A Zweep Army tale -Like a Boss
GEN Jason McKinney was eating the last pickled toe that some ass kissing butter bar had given him. Sucking the flesh off tiny bones he realized he was figuratively in a pickle regarding work, specifically what to do about winter training. The problem was an Alaskan border town near the training grounds in Canada. White Horse Alaska was a blood bath and spin nightmare, full of screaming chum and pot-liners for the cooks, to say nothing of the bars. Booze and a smorgasbord weren’t a good combination for standing armies, living or dead.
Licking pickle juice from his fingers, McKinney shook his head and pressed the intercom.
“SPC get in here, I need to dictate the latest operation guidelines for winter training.”
McKinney waited but received only silence. “What is he up to?” the general muttered, irritated. He pictured SPC Bowie wearing a party hat and stringing intestines up for one of his festive gatherings he had with his troll dolls.
Smashing down the button, the general shouted, “SPC Bowie, FRONT AND CENTER!” …more silence.
McKinney took a deep breath to calm himself. His wife, Tab, had sent him off that morning with herbal tea and fortune cookie advice: “You need to be more Zen at work,” she had said. He doubted a cup of chamomile was going to fix anything. Had Confucius ever worked in his office he would have agreed a better solution would have involved running into work naked and screaming, brandishing a broadsword while redefining “hostile work environment,” or at the very least having a medic mainline coffee straight into his dormant circulatory system.
As McKinney opened the door, fully prepared to chew several new holes in the specialist’s gaunt posterior, he was greeted with an image that no multiple deaths could ever scrub from memory. SPC Bowie stood shaking his ass, to the audible sounds of Lonely Island’s “Like a Boss” through his headphones at a volume that closely simulated the decibel level of planes colliding with Circuit City.
Having decided scare tactics were in order, he slowly pulled out his gun and raised it to the back of Bowie’s head. It was unloaded but it would shock the specialist into paying attention long enough to get back to work.
“Specialist, ATTENTION!” he barked.
SPC Bowie spun around in horror sputtering, “Graaaagh!” Wide eyed he gaped at the gun, licking spittle off his lips, he quickly stood at attention he rambling automatically, “GEN, Sir! Sorry Sir! What can I do for you, Sir? I have those papers for you to sign, Sir!”
Despite that he seemed a bit soft in the brain pan; SPC Bowie had a knack for organization, to the level of a savant. Time after time the specialist had proved his worth as his assistant. The general knew he was lucky to have him. But this had to stop, no ass shaking should ever be happening, especially in the General of Army’s outer offices, even if it was to Lonely Island.
—stayed tune for more Double Tap