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Ernie's House of Whoopass! September 24, 2014
September 24, 2014

Well, You're Safe And Sound Now, Back In Good Old 1955.

SET WAYBACK MACHINE TO 1995: With three stripes on my sleeve, I was a Senior Airman and had stopped off to pick up my mail (373 Grenier Street, Box #330, thank you very much) before heading back to the dorms to knock back a few beers and relax for the evening. The exit from the post office led to a fork in the sidewalk, the left side heading to some parking spaces right in front of the one-story building, the right fork heading back towards the four dorms. I had barely made the split when I heard a male voice call out from behind me, "Airman." I had my nose buried in my mail and didn't think to look up; most of the people at the dorms knew me so I would have turned around for a, "Hey Ernie," or an, "Airman Stewart," or even, "hey asshole." But a plain jane "Airman?" Nah. My subconscious reassured me that obviously that was meant for someone else. So when a second call came out, "Excuse me, Airman!" -- this time with a little more authority -- it caught my attention and I looked over my shoulder because I wanted to see who was ignoring this guy. And as I turned my eyes fell upon a buck Sergeant (now a defunct rank) wearing short sleeve blues, with one foot still inside the post office doors, and the second firmly planted on the sidewalk outside. Oddly enough, he was looking directly at me. I gave an instinctive glance back over my shoulder towards the direction I was originally walking, to see what he was looking at. There was no one. I remember being so very puzzled. I didn't know this guy, why the fuck was he calling out to me? Did I drop something? I looked around ay my feet expecting to see a white envelope sopping up one of the small puddles that survives the afternoon's sunshower. Still nothing. I looked back up and we made eye contact, "Me?" I questioned, thumbing a forefinger into my own chest. "Yes," he replied, "you're out of uniform."

"Oh shit," I thought, and gave myself a quick once over. Cover level and centered? Check. Boots shined? A little scuffed from the day's wear and tear, but otherwise check. BDU pants bloused? Check. Both sleeves rolled down and equal? Check. All buttons fastened with no corners popping up? Check. Insignia and name tapes secure? Check. At this point I could not have been more puzzled than if you told me 2 + 2 = potato. I glanced back up with what I presume to be a very blank stare on my face, "Sir?" "Your backpach," he replied, "iut's over your right shoulder." Indeed I had the backpack that I was using to attend classes at UMASS and I was wearing it halfway, with just my right shoulder slung through the strap. I looked down at the strap that was nestled in my right hand and still, I stared at him in dismay. "if you're going to wear your backpack, it needs to be over your left shoulder so that your right arm is free to render a salute."

Now the light bulb went on and I was immediately struck by just how fucking stupid that regulation is. Or at least how stupidly he was applying it here. I thought for the split'est of split seconds of trying to explain how I was a mere 100 foot walk from my dormitory, or that I had ample line of sight to see an officer approaching and would have more than enough time to shift my backpack to my other arm should I need to. I also remember getting a little testy since here's this asshole who is the same rank as me -- we're both E4's he's just been in a little longer -- telling me, The Most Powerful Airman in the Universe, that I'm out of uniform? "Fuck this guy," I thought! I just wanted to go drink some fucking beer and the longer he was talking to me the longer it was until I could get a sweet frosty Sam Adams.

But for whatever reason, my enormous ego just happened to be in check that day. So instead of voicing my opinions on why I thought this particular regulation didn't apply to me at this particular time, I did one of the smartest things I've ever done. I realized that buck Sergeant or not, splitting hairs or not, close to the dorm or not, ultimately the regs were on his side and he was right. I slung my right shoulder forward, sending the backpack whirling in a circular motion and in one fluid motion slung it back upwards onto my left shoulder. "You're absolutely right," I continued, "Thank you." And then for reasons I still don't quite understand, I snapped to attention and rendered this sergeant a picture perfect salute that would have made my Training Instructor Sergeant Donald Skaggs weep with joy. Now saluting an NCO isn't against the regulations and certainly not unheard of, but it is uncommon; usually reserved for such events as retirements or changes of command. But this guy didn't miss a beat; and after he pushed the door he was holding open a little further, sticking his left foot out to block it from swinging back, came to attention and returned my salute. He lowered, I lowered, he turned away and I turned back towards the dorm, mumbling under my breath the whole fucking way.

Less than a year later, after I crossed the four year mark, I was sent to Airman Leadership School. Guess who one of the instructors was. Yep, Sergeant Backpack.

With that little story in mind, I'm sure that by now you're well aware of Obama's Latte Salute and all of the uproar it's causing within the military community. To be fair, I don't think this was an intentional slight by the President -- remember he's the same guy who realized he didn't return a Marine's salute as he was boarding Marine One, and then went back out to apologize. I think the problem is the President doesn't grasp how important a hand salute is to the military community. I think the only people not offended by this, are those who have never put on a uniform. And while I'd love to say the standing President is joining this long list of people who have been fired over their tweets, but I know that's just wishful thinking.

Ernie, I found the location of the roadwork, it's North Sycamore Ave and Santa Monica Blvd. Rick

Well someone listened to me bitch because THIS IS THE GREATEST FUCKING EVER. EVAR. Someone has -- or at least is in the process of -- porting the original Doom and Doom II over to the Doom3 engine. That means you can play all the original Doom levels, complete with maps and monsters, but with the improved Doom3 graphics and physics. It is the greatest fucking thing ever and is infinitely better than when some dickhead tried the reverse, porting Doom3 back to the Doom engine. That was a fucking abortion.

All of our memories of the distant past caught on camera are black and white. Although early experiments of color photography were attempted even since the 1840s, taking this sort of photos only became a common thing in the sixth decade of the 20th century. So then we relish the opportunity to see personalities of past times in new colors with the help of a process known as “colorization”.

I recently was in Canada on vacation and I saw a boat with this math equation on the side. I sure as hell don't know what it is. I was told the name and I will share it with you if no one gets it, but It would be interesting to see if one of your readers can interpret it. Thanks... Edward

Windex is a glass and hard-surface cleaner manufactured since 1933. S. C. Johnson acquired Windex in 1993 and has been manufacturing it since. The original Windex was colored a light, transparent shade of blue, but varieties are marketed today in a variety of colors and fragrances, and with a variety of additives such as vinegar, lemon, lime, or orange juice. The popularity of Windex in the U.S. led to the generic use of the trademark for similar product, including those marketed under different brands Window Cleaner.

On Sunday, fans filing into Rome's Stadio Olimpico to watch Roma take on Cagliari found a bunch of very attractive female stewards -- wearing sleek black dresses and scarves reminiscent of flight attendants and generally looking very glamorous -- there to help them locate their seats. That's right, bitches. Rome has sexy soccer ushers.


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