The Joys [sic] of Aging
25 April 2023 • by Bob • Humor
I often tell people that I could have cut an arm off in my childhood and a new one would have grown back without so much as a scratch.
These days I cut myself shaving and think, "Wow - that's gonna leave a mark..."
More 511th Stories: Frustration and Flame Throwers Do Not Mix
20 April 2023 • by Bob • Military, Humor
A couple years ago I wrote about my memories of border duty on a cold winter's day, and earlier today I was thinking about a story that was related to those experiences. During my first trips to the former East German border during the winter months of the late 1980s, I'd drive my wife's and my vehicle on post when I got an alert call at zero-dark-thirty, and our car would remain in the parking lot at the 511th MI Company until I returned to garrison. However, being stranded in a tiny German village without a vehicle was less than ideal for a mother with two small children, so for a while my wife and I would wake up our daughters and pack them into the car, then the four of us would drive to the 511th, whereupon I would head off to the border while my wife drove home and put the girls back to bed.
This type of early hours lifestyle was hard on my wife and the kids, so as time progressed, my spouse and some of the other wives from either our church or the 511th worked out a plan to shuttle any stranded spouses on post to pick up their abandoned vehicles. When husbands returned to garrison, they'd call their wives to pick them up, and the couples/families would head home together.
I remember getting a "Lariat Advance" call on a dark, winter morning, and my wife rose to start her day as I was about to walk out the door. I said that I'd drive to post like we'd been doing in previous deployments, and my wife said that she'd arrange with someone to pick up our car in a day or two. I was on the border for a couple weeks, and when I returned to the 511th, I called my spouse to come fetch me. However, she said that the roads had been covered in snow for the duration of my absence and she'd never been able to pick up the car, so it was somewhere in the 511th MI CO's parking lot.
Of course, I was the one who had parked the car, so you'd think that I'd remember where I left it, but I didn't, and every car in the parking lot was buried under six to twelve inches of snow. After a half hour of searching, I finally located our vehicle, but then I was greeted by another rude discovery: the snow had melted at some point, and the resultant water had frozen into an inch of ice that was hiding underneath the snow. This meant that the car's windows and doors - and more importantly the locks - were frozen solid.
By this time it was evening, and darkness had already descended on the 511th. What I probably should have done was ask someone if I could crash in an empty bed in the barracks for the night, but I was tired from two weeks in the field, and I was cold, and I was hungry. All I wanted from life at that moment was a warm shower, a hot meal, and to sleep in my own bed. The only obstacle that was preventing me from achieving those reasonable requests was a frozen car door lock, which I was determined to fix.
I headed into the barracks and explained my predicament to a couple friends, and together we hatched a few schemes to try and rectify my situation. At first we chiseled the ice away from the lock, only to discover that ice had fully penetrated the lock's gears, so at the most basic level I couldn't put a key into the lock. I headed back to the barracks and grabbed a mop bucket from a maintenance closet, which I filled with hot water from someone's room in the barracks, then I hauled the bucket out to the parking lot and poured the hot water down the door. This didn't work, but I repeated the action several times hoping that each successive attempt would free up the gears a little more, but the lock refused to yield.
I should explain that the longer I stood in the cold trying to open the stupid car door, I grew angrier at my spouse for not having followed our plan to pick up the car sooner. However, if she had followed through, our car probably would have been sitting in our driveway with an inch of ice and six to twelve inches of snow piled on top of it, and my wife would have had to explain why there was no way for her to come get me.
I remembered a technique that I used to use when I was a teenager to kill spiders: you can use a can of Lysol spray and a lighter to create a low-tech flame thrower. I headed back to the maintenance closet in the barracks and grabbed a can of Lysol, then I borrowed a friend's lighter and headed outside to try out my latest scheme. As expected, the combination of Lysol and lighter made a perfect flame thrower, and I aimed the resultant flames at the frozen lock on the driver's-side door with the intention of finally melting away the ice. This didn't work, so I circled around to the passenger-side door and repeated my approach.
However, much to my horror, something entirely unexpected happened: the tiny plastic washer that was nestled between the lock and the car door caught fire; to be honest, I'd never noticed that plastic washer before. Adding insult to injury, even though I had immediately ceased my flame thrower activity, the fire from the burning plastic washer had already traveled inside the door, whereupon it quickly melted every bit of plastic that held the door handle in place, and the handle fell to the snow-covered ground with a discouraging and disgusting "clunk."
I stood motionless for a moment, then I'm sure that I uttered something profane as I realized what I had just done. To put things in perspective, the time was fast approaching 10pm, and I was still cold, tired, and hungry. My car was still encased in a cocoon of ice and snow - and I had just destroyed one of the two car door locks that were necessary for opening the vehicle. Once again, what I should have done was find somewhere to sleep in the barracks for the night, but I was determined to open the remaining
My actions eventually achieved the desired effect, and I was finally able to open the driver's-side door. However, I had to let the car sit and idle with the heater and defogger running at full blast for several minutes in order to melt away enough ice and snow for me to see well enough to make the long drive home to our tiny German village. I was still unjustly irritated with my spouse upon my arrival at our apartment, but after a warm shower and a hot meal and a night in my own bed, I realized that my wife would have been just as stranded as I had been the night before, but with less options to rectify the situation.
That being said, she probably wouldn't have caught one of our car's door handles on fire, either.
Communication Is One Thing
12 August 2022 • by Bob • Ponderings, Humor
Someone I know recently shared the following image on Social Media, and I think I understand the gist of what the writer was trying to say:
"Communication is one thing
but your tone while communicating
With someone is everything ."
The general thought that is being expressed is fine, I guess - but... holy cow! What's up with the grammar? Let's see, the "W" in "With" on the third line is capitalized, but not the "b" in "But" on the second line, which makes it seem like an entirely different thought. And where's the comma after the first line? And why is there a visible space before the period? Who wrote this? 1,000,000 monkeys with typewriters? 
With that in mind, perhaps what this statement could have said was:
"Communication is one thing,
but your tone while communicating
with someone is everything."
Of course, the redundancy for "communication" on the first and second lines is kind of amateurish; perhaps another word would have been better in either the first or second line? But then again, I believe the thought that the writer was trying to express is that "tone" is part of "communication," so it makes no sense to begin the with the word "communication" since it can't be both "part" and "everything" at the same time, though we can infer by context that the writer meant "speaking" when he or she wrote "communication" in the first line. In a like manner, "tone" isn't "everything" because "speaking" is still part of "communication." In other words, "communication" is "everything," of which "tone" and "speaking" are both parts.
Taking all of that into account, perhaps this statement would have been better?
"The spoken word is one thing,
but the tone of your voice when speaking to someone
often says more than your words."
Hmm... have I overthought this enough yet? 
The Story of the "Cones Of Death" Poster
11 July 2022 • by Bob • Military, Humor
At some point during my third year while stationed in Fulda, the 511th Military Intelligence Company received a new mechanic who was transferring from another unit in Germany. His previous unit had also been an MI unit, and the personnel at that unit had nicknamed their Electronic Warfare (EW) personnel "coneheads." This juvenile moniker alluded to an old Saturday Night Live skit (and movie) about an awkward set of aliens attempting to assimilate into society prior to invading the earth.
Much to the chagrin of most of my peers, the coneheads nickname spread like wildfire throughout the motor pool, and soon that infamous label was the only term that the mechanics used to refer to the members of the EW platoons. Of course, this type of name-calling humor was on par with a student in the first grade, and therefore it was perfectly suited to the intelligence level for the average motor pool mechanic.
Nevertheless, a few of my fellow EW colleagues were demonstrably upset by this new epithet, and they complained incessantly until I gave them a better idea to think about. I pointed out that during the American Revolutionary War, the song "Yankee Doodle" was meant to be an insult. However, the colonial soldiers embraced the title, thereby turning an insult into a badge of honor. I suggested that we do the same and embrace the "coneheads" nickname, though I suggested that we implement our acceptance with a bit of vengeful twist.
I was a big fan of Gary Larson's Far Side comics, and I recalled that one of Larson's cartoons featured two neanderthal mechanics fixing a wheel in pre-historic times. Once again, a neanderthal seemed to possess an intelligence that was on the same level as most of our mechanics, so the illustration seemed to fit our needs perfectly. What was even better, though, was that the primary caveman was named "Zog," which gave us the perfect retaliatory nickname for the motor pool jockeys.
I posted copies of the Far Side comic around the motor pool, and I kept spare copies on hand for when the mechanics tore them down. Nevertheless, the EW platoons henceforth only referred to the mechanics as "Zogs," which did not sit well with them. (Not that anyone in the EW platoons cared, of course.)
Thus was borne a friendly rivalry that existed for years, though both sides eventually embraced their disparaging titles. It is a never-ending source of amusement for me that the former mechanics from the 511th MI CO still refer to themselves as "Zogs," even though the former "Coneheads" eventually dropped their nickname.
However, the pièce de résistance from this war of words is that the Blackhorse Museum in Fulda, which is dedicated to preserving the history of the 11th ACR in Germany, has a wall display from a stencil that we created during our season of rivalry. The poster contains the title "Cones O' Death," with a picture of a conehead skull prominently displayed.
Posing with the Cones Of Death logo in 2019
Some of my former colleagues have insisted that I created this poster, though I'm 99% certain that I know who actually created it. Nevertheless, it has been more than 30 years and I do not recall for certain whether this is my actual handiwork, but this is the sort of thing that I would have done at the time, and it is an indisputable fact that the driving force behind the adoption of "coneheads" as our unofficial badge of honor was me.
UPDATE: This post is one of several that I had written that I later discovered had never been set to "public."
The Fastest Manmade Object
16 June 2022 • by Bob • Humor
I just read the following article: The Fastest Speed Ever Reached by a Manmade Object?, and I have to disagree with their assessment.
The fastest speed ever reached by a manmade object was the back of my mom's hand, which broke the sound barrier several times over while spinning around from the front seat of a 1965 Plymouth Barracuda when I tried backtalking from the rear seat...
I Wonder If History Was Like This
02 June 2022 • by Bob • Humor, History
I love studying history, and I must admit that the majority of books I typically read are on that subject. That said, I recently stumbled across the following video from Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie, which an amusing look at the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia. Even though I know this video is meant humorously, there are times when I wonder how historically accurate events like this might have been.
Prog Rock Sentiments on Saint Patrick's Day
17 March 2022 • by Bob • Humor
In honor of St. Patrick's Day and my favorite prog rock band, this is the
In keeping with that theme, here are some possible lyrics that go along with that
An ancient cleric
Humble stride
Today's Saint Patrick
Humble pride
No his snakes are not for rent
Neither viper nor serpent
And I'm glad they finally went
For they all would not repent
Saint Patrick!
My Humble Request to Amend the English Language
14 March 2022 • by Bob • Humor
I have realized a serious shortcoming within the English language: we have no word to describe someone who speaks sarcasm fluently, which I believe is a serious lapse in linguistic breadth.
In the current iteration of the English language, we have an adverb to say that something was said "sarcastically," or an adjective to describe a particular turn of phrase as being "sarcastic," or a noun to denote "sarcasm" itself as a form of bitter irony, but we have no way to properly identify the person who employs sarcasm to communicate.
On the contrary, someone who is speaking "satirically" is labeled a "satirist," though that word does not adequately describe someone who is speaking sarcastically.
Therefore, I propose that the word "sarcastinator" be added to the English language. I think this simple linguistic addition will do well to recognize the talents of those who are proficient in the fine art of sarcasm, and begin to reconcile the years of oversight and neglect that sarcastinators have endured within conversational circles.
To that end, I welcome your participation in promoting "sarcastinator" to the English speaking nations of the world, because I care about your participation.
Really.
If only you could hear the sincerity with which I am asking for your support.
Excuse My French
18 December 2021 • by Bob • Humor, Military, Linguistics
As a military brat, the scenario depicted in the following image could easily have played itself out in our household when I was growing up. 
Although I must admit, in the years since my exit from the Army (where I had been serving as a military linguist), I have found the ability to utter colorful vocabulary in foreign languages extremely beneficial during times of crisis... though I am careful to choose a language that is not likely to be understood by the people around me.
My Halloween Zombie Story
01 November 2021 • by Bob • Humor
Here's a story from my distant past for your Halloween amusement...
Back in our High School days, my good friend James and I loved horror movies - the scarier or the gorier the better. On weekends, we loved to host horror movie marathons at James' house in the Tucson foothills, where it was nice and dark after hours, and his parents were cool enough to let the two of us invite over a bunch of friends to participate in our fright fests.
On one such occasion, several people were on their way as dusk was beginning to fall, and one of the people we were expecting was Carrie, who was a friend of ours from Drama class. Since zombies had been the theme of choice on multiple occasions, we hatched an evil plan to play a prank in that genre on Carrie. James and I had a few gallons of stage blood lying around, as one does, and I suggested that we rip up the front of one of James' shirts so it looked like it was torn open by a zombie, then cover his chest with cold cut meats that matched his skin color as best as possible, then drown everything in stage blood while James was lying in the middle of the street. We quickly set everything up in front of his house, then we waited for Carrie's car to turn down his street.
After a few minutes a car was headed our way, and I sat in the street next to James as I began to slowly rip pieces of flesh off James' chest and eat them, with copious amounts of stage blood dripping down my face. The car came to a halt next to our macabre spectacle, and when the occupants rolled down the window, I was surprised to discover that it wasn't Carrie - it was the parents who lived next door to James. They looked at me with a genuine amount of fear and asked, "Is he okay?," to which I replied with the first thing that popped into my head, "He's delicious."
James' neighbors quickly drove away, and by some miracle they didn't call the cops on us. Carrie arrived a few minutes later, and we repeated the whole scene for her benefit, with the expected results. I believe her words - or at least her thoughts - were along the lines of: "The two of you are not right in the head." (It's quite possible that she still holds that opinion of us.)
PS - I should mention that James' neighbors never asked him to babysit again.