EvenWorseOpinions posted:

One of my coworkers got extremely upset about kneeling football guy whose name I can't remember a while back and made a big deal about how it disrespected his sacrifices for his country and he kept hinting at having been through extreme trauma and stress that only military people would understand.

I've never been in the military and especially never deployed, but I get the picture he's being a bit melodramatic considering he was in the air force and only ever deployed to Germany and Korea?

EvenWorseOpinions posted:

One of my coworkers got extremely upset about kneeling football guy whose name I can't remember a while back and made a big deal about how it disrespected his sacrifices for his country and he kept hinting at having been through extreme trauma and stress that only military people would understand.

I've never been in the military and especially never deployed, but I get the picture he's being a bit melodramatic considering he was in the air force and only ever deployed to Germany and Korea?

MrUnderbridge posted:

Well, he probably got yelled at by a few sergeants, so....

tactlessbastard posted:

My dipshit cousin claimed disability for PTSD because the other Marines were too mean to him.

canyoneer posted:

canyoneer posted:

pmchem posted:

Under 40 and presumably healthy. It’s a shame, despite his stupidity.

Doc Hawkins posted:

https://twitter.com/jkass99/status/1282019772796829696

Doc Hawkins posted:

the obvious question is: what movie did he watch that made him want to enlist?

quote:

To set the scene, the four of us are packed into Doc’s truck - a total piece of poo poo that “Junkyard Dog” doesn’t even begin to describe. Half of the bed was corrugated metal and both brake light covers were made of saran wrap. I’m talking about a vehicle that stayed together out of habit and could give you tetanus from a glance, and it’s trundling down 95A at a cool 50 miles an hour trying not to shake itself apart.

Now, despite it being Doc’s truck, Blade was driving (because he weighed around 350 pounds and he wouldn’t fit anywhere else). In the passenger seat was his huge, expensive gaming computer, buckled in safely. Now, you may wonder why it was buckled in up front when there was the back seat. The answer to that is that the back seat didn’t have any seatbelts, and there was no way that we were going to put a computer ten times the cost of the vehicle it was riding in anywhere but a place that it could be securely strapped in.

So with the front seats occupied as they were, that left us with three people in the back. Doc wasn't a man of much stature, so he sat behind Blade’s generous girth. I’m a 6’6” behemoth, so I sat behind the passenger seat (which had been significantly moved forward, as a computer does not have legs). And in the middle… was Steven.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a “loser friend,” but Steven filled that role like he was born for it. He was one of those ROTC tryhards and, early on to his inclusion, he accidentally let slip that he was a furry. Instead of taking our gentle ribbing in stride, he got whiny about it and pretty much only got to stick around because he bought pizza for everyone during weekend hangouts. I wasn’t a real big fan of Steven because his sense of humor could be summed up by the phrase “nipple pinchy” and an associated invasion of personal space, but free pizza every weekend for 12+ people is hard to argue with, so I did my best to tolerate him.

Anyway, we’re riding along in this horrible rust bucket when Steven gets this brilliant idea: he was gonna body-check Doc to break up the boredom. Of course, this pissed off Doc, so Doc body-checked Steven right back. Doc was a little guy, but he was no slouch, so he sent Steven right into me. I immediately shoved him off and told them to cut it out, but Steven was having a grand old time, so he slammed into Doc again - and again, rebounded into me when Doc retaliated, along with Doc also telling Steven to knock it off. I was extremely unhappy about having to be in physical contact with Steven, and so I told Steven in no uncertain terms that if he touched me again I’d beat his rear end. Steven responded by giggling and body-checking me as hard as he could.

Into the door.

Which was no longer attached to the truck.

Which meant that I was no longer inside the truck, because the back had no seatbelts.

What came next happened pretty fast - maybe three or four seconds total. Mercifully, I managed to land on the door and cling to it on reflex, saving me from all kinds of abrasions. I skidded for a couple feet, hit a rock, pitched off the door, and went head-over-heels into a thornbush. On one hand, said thornbush cushioned my fall pretty good. On the other hand, I was suspended, upside down, in a thornbush - and scratched all to hell for it.

At some point I registered the sounds of tires squealing, some crackling gravel, and a slammed door. I hear Doc go “MAX, MAX! HOLY poo poo! ARE YOU OKAY?”

“I’m in the briar patch.” I had never in my entire life said anything so deadpan before.

“DUDE ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“Get me out of the briar patch.”

Suddenly, Steven was in front of me. “oh my god dude i am so sorry”

I took a deep breath, looked at him, and said: “Get me out of the briar patch, or I’ll kill you.”

So, Doc and Steven grabbed an assortment of knives and gardening tools out of the truck and cut me down. Thankfully my shirt and jeans picked up most of the thorns, but I was still pretty scratched up - especially my arms and neck. After I had righted myself and was brushing the thorns off of my person, Steven walked up stammering another apology. I punched that son of a bitch in the face about as hard as I’ve ever punched anyone. Maybe harder.

Anyways. We grabbed the door, and tossed it in the bed, and got ready to leave. I hopped in the back and Steven tried to follow, but Doc wasn’t having any of it - Steven got relegated to the bed (and underneath the door, so the cops wouldn’t hassle us). When we made it to Blade’s house, I made a beeline to the guest bathroom and took a shower. I heard Doc and Blade telling the story, and a brief argument involving Steven. I wasn’t really paying attention - I was more concerned with washing off all the blood and picking off all of the thorns I had missed.

After the shower, I came out to cheers - apparently I was the hero of the evening for surviving, especially after Blade and Doc talked up the events to everyone else. As Blade’s grandpa was bandaging up my arms, Steven came over to apologize again. I asked gramps to wait a moment, stood up, punched Steven in the face a second time, and sat back down to let gramps finish bandaging me while everyone laughed. We ate some pizza, watched some Firefly, played some nerd games, and all in all had a pretty decent weekend.

About a year later when I got my first apartment, Doc gave me the door as a housewarming gift. I don’t even know if I still “own” it or not - I left it in storage when I departed Pensacola, and haven’t been interested in finding out if it’s still there.

Kith posted:

Steven is currently a 1st Lt in the Air Force. Very little about him has changed.

Vincent Van Goatse posted:

Intel?

Kith posted:

I have asked. You will find out when I do.

Kith posted:

[3:01 PM] swagnanimous: he's intel ops
[3:01 PM] swagnanimous: why

Kith posted:

[3:01 PM] swagnanimous: he's intel ops
[3:01 PM] swagnanimous: why

Vincent Van Goatse posted:

Someone light the Shimsignal.

quote:

Go ask the career development folks at the MPF. Also pimp the TMO folks and ask them.

The final answer comes from one of those two sources. And in the end you have a 50/50 chance of being told the wrong thing anyway.

But you asked for thoughts, and after smoking a bowl and contemplating things, I had a thought I'd like to share with you.

Have you considered not marrying your fiancee?

I can count on one finger the number of guys that were USAF intel officers that I wouldn't line up outside the gas chambers if the fourth reich became a thing.

A few years from now, when you can't even stand to look at him without feeling a sense of extreme hatred and disappointment simultaneous to realizing that at 28 years old you spend 50% of your day thinking about becoming a divorcee, remember this advice: Run the gently caress away now.

Seriously, there is a 100% chance your fiancee is a tool and a loving nitwit. There is a 100% chance that he will be peer pressured into becoming a distilled version of fighter pilot gay bro'ness not by dudes that fly fighter jets, but other sperged out intel retard officers. He's going to start saying things like "Check, Rodge, Vector, Burner" and other associated lame as gently caress things, while also sometimes randomly wearing a flightsuit to work on Fridays despite his only flight time being the fam flight he poo poo his pants or puked his guts up during.

Also he's going to cheat on you. Oh man is he going to cheat on you. And there is a not too bad chance that it won't be with some good looking gal, but rather some dumb bitch enlisted intel girl that almost got a degree in psychology from her podunk state school before she decided she hated the taste of gargling frat sperm and dropped out and joined up to get a chance at being the hottest little twat in a windowless SCIF in Japan.

But don't worry about that breaking your heart, he'll never tell you. You'll be too busy caring for the 3-4 kids he demands you squeeze out in repayment to the base model BMW 3 series he's going to buy you when he gets to his second assignment at Tinker AFB.

When he's not deep dicking some borderline inbred dipshit Airman who's a civilian 5 and intel 12, he'll be lording over you how his job and career come first, and pray he doesn't make more money than you because that'll come up everytime you sigh audibly at the dinner table where you two will passive aggressively try to grind down each others will to live and breathe.

By this point as a captain he's going to be TDY 1-2 months a year, where he's getting half assed hand jobs from third tier strippers on excursions with the least socially inept enlisted guys in his flight-- this is probably the point where his raging alcoholism will be so clear and obvious to you that you two will start fighting every saturday before kick off when his colleges football team inevitably will take a beating. This fight won't stop until his next TDY when the sweet release of his toothless stripper infidelities and lack of home presence gives you time to bust out your big giant purple *BZZZZZ* friend whenever those walking talking pants making GBS threads machines you call children fall asleep long enough to let you deaden the nerves in your clitoris.

Soon after he'll take his third assignment, the one right before he pins on Major, and suddenly he'll be pressuring you into becoming a fundamentalist christian, and he'll delete all of his whores off of his facebook account and spend his home time posting image macros about 2nd amendment rights, and how jesus spoke english in the bible so these loving mexicans should too. At this point you two will be consigned to bi-annual loving, and only when you've drank enough cheap boxed wind to be able to stand the idea of him pounding away on you missionary style but still refusing to look you in the eyes.

This will also be the point when your oldest childs ADHD and pyromania are diagnosed, and one of your parents die. There is around a 85% chance one of you is going to be eating zoloft and klonopin out of loving pez dispensers, and waking up angry that the sweet release of death hasn't taken one of you out of this loveless hosed up marriage.

Somewhere in here the idea of swinging is going to come up casually as an almost joke when you are both in the blissful release of a nice drunken buzz, and one of you will actually be very open and interested in the idea. The other is going to wind up being an unhappy accomplice wondering why your partner wants to gently caress almost chubby guys with spray on tans, or watch the sacred hole through which your children came into this world be filled with all manner of different ethnicities of cock.

I'm late to bring this up, but sooner rather than later you're also going to screen positive for HPV, and your intel officer husband is going to take every bit of research skills he has from his job to convince you that you got it from donating blood or sitting on a toilet seat.

You didn't get it from the Red Cross or a trip to the shitter.

As it stands now though, you can walk the gently caress away and enjoy a life that I'm pretty sure would be better than the above. And you'll never have to see the inside of an officers wives meeting which is a lovecraftian hell that makes my description of your future seem like Charlie's trip through the chocolate factory.

sharknado slashfic posted:

I'll scroll back and read that story but first I have to say that Tokyo Drift was the best F&F

e: was good story, would recommend

Vincent Van Goatse posted:

Someone light the Shimsignal.

Kith posted:

I have to ask - what gave it away?

Kith posted:

I have to ask - what gave it away?

Kith posted:

I have to ask - what gave it away?