Fun, Frolic and the Age of Terrorism.

Yeah, I'm going to quote an excerpt that I read recently from a very funny comedian's book he published.

So without further ado, Tim Joyce's words from his book: Seize the Day Job.


"We have nothing to fear but fear itself." - Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Man, did old FDR ever have balls. Think about it. He said we should embrace fearlessness and utilize the positive energy within us even as Hitler was preparing to do his little tap-dance through Europe. He told America to buck up and be brave - even while millions of Dust Bowl refugees were riding ramshackle jalopies across the desert - only to be beaten up by anti-union goons when they arrived in the New Jerusalem of California.

He said we should not be afraid, even though he himself lived in a wheelchair with no use whateover of his own legs. That is right buckaroos, the Franklinator was fearless even though he was a paraplegic, and remember: that wasWAY before the USA had anything resembling a ramp into a restaurant or a department store. When faced with the instinctive survival choice of Fight or Flight our first and only handicapped Commander in Chief only had one option really, so the bastard courageously went ahead and fought hard enough to end the Depression and win WWII.

He wasn't even afraid to look at Eleanor naked.

"Nothing to fear but fear itself." Wow.

Thank God George W. Bush came along to remind us daily that Franklin was off his wheelchair. Thank our good Christian God we live in times when conservative politicians and talk show hosts can jam up the AM radio dial with color-coded calls to look up at the sky and wailingly declare it falling.

We are so lucky to live in an age when our leaders have the kindness and decency to scare us with threats of Armageddon every hour on the hour. Just remember this America: if you aren't scared, if you aren't willing to give up all of your constitutional right up keep Freedon alive, well, you're just letting the terrorists know they won.

Forget national health care, forget civil rights, forget education, forget freedom of speech or religion. As righteous family-value espousing patriotic citizens the only thing we have left to do is live in constant pants-soiling paranoia. We now must be happy to be America: land of the free and home of 280 million chickenshits.

Never forget, and in fact never think about anything else at all but this following fact: We live in a post 9-11 world.

It is also worthwhile to be aware that if you have recently consumes a Slurpee you are living in a post 7-11 world as well!

Be afraid. Be very very very veru very very afraid. Afraid you aren't afraid enough? Well, here are some things to help you reach the zenith of whimpering simpering cringing horror that is the hallmark of surviving in this modern world.

Look all around you. Go ahead, set this book down and look around. Think you are safe? Well, think again you Commie! Death lurks around you like an unventilated flatus.

See your television? It could be a bomb.

See your end table? It might be composed completely of compressed anthrax spores cunningly constructed to look like teakwood.

See the so-called "loving family" that shares your domicile? That's right, you un-American fearless liveral swiftboat riding puke, each and every person you know and love is most assuredly a terrorist or terrorist sympathizer. So go ahead, cover your ears and scream all you want, no one will hear you.

Why? Because they are staring at their own end-table and screaming even louder than you!

The entire world hates us, and it is not in any way our fault that they do. So don't ask. Want to know why they hate us? Simple. They hate Freedom. And Freedom is us, capisce? Try to look any deeper than that and you aren't supporting the troops, you traitor.

That's why we need unlimited wiretapping by the FBI, CIA, PTA, and DAR of all American homes. We also need unlimited access to weapons for all our nation's citizens so we can defend ourselved against sudden unprovoked attacks from, well, ourselves. We need to decriminalize torture or we will never be safe from the terror within our own minds. It is as simple as that.

And if you say it isn't, well, then you hate America.

You are either with us, or against us, and since we aren't thinking anything through anymore at all as a nation then you'd better just clam up and get uninformed pronto, pal. And the basis of remaining patriotically dumb and uninformed is what? You guessed it!! Fear!!!

Fear is a good thing, a great thing, everything, the only thing.

And don't forget, dear reader, fear is good for the economy as well. in order for the United States to thrive economically we must be scared shitless 24 hours a day.

Think that makes no sense? Turn on your TV. Seriously, go turn on your TV. I'll wait.

Did it explode? Well, okay then, maybe you dodged that bullet and your set wasn't a bomb planted in your living room by Bin Laden himself. But now that it is on, watch the commercials for a while. Think fear isn't important to the economy? Everything they sell on your television is sold through fear. They even sell you on being afreaid of the opposite of your fears.

Psychiatry itself tells us that only the scared survive. Remember that cigar that Freud said sometimes is "just a cigar?" Well what he didn't tell you was this: whether that cigar is just a cigar, or in fact your penis in metaphorical somnambulant disguise, it is nevertheless most definitely an exploding cigar with a deadly hundred megaton charge. Even in our dreams we must be vigilant against the enemies of Freedom, whoever the fuck they are.

So the reader may ask, "How can I maintain my personal terror level at a constant patriotic rate?" Well, as always, the best answers to any life dilemma lie once again in your television. look at those ads my friend!!! Madison Avenue always knows best, and here is the fear they are waiting up sell you for your own good.

You had better be afraid of:
- Being fat/Being hungry
- Losing your erection/Being small even when you are erect
- Smelling bad/Not smelling at all
- Drinking the wrong beer/Drinking the right beer responsibly
- Getting skin cancer/Being too pale
- Crashing your car/Paying too much for auto insurance.

Most of you should be afraid that you're watching the wrong television!

By the year 2018, 90% of the United States economy will be tied up in the use, production, and distribution of antidepressants and antianxiety medications. Being scared is good for business, and what is good for business is good for America.

So embrace that fear. Courage is for the smart and we here in the USA are clueless and ready to die for cluelessness. Every decent American should have a cable hookup placed in their skull piping Fox News directly into their medulla oblongata. Once you have that simple operation you will be ready for some good old-fashioned American cringing my friend!!!

Go ahead, lock yourself in that broom closet. Surround yourself with pillows, gunpowder and bottled water. Shoot to kill at anything that moves and even some things that don't. Stay awake for the rest of your life so you don't die in your sleep.

Quietly do whatever Rush Limbaugh tells you to do. Turn your neighbor in to homeland Security if he looks too swarthy. Sell your kids to the army where they will be safe.

When you aren't oncontrollably weeping with anxiety be sure you sing the "Star Spangled Banner" until you pass out in flag-waving ecstasy.

These are scary times, and only and educated East Coast left wing fool feels optimistic.

Even God Himself wants you to be scared, otherwise why would he always refer to righteous as "God-fearing"? Case in point: As a Catholic schoolbot I was told that you should never call the holiday "Xmas" because it takes the "Christ" out of "Christmas." Well. It is also important to keep in mind that without your terror, terrorism is only an "ism."

Makes you think, don't it?

"Nothing to fear but fear itself'" my ass.

Remember, these days we have nothing to fear but everything.

Well, that, and a shortage of Xanax.

Now for something completely different...

With all of the drama that has been going on, I'm going to step completely away from it all, and recall something from my past.

Because of my mood, it's going to be something fun, and also has to do with shooting.


Back in my High School days, a friend of mine got me hooked on Paintball.

Once a month, we'd save up enough cash to buy some gas, paintballs, CO2 and some spending money to go out for a weekend and play around.

There were 8 of us in this group. I'll give you nicknames, since a couple of them could potentially read this, and assume that I'm talking smack about them and their "game".

There was B-dawg. He was the Alpha of the group. He had the suburban, the guns, and the drive. We were all really along for the ride, and he was willing to drag us along with him. Not a great shot, but he more than made up for it in enthusiasm.

There was NJ. This dude SCARED me. He was sneaky, he was crafty, he was thin, and he was quiet. If you had him on your team, you won. If not, you lost. Nothing else needed to be said.

There was "Pops". This is my brother, and he was enthusiastic, but he made a better target than a shooter. We'd usually send him out to get folks to chase him so we could sneak up on the ones hunting him and his loud sounds. Sad, but quite effective.

There was Egg. My best friend in school, he didn't even know the business end of the pistol from the stock, but once he learned, he got quite good. The consummate nerd, he insisted on keeping his gear so that he could "tweak" things, and he was always tinkering with things to get the most performance out of it. He's since moved on to become quite proficient at World of Warcraft, so you can see how well he's doing for himself.

There was Bubba. Bubba was something of an anolmaly. He was HUGE. I mean it. As a sophomore in school, he stood an intimidating 6'8" tall. However, he was sneaky and quiet. There wasn't much of a chance of sneaking up on him, and somehow he'd get the drop on you if you thought he wasn't looking. He usually found a way to be on NJ's team, but on the off chance he wasn't your team wouldn't lose as badly as it could have.

There was Loafie. So named for his bathroom prowess. This guy was usually placed in an out-of-the-way place so that when his gastular explosions took place, there wouldn't be as many affected home team players. Other teams would be in for a shock, but we'd know where he was, and would steer clear of the area. We also liked to call him "Biohazard".

Deuce. Yup. Deuce. He was the second of a set of twins. His brother didn't like to play, so he'd come along just to see about shooting a few folks, and get his aggression out. Not the best player, but good enough to give a couple of folks some serious pause.

And then yours truly. I was decent, but I preferred to snipe at folks instead of going out and trying to make them find me. I'd usually get killed off by NJ, but only after he'd taken down the rest of my team. On most days, he and I would be the last two standing, unless Bubba had a good day, and then it would be 2-1 against me.

Anyway, we'd usually split into teams by drawing numbers. Then we'd pass out the ammo and reloads, let one team take off for 10-15 minutes, and then head out. We'd play wherever we could find woods. Being in the Pacific Northwest, that meant someone's backyard. Usually Bubba's or NJ's.

The time I'm going to relate is when we actually went out of state, and found an out-of-the-way spot. It was just outside of an Air Force training area, and we were given the "green light" to play to our heart's content up there.

We climbed into B-Dawg's suburban, and took off for a weekend of fun and mayhem.

Little did we know how much competition would be out there.

For those of you who DON'T know about paintball, there are folks who are experts, and those that play for fun.

We played for fun.

Because of this, a couple of us had pneumatic guns, but the majority had these little pistols that would compress air when you "cocked" the gun, and were loaded with tubes of paintballs.

Now, the "real" folks who played had the CO2 cartridge guns, with hoppers FILLED with paintballs. No hand-fed loading, no mess, just serious firepower.

Well, we got to our destination, and were having a serious blast. Folks were shooting and getting shot, bases were captured, and fun was had all around.

Then something happened.

Another group showed up.

With 8 guys.

Apparently this was the place they came to regularly to practice. They were two squads of 4 men teams who would play in local tournaments and such for cash.

Yeah. They were serious players.

And we stupidly challenged them to a round.

I have never been bruised as badly as I was that day.

Arms, legs, chest (even with the padding) my head and ears were even bruised.

Sure, a face shield pretects you from getting stuff in your eyes and mouth, but it doesn't do much for your ears or back of the head or neck!

Fingers and hands were a favorite target as well.

Well, after two rounds of getting just beaten down by these guys, our group came together, and made a decision.

We were going to play NASTY.

These guys were actually getting pleasure out of inflicting pain on us, so it was time to return the favor.

Bubba and NJ made up one small squad.

I was teamed up with B-Dawg.

Pops and Loafie made up another group, and Egg and Deuce made up the last squad.

The idea was to lure these guys into chasing one of the group, and have the other just destroy them. By destroy, we're talking pumping them FULL of paintballs.

Usually, on a kill, you use one shot, and if it hits, they're down.

We were going to show no quarter, and keep firing until we were happy with the painting result.

Each team had one person with a airgun, and one with the "play" handgun.

Handgun folks were the bait.

I had a handgun.

I wasn't happy about the deal, but I went along with it because I wanted revenge, even if it was played through someone else's trigger.

So we started.

I slithered through the wood and brush, listening for any kind of action.

Suddenly, I heard breaking branches, and I stopped. There, just 15 feet away from me were two guys from the "other" side.

They hadn't seen me, because they were actually tailing one of my other groups.

I waved to B-dawg, and we moved quietly to flank them.

I didn't know what kind of impact I'd be able to make with my "toy" gun, but I was determined to at least make one of them feel this big when I got through with them.

B-dawg got in a good spot, and nodded for me to move.

Getting ready, I aimed, and shot the nearest fella right in the groin. Yeah. The nuts. The family jewels. You come up with an analogy, that's where I hit him.

I've never heard a squeal quite like his before, and I'm not sure I'll ever forget it. Falling over, his partner kept his eyes on him, wondering what had happened.

That's when B-dawg took his shot.

Yeah. The butt. Poop chute. Hershey highway. Et all.

It was mean, it was underhanded, and totally unfair.

But we were enjoying the revenge rush.

We found Egg and Deuce, who were the pair being chased, and got our bearings. NJ and Bubba were nowhere to be seen, but we could hear some serious shots going on just past us. We decided to stay in small groups, and see about flanking the action.

We came onto a scene that would've made me laugh if I'd been of a mindset to chuckle.

Pops and Loafie were pinned next to a fallen gargantuan tree, and were trying to find a way to get a shot off. However, the two guys on them had them flanked, and weren't going for the kill shot, they were trying to see who could wind up with the head-shot on them. I know, I heard them talking about it from 10 feet away.

I was livid.

That was my brother.

That was my friend out there, and they were getting picked on.

I took aim, and put a paintball in the nearest one's ear. Deuce started in on the guy on the opposite side. We then stood and pounded paint on these two until we were tired of holding our guns up.

Neon green, Orange, Yellow, Blue and Pink covered the ground, and I'm sure there were two very hurt guys under it all, but from the way they'd treated us, I didn't care. I wanted the rest of the group.

Suddenly, like a ghost, NJ and Bubba were next to us, and telling us where the other two groups were.

Pops, Loafie and Deuce went with NJ, and B-Dawg Egg and I followed Bubba.

We found our group keeping an eye out for a small path that our group had been using. We waited, and soon enough heard the screams from close by as the other group got the drop on the amushers that were left.

The two in front of us decided to move.. Right into our path.

We waited until someone spotted Bubba's shoe.

Then we opened fire.



That day wasn't the most proud day I've had, but it taught me a lesson that I've taken with me.

Never underestimate an untrained person. They might just surprise you.

See you all tomorrow!

Another trip down memory lane...

Ok, time to reminisce a bit..

Back when I was in High School, my dad told me that if I wanted something, I was going to have to EARN it.

This meant that I was going to need a JOB.

Now, since Junior High, I'd been going out each summer to get extra spending cash. Picking strawberries, picking beans, and picking blueberries.

Usually, by the end of the summer I'd have about 1,000 or more, depending on the crops and my willingness to enslave myself.

Then, I'd fly out to Minnesota for a couple of weeks to my uncle's farm, take care of his stuff, and come home with another $700.

So, by the time school would start, I'd have about $1700 for clothes, books, and tuition. (Books and tuition for college, because I was taking college courses at the same time that I was going to High School!)

Well, things weren't working out so well in the "I need a car!" department, so I got my high school counselor to give me a "emancipation" document that my parents could sign so that I could get a part-time job to work at along with my schooling.

My dad agreed, and signed this.

My first employer? McDonald's.

Yes, I worked the greasy fast-food job for four years while plugging away at schoolwork.

Now, I didn't mind the work. My problem was the definition of part-time.

My school schedule went something like this:

6am. Get up, shower, eat some breakfast, get to school.

6:30 am-2pm High school and related classes.

3pm-5pm College courses.

5:30pm-10pm Work at McDonald's.

10:30-?? Home for homework, then eat a little something, and hit the sack. Usually about midnight.

Now, this wasn't really a problem, since I pulled a 4.0 GPA while in High School, and I also earned a 3.8 with my college courses.

The problem was when I'd get called for extra shifts while I was IN school!

My answering machine would usually be chock-full of messages asking if I could come in for some extra time. Or if I could cover this or that shift.

Did they not know that I was in school? Or did they just not care?

I don't know, but I do tell you that it was the reason that I quit, eventually.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I would be working the night of my High School graduation.

I calmly looked the manager in the face, tossed my hat and apron in their face, and said "F-you. I'm going to graduate."

I still don't think they'd rehire me if I was desperate for a job...

Anyway, thanks to that job, I was able to get my first beater of a car.

My cherished 1971 Volkswagon Super Beetle.

I paid all of $300 for it, and it abused the HELL out of it. (refer to a previous post about it, and you can see just how hard I was on it!)http://jormengrund-yetanotherdayinparadise.blogspot.com/2008/09/teen-escapades.html

Anyway, this was just one of the small joys I was able to get in touch with because of the added financial freedom!

Another?

I moved out when I was 15.

I was able to get in with a friend of mine, and we lived in a two bedroom apartment just across the way from my school. I paid half the rent, and half of utilities.

This would only cost me $250 a month, which wasn't bad!

So then I tried my hand at something else..

I decided to start saving for buying my own home.

Now, I don't know many teens who think this far ahead, but it gave me brain cramps when I'd decide how much of each paycheck I was going to put into my nest egg account at my bank.

I mean, I had gas to pay for, insurance, food, rent, and utilities. Plus, if I wanted to go play at some point during the weekend, I had to foot that bill as well.

I learned how to budget FAST. Plus, it seemed to work for me.

Thus, with some hard work, some dedication, and a little luck, I was able to put aside a nice big chunk of change when I graduated.

Add to that all the bonus cash I got for being in the service, and I was sitting pretty when I decided to buy a home!

But that's for another day..

Do you recall your first job?

Was it as glorious as mine?

Sensitivity Training..

Back when I was in the service, there was this small issue that happened that forever changed the way I feel about dealing with anyone else.

Operation Tailhook.

If you don't recall, a LARGE group of senior officers from the Naval Corps were at a convention, and took some serious "liberties" with the aides and staffers that were with them.

This led to quite a few court-martials, and some serious policy changes in the entire Navy establishment.

One of these directly affected me.

It was called "Sensitivity Training", and we were given the unique opportunity to sit in a small classroom for 5 days, and listen to an instructor tell us how we were supposed to react with everyone else we came into contact with.. Both male and female.

Now, I personally felt a bit insulted that I was lumped together with these strangers that I'd never met, but I did get my eyes opened a couple of times. (mostly because I tended to nap during the instructor's lectures!)

One of the most memorable times? During Non-Verbal Communication.

I was asked to give an example of something I'd seen that would demonstrate non-verbal communication. Being the smartass I am, I came up with this scenario.

"I recall one day where we were just coming back into port from a mission, and while up on the gangtower, we noticed *insert name here*'s girlfriend storming down the dock. Now, everyone knew that he'd been screwing around on the side, and everyone who saw her face just knew that he was going to be getting in some hot water once the boat was docked!"

As I related this, there was an Ensign sitting across from me. Female. Attractive. And agitated.

As my story kept going on, she kept leaning closer and closer to the edge of her seat. Once the story was done, she pointed at me, and blurted "I don't believe this! That's SO stereotypical!"

I nodded, and then said. "Maybe you're right, but watching you get ready to leap out of your seat while I was telling the story is another good example of non-verbal communication, wouldn't you say?"

After that incident, I was asked to not give my opinions anymore in the class, and I'd be given a "pass" grade.

Sometimes, being an asshole is worth it, you know?

This one time, on the East Coast..

Time for some recollection!

I used to be in the Navy, and I LOVED every minute of it.

I mean, where else were you overpaid to do a job even a trained monkey could do, and get free room and board for it as well??

I made HUGE bank (I still have a hefty savings account that I keep for emergencies!), I got TONS of exercise, and was my most physically fit while in the service, and I was kept current with all my medical and dental work while there.

Granted, some stuff was more interesting than others. I know that Boot Camp stories abound. The tear gas training, the marching endlessly, the incessant drilling, the mean COs, and all that.

This is about my schooling afterwards, before I got assigned my first true duty station.

I was assigned to subs, and not only submarines, but I was also designated a "Nuke" because of my ASFAB scores.

This meant some serious school, and some serious cash!

My first school? Orlando.

Now, Basic Training was done in Great Lakes, and it was DAMN cold when I went.

Not only that, but the only females I got to see the entire time I was in Boot were the two nurses, and one food server in the mess hall. Everyone else was MALE.

Imagine how surprised I was to show up for my schooling in Orlando, and find out that not only were there women there, but my entire class was co-ed?

HEAVEN.

Sure, it was a distraction, but it was heavenly!

Sadly, the classes only lasted three weeks, and then we were shipped off to Sub school training.

Where else would this be located than in the gran location of..

Groton, Connecticut.

Where? You ask?

Groton. As I described it to my folks, "The armpit of America".

It stunk. It was dingy. There were WAY too many lifer folks here, and they didn't seem to care about who came and went, as long as it didn't affect their lifestyle.

Not only that, but it was directly across the bay from Manhatten, and at night you couldn't really get much sleep because of the lights coming off the island! It was like being so close to reality, but yet only glimpsing occasional flashes of sanity..

Anyway, the best part about the sub school was as follows:

One day, while we were learning about patching burst piping, we got a notice.

Apparently the SEAL team that nobody was supposed to know was stationed at our base was going to perform a "terrorist drill" where they were going to try to take over operations, and see how long it would take.

This then lead to a huge debate and betting pool. Most of us were undecided. I mean, there were plenty of objectives that you could take, the problem was deciding which ones to go for first.

There were the shipyards. The commisary, the officer's quarters, the enlisted quarters, and off-base housing.

Now, in my opinion, I thought that they'd take the shipyard first, then head over to the com, and take the naval offices there. Once done, they'd drop the officers, and then deal with noncoms and offbase housing.

I was so close, it really scared me.

However, I was WAY off base.

Here's how it went down.

First, they all smuggled into the base by posing as photographers and reporters.

One group (two guys) took down the entire officers quarters (300 men) with only 3 casualties in the entire exchange.

Another group was able to take out the noncoms by locking down the entire complex with a false alarm fire drill.

Another group took the naval offices and commisary just by capturing the SP (Shore Patrol) *aka naval police* and having them shut the entire area down.

And the last group took the shipyards by taking down the admiral in command, and getting the shutdown codes.

This all took exactly 13 minutes from when they got on base.

Now, this scared me, but I also realized something.

One, they knew the layout, knew the site, and knew operational proceedures.

Two, they had inside knowledge of guard rotations, and patrol areas.

Three, they were known faces, and familiar sights around the base.

Granted, if everyone had known what kind of operatives they were, I'm sure the strike would have taken longer.. maybe 20 minutes instead of 13!

But the best part about this whole exercise happened afterwards.

Because once a team achieves an objective, they party.

And I do mean PARTY!

Drinks flew fast and furious, and the dancing and cavorting went WILD.

Unfortunately, I had to stand guard duty early that morning on a cruiser that had come into the yard, so I begged out early that night.

I wasn't to be disappointed.

Some of the crew went out for their first night of play since getting back into base, and they fell into the SEAL party.

Now, standing guard on a ship means that you're armed, and you make sure all duty personnel ID themselves, and follow proper proceedure before getting on board a ship. This means showing ID, saluting the guard, saluting the flag, and boarding the ship.

One group of guys came back around 3am from tying one on with the team. There were four of them there, and they were so drunk, I was starting to get a bit of a contact buzz from just their breath.

The first one showed his ID, saluted me, then the flag, and boarded. The rest followed suit. The fun followed right afterwards.

The cruiser I was on had what is called a "breezeway" between the command decks. As you entered, there was an open space that went from one side to the other. On the opposite side of the ship was the gangway for the Captain's Sloop. This is the personal boat that the captain of the boat can use to go ashore at any given time. While at dock, the boat is removed, and the gangway sits empty.

Well, these fellas were a bit worse for wear, and proceeded to walk straight through the breezeay, and through the gangway, and down into the harbor water!

Now, we in the service call harbor water "sludge stew" because of all the different stuff you find floating in it.. Garbage, cigarette butts, dead fish, oil, diesel leakage, etc..

These boys got a FULL dose of it, and I couldn't leave my station to help.

So, I had to follow orders, and call the Master at Arms to come get them out.

Come to find out that not only are they drunk, but one was a bit high as well!

Anyway, it was fun to see some guys get stupid and drunk, and also fun to know that I'm not the only one who has a serious coordination problem when I've been out partying too much!

Anyway, hope you liked the story, and I'll tell more some other time!

look for me again tomorrow!