RTFU

Where Are We?

By
Updated: January 16, 2007

 

whereareweBy

Jared, a Ranger Up Fan

So a week before our deployment we decided to get all the boys together for one last drunkfest away from the girlfriends and wives before going to Iraq. We gathered together in a dive bar and decided to throw down as much beer as we could in one evening without getting arrested, dumped, or divorced over it.

As the night progressed, things started to get interesting. The bar used to be a gas station so it was very small on the inside. The bathroom was right next to a 6 foot by 5 foot stage where a redneck band was trying their best to rock the house. My buddy Steve decided to go take a shit. After about 20 minutes I noticed people moving away from the bathroom. The tables near the bathroom suddenly were empty. Eventually the singer said over the microphone “God damn something in here stinks.” It was at this time that I realized that Steve hadn’t returned.

I braved the stench and went in to bathroom to find him, fearing the worst. When I entered the pisser in this classy establishment, I noticed that there wasn’t a door to the toilet, but a shower curtain that had two feet sticking out from underneath it. I called Steve’s name and heard him mumbling behind the curtain. Apparently he decided that passing out while shitting was perfectly acceptable. Remembering to never leave a fallen comrade, I forced Steve to wake up, wipe his ass, pull his pants up and get up. We emerged from the bathroom to grand applause and numerous taunts.

Steve, reveling in his newfound fame, managed to get us free drinks for the rest of the evening. As we continued to try and drain all the beer from this dive, we decided to get a cab. I have no idea why, who was in charge, or where we intended to go, but we got one. Forty-five minutes after our mullet-laden cabbie picked us up, Steve and I found ourselves stranded in a large field with a grain silo, no lights, a Mexican, and a guy with a bunch of guns. The Michigan militia wannabe pulled Steve aside to start shooting at cans. I tried making small talk with the Mexican, but quickly realized that he didn’t speak any English. Naturally, I tried to topple the language barrier by resorting to my two semesters of college Spanish to tell him that I thought his bathroom was large and colorful. He wasn’t amused.

Thankfully, Steve had enough control and cell phone coverage to call another cab and bring us back to the bar. As our newfound best friend drove us from the large and fear-inducing field he told us that some “crazy ass white folk” lived out there. After returning to the bar, which had closed, we decided to sleep the night off in the car and never drink there again…you know, until we got back from Iraq…

Copyright of Jared

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