After the revolution, the transitional government sent some of their wounded fighters to an American hospital for treatment and rehabilitation.
While the patients healed up, the hospital offered television and newspapers from their homeland, and the kitchen prepares meals of pita bread and olives instead of the usual bland fare with lime Jell-O the other patients get.
Even though they had an interpreter, yellow sticky notes were placed on various items to help the patients learn some basic English words.
As a prank, some notes were switched.
The nurse listened, nodded and smiled. “I guess television is a toilet everywhere.”
Tag: war
Pitchman
The drill sergeant shouted that he wanted the floors so clean, he could eat off of them.
So, we invented a brush and solvent that cleaned the floors perfectly.
We came back two weeks later to clean the floors… and were promptly arrested by MPs.
We were charged with going AWOL.
“But we did what the sergeant told us to do,” I said. “R&D ain’t instant. Heck, that stuff can clean just about anything.”
We were dishonorably discharged from the Army, but made a fortune with the brushes and solvent.
Heck, the sergeant is our pitchman in the informercials now.
The Lists
When it comes to paperwork, we have things down to a science here at the prison.
(We certainly get enough practice at it these days. Stupid food riots and rebellion!)
Every morning, the king sends down a list of executions.
Then, in the evening, he sends down a list of pardons.
However, after releasing a bunch of people last night, we got an identical list of names this morning.
“Wasn’t that the list from last night?” I asked.
The messenger checks.
“Uh oh,” he says. “I’d better fix this.”
He adds my name.
“We’ll just say it was your fault!”
Veterans
Ah, Veteran’s Day.
It’s important to remember and thank the people who have served.
Although, to tell you the truth, I don’t get Veteran’s Day off like I get Memorial Day off, so please forgive me if I’m not as thankful to you as your brothers-in-arms who gave their lives.
Yes, I’m still thankful, but… well… you know, right?
And as much as it bothers me to have my morning commute messed up by these parades, I’ll still wave the flag and salute you guys, and I won’t bitch about getting written up for being late.
Thank you, troops. Really.
Interrogation
We bind his ankles and wrists with wire, put him in the chair, and shove a burlap sack over his head.
The manual then said: “When he wakes up, yank the hood off of his head.”
Fred read that wrong, and the moment the guy woke up, Fred yanked off his head.
What a mess.
At least the head was in a sack, but the rest just bled everywhere.
Afterwards, we wrote the author, suggesting that a tarp be put down under the chair, or at the very least some large rags or towels you don’t plan on using again.
War No More
In Micah and Isaiah, spears are bent into pruning-hooks and swords into plowshares, but in Joel they are bent back.
I guess they didn’t have enough metal to maintain a reasonable inventory of both.
These days, we’ve got lots of metal, but it’s always good to recycle.
Plus, who really needs plow-shares or pruning-hooks these days? Instead of bending swords and spears into them, you can make good money selling weaponry to some Renaissance festival role-player.
Sure, you might need to dull the edges a bit or encase them in a hard resin for safety, but that’s easier than bending.
The Road
The soldiers gather up the women and children from the village, tie them together, and drive them out into the road.
Every so often, you hear an explosion and screaming.
Then crying… and shouting from the soldiers, gunfire in the air to get them walking the road again.
The commander’s translator shouts: “If there are any mines left in the road when we move the convoy through here, we will burn the village down and kill everyone.”
Thirty minutes goes by without an explosion, and the commander gives the all-clear signal.
More gunfire, the villagers are slaughtered.
Dirt. Stones. Blood.
Easier Said Than Done
Amir was well known for speaking his mind, and his friends placed bets on when he’d lose his tongue.
It was soon after getting caught stealing. The things he shouted as his hands were cut off were so profane, the priests insisted his tongue be removed at once.
Unable to speak or write, Amir found himself on Beggar’s Row, holding out a bowl with his wrist-stumps at passers-by.
A passing soldier tossed a few coins at Amir, missing the bowl.
“Some things are more easily said than done,” he grinned, watching Amir try to pick the coins from the dirt.
The Real Torture
We told the Red Cross that the prisoner had died and the corpse was quarantined due to a virulent disease needing containment and decontamination.
We told the prisoner that the world thought he was dead, and we could do anything we wanted to do to him.
And we did.
It’s been nine years, but he’s still alive, still providing information.
Sure, it’s utter crap and totally worthless, but it’s highly imaginative and very interesting.
We hand the transcripts to the television producers, they punch it up, and get it filmed in a week.
And that’s how the Kardashians became famous.
The Revolution
People are talking about a revolution with this Occupy Wall Street thing, but I’m not so sure about it.
I’m busy watching television, surfing porn, and eating Big Macs. The most I’ll do is Retweet or Like or Plus One the revolution.
The first man up against the wall when the revolution comes will be Banksy, because he’ll be tagging it with something insightful and cool and clever as the crowd starts lining up the crooked bankers and dirty lawyers and inside traders and economic traitors.
The problem with being famously anonymous is that you can’t prove who you are.