Post by nirvash on Jan 7, 2010 18:15:04 GMT -5
So, I finally got a fucking break from hauling crying flyboys out of their trashed GMs, so I snuck off to one of the lounges or whatever the fuck they are we found after we shot up Zeek to take a smoke break. Sweet, sweet nicotine, you are a cruel mistress. Of course, some other assholes thought my secret hideaway would be a nice place to play hooky from Sarge too. Lazy jackasses.
Of course, my timing was excellent (as it always is, ladies, thank you very much), and I showed up in time to hear them talking about Browning fucking turtles again. Seriously. I mean, what is it with him and the fucking turtles? "Is he talking about the fucking turtles again?" I asked my nearest fellow.
"Yes! He's talking about fucking turtles!" "Hey, if I had to fuck an aquatic creature, it'd be a turtle. They're basically sea-vaginas!" "Do you even know what a turtle is?" "That sounds like some anemone shit, brah." "No way, guys, I looked this shit the fuck up. Turtles are for fucking." "You're a turtlefucker!" "He is! He's a dirty turtlefucker!" "Look, all I'm saying is that turtles give me a fucking stiffy." Everyone shut up.
"Look, don't touch, dude."
"Yeah, that's some turtle's kid, man."
I find that discussions involving what my buddies jerk off to whenever they get the itch usually end up going back to talking about the ladies, and as a gentlemen, as is so clearly the case, I made a dignified exit immediately to find somewhere else to light up a cig. Or three. You can never have too many. I cleverly surmised that should I find a less traveled corridor or room, no one would notice the cig-stink for weeks. At least until I was off the ship, and keeping my ass out of trouble is priority numero uno (by the way, I'm not sure where I picked this phrase up, it's probably some Latin shit or another mind-numbingly boring dead language they force down your throat in school).
By the time I made my way back to the corrodiors that got the most travel, I could hear Sarge going off on the guys in the fuckadiddle lounge room, or whatever it was (Zeeky builds some nice rooms on his ships).
Oh, the stupidity. Those idiots.
It was time to make b-line for the nearest door, and I was fucking motivated to make it to the hangar before he noticed me. But, you see, Sarge is like a hawk. No, maybe an eagle. Okay, I'm not too good with birds, but just imagine a bird with really good eyesight who also happens to be an asshole. That's Sarge in a nutshell.
I must've moved just a little too quickly and triggered his avian/saurian/militarian vision. Bam. He came down on me like a bag of dicks n' bricks.
"Magnum! Do you know why I'm in fucking charge? I am in fucking charge because my balls are the biggest! Are you challenging my balls? Are you placing your balls in fucking contest with mine?" "Sir, no sir!" "Then why the shitdicks are you acting like you've got some fucking brass bearings between your legs? I told you to get the fuck to work, so stop fucking the goddamn dog, and get the fuck to work, private! Fucking double-time it, Magnum!"
He tore ass out of that hallway, off to do whatever he does when he's not shouting at some newb recruits or shooting up Zeek, whatever that may be. Some guys think he just fucking disappears, like he's goddamn Schroedinger's Sergeant, or a space ghost or some shit, but I just think he sniffs out some booze and drinks himself silly. I guessed that meant it was time for me to go peel some more flattened flyboys out of their Mobile Suits-- which, I would like to inform you, all looked like bags of smashed asshole.
Tracer Magnum knows when to cut his losses and follow orders.
Of course, my timing was excellent (as it always is, ladies, thank you very much), and I showed up in time to hear them talking about Browning fucking turtles again. Seriously. I mean, what is it with him and the fucking turtles? "Is he talking about the fucking turtles again?" I asked my nearest fellow.
"Yes! He's talking about fucking turtles!" "Hey, if I had to fuck an aquatic creature, it'd be a turtle. They're basically sea-vaginas!" "Do you even know what a turtle is?" "That sounds like some anemone shit, brah." "No way, guys, I looked this shit the fuck up. Turtles are for fucking." "You're a turtlefucker!" "He is! He's a dirty turtlefucker!" "Look, all I'm saying is that turtles give me a fucking stiffy." Everyone shut up.
"Look, don't touch, dude."
"Yeah, that's some turtle's kid, man."
I find that discussions involving what my buddies jerk off to whenever they get the itch usually end up going back to talking about the ladies, and as a gentlemen, as is so clearly the case, I made a dignified exit immediately to find somewhere else to light up a cig. Or three. You can never have too many. I cleverly surmised that should I find a less traveled corridor or room, no one would notice the cig-stink for weeks. At least until I was off the ship, and keeping my ass out of trouble is priority numero uno (by the way, I'm not sure where I picked this phrase up, it's probably some Latin shit or another mind-numbingly boring dead language they force down your throat in school).
By the time I made my way back to the corrodiors that got the most travel, I could hear Sarge going off on the guys in the fuckadiddle lounge room, or whatever it was (Zeeky builds some nice rooms on his ships).
Oh, the stupidity. Those idiots.
It was time to make b-line for the nearest door, and I was fucking motivated to make it to the hangar before he noticed me. But, you see, Sarge is like a hawk. No, maybe an eagle. Okay, I'm not too good with birds, but just imagine a bird with really good eyesight who also happens to be an asshole. That's Sarge in a nutshell.
I must've moved just a little too quickly and triggered his avian/saurian/militarian vision. Bam. He came down on me like a bag of dicks n' bricks.
"Magnum! Do you know why I'm in fucking charge? I am in fucking charge because my balls are the biggest! Are you challenging my balls? Are you placing your balls in fucking contest with mine?" "Sir, no sir!" "Then why the shitdicks are you acting like you've got some fucking brass bearings between your legs? I told you to get the fuck to work, so stop fucking the goddamn dog, and get the fuck to work, private! Fucking double-time it, Magnum!"
He tore ass out of that hallway, off to do whatever he does when he's not shouting at some newb recruits or shooting up Zeek, whatever that may be. Some guys think he just fucking disappears, like he's goddamn Schroedinger's Sergeant, or a space ghost or some shit, but I just think he sniffs out some booze and drinks himself silly. I guessed that meant it was time for me to go peel some more flattened flyboys out of their Mobile Suits-- which, I would like to inform you, all looked like bags of smashed asshole.
Tracer Magnum knows when to cut his losses and follow orders.