, and honestly, I don't recall exactly what it was about. I do remember generally that eventually it had something to do with citizenship, either natural born or naturalized.


We were up on a lonely hill, watching a whole bunch of nothing, again. The only item of interest that had occurred was that one of my guys had invented/discovered that, with only minor modification, a wooden ammo case can make a pretty good shitter, for field use. He was quite proud of this, and tried to insist that everyone take a look at his ingenuity.


Yeah, it was a real slow day.


After mean-ole Sgt. Murphy made him dispose of his 'perfectly good' shitter, the conversation took a turn towards when we would see (if ever) an influx of Iraqi-born servicemen in the U.S. military. Most seemed to think that there would be a few here and there, but most likely no huge numbers, for a long while. Some pointed out the ING soldiers that nearly killed their fellow soldiers in training and ops, to support their dim views of the prospects. Others pointed out the soldier we nick-named 'Old Blue', as damn near the highest mark of respect for a crusty old bastard.


Even our translator got into the mix.


'Yusef' was a good guy, a bit older than us, in his late 20s - early 30s, very bright, motivated, and interested in a lot more than just collecting a paycheck. His family was Christian, and therefore didn't do all that great before but were managing ok, in their current situation. He was happy to have work far from home to protect his identity, but even still he would cover up on some of the ops in town of larger populations. His accent was only medium thick, his grasp of subtleties, innuendos, and whatnot was kind of tenuous, but he could definitely read between the lines. He was able to tell when to immediately stop whatever he was doing if say we needed to un-ass an area, post haste. He would at time saunter up to us, and with a whisper and a nod, tell us that the two detainees in the line were educated Saudis, and therefore the guys that we might really be interested in taking back to the detainee facility. He taught me a lot of Iraqi Arabic, and I taught him a little bit of Spanish. He had asked about Marine Corps training at one point, but honestly admitted he might have a better chance at going Army, due to his age and conditioning. His main goal was to one day live in the States.


Shortly after we were rotated out, the unit that replaced us took a pretty bad hit due to a land mine strike. KIAs included too many Marines, one doc... and one translator.


There was no word for a while, and eventually / for the longest time I assumed that he was the unnamed translator onboard. Word eventually came in a roundabout way that it was another translator that died, and that he was not only alive, but had figured out a way to make it to the States.


A little bird told me a while back, so I'm not sure of the exact date, but I'm just going to mark it down here for me how happy it makes me to hear that soon (if not already), 'Yusef' will complete his training and become a fine addition to the United States Army.


Hooah.

(Quite Obviously) Volk &/or Tam, I ain't.

Like I said before, rode hard & put up wet a time or two, but still...

...shoots pretty good.

Take your pick of shooty info:

a) One (1) full magazine, emptied rapid-fire (weak hand), after first leaping from a moving vehicle, executing a forward roll, dodging flaming arrows from ninjas, shooting behind the back and blindfolded. Ready for movie roles, $$$, and groupies.

b) From a distance of .5 yds, supported kneeling, 1 rd/min (approx), utilizing spotter, windflags, and jerry-rigged scope. Ready to invade internet forums with mah awesomeness.

c) Shooting from a distance of, "bout here's good" and at a medium pace. Having fun w/every shot.

Good times.

'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...'

Some pictures that bring out the true sentiment of the Christmas spirit...


link.


... for me.

Been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I thought I'd take a moment to let y'all know what kind of stuff goes running through my 'mind' the past few days.



What a difference a year makes...


Remember the '15 min prior' rule? That's the one that runs along the line of a Battalion Commanding Officer talking to his Executive Officer. He tells his XO that he wants to hold a formation at 1800. The word travels down the chain of command, from Officer to Occifer, Senior Staff NCOs to Staff, around and about to everyone that has something to say about it. By the time it gets down to my level, I'm standing tall in formation with my guys at 0745 that morning, wondering why the Battalion formation is running late...

Preparing for large family gatherings around say... Thanksgiving, for example - is kind of like that. Timelines are more of general suggestions and/or loosely held guidelines, especially with select members of the family.

Know what isn't a general suggestion?

Heh.

One of the only things that's more fun than the 15 min. prior rule is the to-my-knowledge unnamed rule that deals with visits by a General. Before a General arrives, you better believe there is a massive 15 minute rule applied, but even more so than that is the advanced preparation. The guy could be planning to not even go anywhere near your shop/office/barracks/heads/whatever - but the cleanup... *Oy, vey!* Floors will be buffed to panty-viewing perfection, weapons will be lick-dried if necessary, and grass will be cut, by hand and by individual grass blade, if possible. All this and the Man is only going to visit the other side of the base... again. Yeah, we kind of had that goin' on this weekend. I almost expected My Love to tell me that she wanted the Virgin Mary herself to be proud to come over to take a- well, you know.


The next time I tell myself that I'm gonna go on a good run on Thanksgiving morning and not eat so much that night... I'm actually going to do it... hopefully. I'm lucky if I can get up enough steam for a good waddle, right now.

On a related note, in my life I've gathered up quite a few skills that, while not necessary enjoyable, in the moment make life a bit easier. Lamaze breathing and relaxation techniques on the throne is a good example of one of those skills.


I figure I've still got a few days before I get tired of turkey sandwiches, turkey pot pies, turkey stew, turkey a la mode, turkey jerky, turkey subs, fried turkey, turkey gravy, turkey jello, etc, etc, and etc...


Eric, I have no idea who you are, but you're on my list, buddy, and it ain't my Christmas list...


I love watching some good football games on a full belly - but I try to avoid thinking too much about it. If I did, I'd get pissed all over again about the way things are run and the way that certain players act. When I become king of the word I'm going to institute a single elimination tournament system. To make it interesting, elimination will be done with axes. Should make for some good times.

Speaking of interesting times, what the heck is going on with the players (again)? If I was making that kind of money to play a game, the only time I'd leave the house would be to do charity work, feed the homeless, and help the nuns at the orphanages. Sheesh.

You know that deal that you do when walking in say, a hallway, down a sidewalk or wherever when you just about run into someone? Yeah, the ole, half-shuffle to the left, lean right, grin/nod, juke left & turn right, say, "thank you for the dance" and mosey on your way- all movements, of course, mirror-imaged by the other person?

I about did that while running this morning, with a van... sort of.


So there I was, running at my usual easy pace of a five minute mile, only a 20lb pack on my back, invigorated by the fresh air and exercise, breezing along for the adoring ladies- aw heck, who'm I kidding...


I was gamely trying for the wheezy-shuffle that would only somewhat disgust my sense of pt proprietary while praying for a stroke, compound fracture in a non-painful area, or good-sized meteor that would give me a reasonable excuse to slow down, stop, pass-out, or die - when I noticed the van. I was 'running' on the pavement towards the occasional oncoming traffic of my subdivision, the van was parked on my side of the road and would have been facing me had I not been looking down the ground wondering how bad it really would hurt to take a swan dive from a standing elevation. Ok, not so much concerned with pain (already had that, I was 'running'), but whether or not it would knock my ass out...

As the community is still fairly new, there's quite a few houses that are always being built at any time. Lots of electrician vans, cable-co. vehicles, workers in their personal trucks, flat-beds, and whatnot. The van facing me pulled away from the curb. Now, instead of doing the sensible thing and say, taking two steps to the left and getting my butt up on the curb (too high, what the hell, obstacle course), I did the whole crazy-assed lurch to the right / *pant* / lean left while moving even more right / *wheeze* / realize you're getting close to center-of-the-road-with-no-idea-who's-behind-you (Bad Idea) / all while continuing my 'run'. Finally, I more or less resigned / celebrated the idea of getting squished by the van and came to a stop, in the dead center of the road.


Turns out the driver of the cable-van was an old Marine buddy of mine.


We both paused for the 'squint, tilt-head, slight point, and mutter an expletive' thing...


I've run into buddies on different bases here in the States, a couple of guys in Iraq, one on the strip in Vegas, and one in a hotel lobby in Austin. It was pretty cool, catching up on who was still in, who where & doing what. Trips me out to hear about crazy Lance Criminals that are not the senior Sergeants running the show.


Best part about it? Got to stop and chat w/o totally killing the runner's high I had going on...

Olympics = Crack

Yeah, I'm kind of a junkie when it comes to the Olympics. I'm debating about whether to mount a flat screen in the bathroom, where I can see it from all angles.

I think it stems from the fact that it was one of the very few times that me and Dad would hang out late, past my normal bedtime hour, when I was a child. Perhaps that has something to do with all the events that I like, and those that are... there.

Track and Field? - Cool.

Swimming? - Neat-O.

Gymnastics? - Holy crap, that's a buff lookin' chick.

Handball? - WTF?

Not to belittle anyones choice of sport, or anything... I suppose that these guys and gals are in the top of their form, the best at their chosen field, but there's definitely some stuff out there that just doesn't do anything for me.

It's all relative, I'm sure that there's some of my readers that aren't particularly crazy about soccer - it's ok, nobody's perfect, ya know...

Speaking of soccer, I've actually never really been a great fan of Olympic soccer because that's what the World Cup is for. It is kinda cool in that we get to see some of the top players doing their thing. It does seem like there's significantly less theatrics in the competition, though, so that's a plus I guess. Always fun to see Brazil dominate.

Speaking of domination, I was getting a little bit miffed that I hadn't actually seen this Phelps guy doing his thing. Every time I turned on the toob, it was handball, gymnastics, diving, commentary, gymnastics, gymnastics, and China-background stuff. Mebbe it's all the fawning by the media over another particular guy, but I have to admit I was kind of reserved about my position on ole Mikey.

Then I saw him swim.

I guess I caught the race shortly after the start, and only knew that he was racing when one of the commentators mentioned his name.

That kind of got my interest.

I snorted when I realized that the green-line that the cameras superimposed over the swimmers was behind the lead swimmer, looked like their system was way off. The only time I had seen that kind of stuff was for the NFL games, and I just naturally figgured that it was supposed to mark out the lead swimmer.

Then I realized it was the marker for the world record.

You know it's a fast race when something like the 4th or 5th place guy breaks the old world record, and he's doesn't even get a medal.

Back to the events...