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Storm Troopers
"Scott Thomas Gleeson" is a pseudonym for a typical American soldier currently serving at His Majesty's pleasure in Iraq. To corroborate the facts, we sent it to crackerjack reporters at The New Republic, and asked them how it smelled. "Mmmmm," they said, adding, "Like freeze-dried chives."
It was a dark and stormy Baghdad night. There is a section of this city we wise-cracking infantrymen refer to as "Fruitcake Heights," because of all the human entrails constantly falling from rooftops. At least they think they're human. They don't taste like chicken, I'll tell you what.
My tactical battalion group had just finished dog-slicing detail in the outpost perimeter, when one of the guys, who had a reputation as something of a crank-yanker, took off his ACU pants, revealing his tan underwear. We thought it was only mildly amusing, until he told us to look closer, to reveal that his underwear was not made of cloth, but hundreds of Iraqi heart valves, stitched together. It was nice needlework, even had a Y-front fly.
"When did you find the time to make that?" I asked, giggling like a man waking from a nightmare on Christmas Eve, or like a crazy person.
We all laughed, even though it was not funny, under that scorching foreign sun, because, even though nobody would admit it in so many words, our very souls had been violently ripped from our very lives, like empty MRE's, when we volunteered to kill people. Kill people. Kill people, I kept repeating, silently.
Or I thought it was silently. "What's that? Kill people? Ha!" said somebody. "Man, you're crazy! Although, typical of American soldiers!"
On Fridays, the locals -- or "inferior foreign heathens," as we joshingly call them -- attend their prayer services. That's when the pranksters in my platoon like to sneak into the mosque and climb to the top of the minaret, and shoot Patriot missiles at goats. We hit this one goat, must have been eight miles away, right square between the horns, splitting it in half, like a cross-section diagram at the butcher shop, with the various cuts and shanks labeled for the purchaser.
"An apt metaphor indeed, for are we not all here to render the butcher's bill?" said somebody. I wondered how would he know I was thinking of the butcher diagram thing. I decided I must have spoken that thought out loud.
"Either that, or nobody said anything!" he said. We all laughed and laughed, in a grim humorless way, until the tears of joylessness streamed down our cheeks, our tender cheeks. None of us like Dick Cheney, not one little bit.
It was stormy the next day, too, only this time it was a sandstorm. We call them "sand storms" because they're like storms, but instead of water, it's sand falling. And we laugh and laugh.
Our sergeant had put us on "upskirt patrol," going into the market and lifting the dresses of female civilians, and give them Bibles. The blowing sand made it difficult to see under the skirts, so instead we just shot everybody with our M-60 Glocks. Sometimes I wonder whether they'll ever make another sequel to The Matrix. That would be cool. Do you like walnuts?
That bruise on my eye went away. Oh no, wait it's still there, I was looking at the wrong eye. If I could be in Lord of the Rings, I would be an Orc. What time is it? Is this 600 words yet? "Not yet! Crazy!" We laughed harder than ever, and then we ate chow and then went to get some rackspace, to prepare for another typical day.
76 comments, latest by TalkinKamel at 8:44 am 8/10
Sean Gleeson is HILARIOUS.
This is hysterical. I laughed so hard, I cried.
No, you're already dead. Remember? August? 2006?
I'm betting that Scott Thomas Gleeson's essay will be required reading for frosh English Lit classes winter semester 08.
This is hysterical. I laughed so hard, I cried.
Hardly better than...
ROFL! This is feckin' hilarious, Sean!
This upskirt patrol sounds dangerous. I volunteer for the mission.
Sean, you're brilliant. Brilliant, I tells ya.
PRICELESS!!!
So Blogie is about to win its first Pulitzer Prize!
LMAO!!
Oh jeez, I hope the TNR people are reading this!
Maybe I can help'em out a little:
TNR The New Republic Gracie Beth Greem, ROTC Throbert McGee Reaganite
There, that oughta do it.
TFF!
Maybe I can help'em out a little:
TNR The New Republic Gracie Beth Greem, ROTC Throbert McGee Reaganite
There, that oughta do it.
Say goodnight, Gracie.
Say goodnight, Gracie.
I'm going to express a fair amount of confidence in opining that exactly that was the inspiration for the psuedonym.
I re-read this post because I want to go to bed with a laugh. Thanks Sean, this was wonderful.
Haha awesome
You know what I would LOVE to see? I'd love it if the TNR people would post something after one of their obsessive-compulsive reloads.
"Those people at that blog are talking about us! You stop! I'm going to tell MOM! Mom! She hit me back! I'm not your FRIEND anymore!"
"Those people at that blog are talking about us! You stop! I'm going to tell MOM! Mom! She hit me back! I'm not your FRIEND anymore!"
He's on my side of the car!
He's looking at me!!
So, we know Swojjy has like at least two sisters.
No, just one.
And she's getting married is Sept. That poor, poor bastard.
*slides up next to Stormi*
Hey baby... How was last night for you? ;)
Hysterical.
Almost perfect in tone, though Beauchamp lays the adjectives on a bit thicker.
Wow, great writing! I work for The Nation. Will you marry me?
I think his wife and forty-eleven chillrens might object.
I think his wife and forty-eleven chillrens might object.
Not if it's for The Nation! I think you should do it, Sean.
Damn I want "Scott Thomas" to read this. "M-60 Glocks." Priceless.
Heh... this is great, Sean. :)
And if it goes for TNR, it goes for the dimwit that shares my first name...
He can't. Daddy took his internet away.
He can't. Daddy took his internet away.
So how is TNR gonna get the copy next month for their "Leavenworth Diarist" column?
They'll have to have someone in-house make it up.
Or - you could offer your services ...
He can't. Daddy took his internet away.
Then I am going to print it and mail it to him. He really, really needs to see this.
Then I am going to print it and mail it to him. He really, really needs to see this.
Tell him we can enter him in a writing contest, Scott Thomas Beauchamp vs Scott Thomas Gleeson. The one with the most metaphors wins!
Good job Sean! I'm in stitches. :-)
There I was, knee deep in Grenade pins. I was sharing my foxhole with Tex, a lanky kid from Fort Worth whose daddy was in the oil business. I laughed at the irony as another wave of sand gooks came through the wire. I raised my flame thrower and turned them into screaming birthday cake candles of a child who wass too tired to really enjoy his birthday and was crying. I laughed at the irony.
Reading that hurts my brain.
Reading that hurts my brain.
Feel my mindthoughts disrupt your soulpattterns with their grim truthlogic.
Leavenworth Diarist
by Scott Thomas Gleeson
When Capt. Johnson asked to see me, I knew it would be something serious. It's not every day that the company commander sends a squad of six MPs to find a private, with orders to "get his ass here right goddam now." But that's how it always is in Baghdad, where we front-line defenders of the empire burn oil to shed blood to trade for oil, as a parched world traverses its lonely trajectory around this alien sun.
Or rather, that's how it was in Baghdad. It turns out Capt. Johnson had a new post for me, a new post for a new mission, a mission that I alone was entrusted to accomplish.
"Private, I need you to get to Leavenworth, Kansas," he said, handing me the envelope containing my new orders, an envelope the color of the skin of a three-day old Iraqi corpse. "When you arrive, you will be issued a new uniform and a new rank."
The details of my new assignment were left unsaid, but my trained killer instincts were involuntary twitching the callused trigger finger of my right hand, even though the MPs had already taken away my M16A3 rifle. I laughed aloud, thinking of the deaths which would follow in my crimson wake. Capt. Johnson laughed with me, sneering with the cocksure contempt of a hired gun.
"Man, you're crazy!" he managed to say between bouts of laughter.
"Aren't we all, sir," I said, eyeing the Bible on his desk, wondering if he used a severed human finger for a bookmark.
"No, son, I mean it, you should really get some help."
Feel my mindthoughts disrupt your soulpattterns with their grim truthlogic.
Ow ow ow ow ow
Uh, I think "distwalker's" gonna win this contest.
I was gonna write one about watching an Arc Light strike crumple the sand fleas whilst I watched from a near-by plateau drinking tea. Problems: Aint no more Arc Light strikes, and "knee deep in grenade pins" is hard to beat...that'd be a whole lot of grenades, you betcha.
Oh, now I donno...Sean catchin' up here....
'Minigun' = Scott Thompson Beauchamp ???
Sean, LMAO!
Sean...
"Man, you're crazy." --- Poetry, pure soul searing poetry. It speaks to me. You have the soul of a writer.
The perfect image "framing" for Scott T Beauchamp is of course....
Excellent work, Sean!
Uh, I think "distwalker's" gonna win this contest.
I was gonna write one about watching an Arc Light strike crumple the sand fleas whilst I watched from a near-by plateau drinking tea. Problems: Aint no more Arc Light strikes, and "knee deep in grenade pins" is hard to beat...that'd be a whole lot of grenades, you betcha.
"Man, you're crazy." --- Poetry, pure soul searing poetry. It speaks to me. You have the soul of a writer.
I first got introduced to Sean's writing with his infamous pizza post. It was wonderful and I'm trying to find the link.
I first got introduced to Sean's writing with his infamous pizza post. It was wonderful and I'm trying to find the link.
Here you go.
Now share your chocolate.
I first got introduced to Sean's writing with his infamous pizza post. It was wonderful and I'm trying to find the link.
You mean this link?
Ah, you found it. Never mind.
Here you go.
Now share your chocolate.
Damn! You got it on your first try too! I've been searching for ever!
Have some chocolate.
Have a good weekend all.
You mean this link?
That one. Sine had linked it on bloggie, in the diner: Endless Possiblities
I liked how it had a happy ending.
See you, RWC :-)
Or - you could offer your services ...
Umm, I think you are a little too rational to fill in for Bochump.
Perhaps going the full Hunter S. Thompson route and mixing various illegal subastances a couple of hours prior to writing the next would get you to the same plateau?
Sean, if you ever decide to "play for the other team," if you know what I mean, please get in touch.
I'm going to express a fair amount of confidence in opining that exactly that was the inspiration for the psuedonym.
Actually, the inspiration was half TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE, half George and Gracie.
The "underwear stitched from hundreds of Iraqi heart valves" was the beer-spitting moment for me.
I have a question:
If cats are so sophisticated and smart, why can't they spell worth a damn?
If cats are so sophisticated and smart, why can't they spell worth a damn?
No, you didn't say that!!
Don't make me come all up in there now.....
-click below for full size-:
[.... that photo is sooo good, just had to use it twice today :-]
"The other team," that's what y'all call LGF, right?
"The other team," that's what y'all call LGF, right?
No, no. That be "The Other Plaice". I can't believe Throbert made such a mistake.
I have wondered, why is it Plaice instead of Place?
Plaice is the common name for Pleuronectes platessa, a fish.
No, no. That be "The Other Plaice". I can't believe Throbert made such a mistake.
He means... You know... If Sean decides to... not be straight anymore!
Because I find the spelling charming. Mike Magee, a founder of the Register, a technology tabloid, decided to leave and found the Inquirer, a competing tabloid. The Inq's writers refer to the Reg as The Other Plaice, and I liked it, so I stole it.
Wikipedia:
He means... You know... If Sean decides to... not be straight anymore!
What, and lose my sweet gig at The Nation? I think not.
What, and lose my sweet gig at The Nation? I think not.
A man who sacrifices for his country and career. Respect.
Oh... Scott! Scott!!!! ummm....Sean.... oh, whatever. Let me savour the delicious soulpatterns of your suffering.
War has, indeed, made monsters of us all. Except of course for the 28 percenters, who were already unspeakably vile.
War has, indeed, made monsters of us all. Except of course for the 28 percenters, who were already unspeakably vile.
Are you the gorgeous purveyor of Villainous Company?
That's hot.
So THIS is where Sean Gleeson shows up. Why don't you say hi once in a while to the little people who put you were you are now?
I'm still waiting for you to eat your annual pea.
No, you didn't say that!!
Don't make me come all up in there now.....
-click below for full size-:
[.... that photo is sooo good, just had to use it twice today :-]
Enough of placid mountain lakes reflecting an azure sky. This picture is now my screen background.
#74 Gordon
Gordon? Is that you? LGF's Gordon/Nodrog?