I’ve been in Vegas

I’m back now, but will be very busy with school for the next two weeks. How do I put up digital pictures after that?

The Road to 1/507th HHC

I’m going to try and keep my stories somewhat chronological but I’m sure I will forget a lot and will have to fill in later. I’ve already forgotten lots of names and details for many things I have been thinking about writing. Anyway:

I’m still in Benning, it’s still hot, and I’m still getting yelled at- only now its black hats instead of drill sergeants. I didn’t mind Airborne school at all, I was even relaxed enough to fall asleep in the bird before my first jump.
When I walked through the door for the first time, 1,200 feet above the ground, a mixture of nerves, wind, and noise caused great disorientation until I received a super wedgy (hereafter referred to as “opening shock”) that things slowed down (which is the desired result when your parachute opens). It was very peaceful, watching the C-130 flying away rocking back and forth in the harness.
It wasn’t long before I realized I was still going to hit the ground pretty soon- and hard. To my horror, I was drifting right along the road, which is hard, and every other square foot of drop zone is about as soft as you will find. I attempt to steer clear, however, steering is to a T-10 parachute as verbal commands are to a two-year-old in full tantrum.
So I tear a few ligaments in my ankle when I hit the road, hobble back to the assembly area, and tough it out until I get back to go through prep for our next jump. It is then I realize my ankle has swelled up to baseball size and I probably can’t go through a second jump without severely injuring myself. This results in my transferring to medical hold with head quarters company. Which will lead nicely into my adventures there.

Old Army stories

I think I’ll end up writing old stories for a while. I don’t normally talk a lot, as I am fairly reserved, unless I’m the Maddog, but by then I’m probably dancing, and the environment rarely lends itself to conversation.  I also don’t normally talk about Basic Training, because it really wasn’t “cool” were I grew up in the Army, but it’s fairly rampant in the guards so…
I was on KP, for the second time, and had learned enough about the process to try and scam it.  KP is when you are attached to the kitchen for a day, it is not a punishment, and everyone has to do it several times.  I had previously worked “pots and pans” where we washed the dishes.  This was probably the hardest job in terms of labor, but you got all the food you wanted (leftovers). 
During my stay at Benning (where all infantry basic is conducted), we were never allowed to eat cake, but they always made several 2X3 sheets of it.  The cadre never ate that much, so I can only guess as to why they made so much. 
This second time on KP, being on general maintenance, one of my jobs was to take out the trash.  I informed the guys on pots and pans to let me know when the cake was brought in.  Normally, they would just consume as much of it as they could before thrashing the majority of it, but I had other plans. When the cake came through, I placed a second bag in the garbage, over what was there, and emptied all the cake, or what was left, into it.  I then told our detail commander (the drill sergeant who got stuck on KP to watch us) I was taking out the trash.  I tied the cake bag up and hid it behind the dumpster and discarded the real garbage.  I then returned to full fill the rest of my KP duty as normal. 
After we were through for the day, my battle buddy (gay basic training system for accountability/punishment) and I returned to the dumpster and shoved the cake into our empty boot shine kits (ammo cans).  We each had a solid brick of cake by the time we where done stuffing it in.  We then brought the cans back to our bay (30 dicks sleeping in one big room), and invited everyone into the latrine to dine on our spoils.

Who is Maddog?

For those of you who don't know me, I am two people. One of which is quite and reserved, goes to college (and dose quite well, regardless of his inability to spell), works part time, and is the loving father of two beautiful girls.

The other guy is, well - the Maddog.

I am awakened from somewhere deep within, so deep in fact you WILL be surprised when I emerge if you are used to my other self. I am usually summoned through the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol at the bar. It is not uncommon for those around me to grab hold of giant invisible bolt cutters and remove my shackles, or swing open an imaginary cell door calling "Here Maddog, come on out," while out stretching a drink for me to grab.

It is said that you can tell when I begin to surface by the taping of my feet or the rocking of my head. This activity is most always accompanied by shouts of "Ohh, he's comen' out, the dogs about to [get] let loose." After this has transpired it is almost standard for some of those around to mimic shining my shoes, the last ritual necessary to ensure my forth coming.

"Oooowwww. . ." someone calls as I leap through the air on my way to the dance floor. It is there, I am told, that I suffer from violent convolutions that somehow arrange themselves in a fluid manner not unsimilar to dancing. It is from then on that I suffer from an unquenchable lust for alcohol, held at bay only by call of the dance floor. When I am in full control it is much more difficult to put shackles back on or close the cell. You are probably stuck with me until the dawn.

The first thing we’re going to do is. . .

a test 1, 2, 3.