Recently I received another spam email, this time from a Mr. Elvis Adekunle of Nigeria. Not sure if he is a friend of Mr. James Nunu, The Honorable James Brown, Esther Prakash, or Mariam Hennesey (Mrs.) but he’s a spammer just the same. I wonder if they sit around together in internet cafes coming up with this crap.
It’s always fun to reply to these people, which I really do, because you never know – one day it might be the real thing!
Here is the latest scam spam:
I am Mr Adekunle. a computer scientist working with central bank of Nigeria.I am 25 years old, just started work with C.B.N. I came across your file which was marked X and your released disk painted RED, I took time to study it and found out that you have paid VIRTUALLY all fees and but the fund was not released to you.
The most annoying thing is that they won’t tell you the truth that on no account will they ever release the fund to you,instead they allow you spend money unnecessarily,I do not intend to work here all the days of my life, I can release this fund to you if you can certify me of my security.
I needed to do this because you need to know the statues of your Funds and cause for the delay,Please this is like a Mafia setting in Nigeria, you may not understand it because you are not a Nigerian. The only thing needed to release this fund is the Anti drug/terrorist clearance certificate which will be tendered to any of your nominated bank and the INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE(IRS)for clearance of the transfered amount in your account.
Once the Anti drug /terrorist clearance certificate is obtained funds will immediately reflect in your bank within 10 Minutes,the certificate is all that is needed to complete this transaction.
Note that the actual funds is valued at $15.5 MILLION USD and the president made a compensation fund release for all unpaid beneficiary valued at $10 million usd.
Listed below are the mafia’s and banks behind the non release of your funds that i managed to sneak out for your kind persual.
1) Prof. Charles soludo
2) Chief Joseph Sanusi
3) Dr. R. Rasheed
4) Barrister Awele Ugorji
5) Mr Roland Ngwa
6) Barrister Ucheuzo Williams
7) Mr. Ernest Chukwudi Obi
8) Dr. Patrick Aziza
Deputy Governor – Policy / Board Member
9) Mr. Tunde Lemo
Deputy Governor – Financial Sector Surveillance / Board Member
10) Mrs. W. D. A. Mshelia
Deputy Governor – Corporate Services / Board Members
11) Mrs. Okonjo Iweala
12) Mrs. Rita Ekwesili
13) Barr Jacob Onyema
14) Dr. Godwin Oboh: Director Union Bank Of Nigeria.
15) Mr John Collins: Global Diplomat Director.
16) Foreign fund diplomatic courier
17) Barr. Becky Owens
18)Rev. Steven Jones
19) bank of Africa
20)Mrs. Debbie Hargrove
21)Mr. Micheal Wagner
22) ADB Bank Ouagadougou Burkinafaso
23) FSA UK
24) NATWEST BANK
25) ECO Bank
26) Credit Bank
Do get in touch with me immediately to conclude this final transaction immediately,and also send to me your convenient tel/fax numbers for easy communications.
Regards,
Mr Elvis Adekunle
Call : +234 70 394 66 934
And my reply:
Dear Mr. Presley,
I am Snickerdoodle F. Rumplemintz, Esq. Your email has come to my attention by appearing in my Spam Folder. I must first inform you that I do not appreciate your repeated use of the ‘N’ word in your spam message. I find this term to be extremely offensive. In case you hadn’t heard, ever since the election of President Barak Obama, racism is officially over. You may not understand this because you are not an American.
Your information is somewhat correct about my payment of fees associated with my ‘X-Marks-The Spot’ file and my REDRUM disk. I paid most of the fees to Mr. James Nunu, who no longer replies to my emails. I fear Mr. Noodle has been killed in an unfortunate ‘necklacing’ incident. However, since I lost the rented Blockbuster disc on my last trip to your bank to try and collect my money, I couldn’t return it to Blockbuster. The late fees have been piling up, which is why I have been avoiding Blockbuster like the plague. I’m afraid if I go in there without the REDRUM disc to return, they’ll try and ‘necklace’ me too. I’m happy you found the disc, Elvis!
You may be a computer scientist, but you’re obviously not a pro at the spam game. You are supposed to ask me for things I can give you; personal information and account numbers for example. How in the hell am I supposed to get you a Anti drug /terrorist clearance certificate? I don’t even know what that is. But if it helps you, my social security number is 789-0987-3876.
Finally, you say you don’t intend to work at the Mafia bank all your life, then you send me a list fingering the top Mafioso Bankers? Are you sure this is the wisest course of action? Those kind of people can be pretty grumpy sometimes. I sent everyone on your list a copy of your email, just to make sure we’re all on the same page. I’m sure they’ll be contacting you shortly about your sudden career change to the automobile tire industry.
Enough of this crap. Send me the $10 million, and my missing Blockbuster REDRUM movie. Hurry up. The late fees are growing. Take my word for it that you’ll be secure. If you need to get in touch with me again, hit me up on Facebook. You’re a computer scientist so I’m sure you know how that works.
PS: I’m a huge fan of Graceland!
Sincerely,
Snickerdoodle F. Rumplemintz
I hate flying. Making a living as a TV production whore, flying is an unavoidable; necessary evil that comes along with the job. There are those among us in the TV production brothel that take flying seriously – VERY seriously. For some, their whole sense of self-worth is defined by their tier of status in their favorite airline’s frequent flier program. Being top tier generally ensures their flabby asses get upgraded to first class, where they can hang out with like minded Bluetooth earpiece wearing zombies and assorted business related douchebags. Top tier status also ensures they can call the super-secret airline hotline 24/7 and whine to some poor bastard who by contract can’t hang up on this ‘valued‘ customer.
Full disclosure: I’ve been a member of Delta’s Ultra-Douche Platinum Preferred tier for about ten years now – though in the silent, I-never-call-the-hotline-and-bitch minority.
Personally, I stopped caring about upgrades about six years ago – perfectly timed with the WWE’s first Tribute to the Troops show. After being packed up and basically Fed-Exed halfway around the world like so many packages of dog food, I realized that even a middle seat on a commercial airline is an upgrade, and certainly not worth the effort it takes to bitch about.
My life became remarkably easier and more relaxed when I stopped caring about the perks of frequent flier status.
Of course, with a fifty-two week a year job taking place in two different cities per week, there’s usually no problem racking up the frequent flier miles, and thus racking up the status. And there are some times when having that status comes in handy. One year the WWE was in Oklahoma, and a huge ice storm hit. Most flights were grounded, but somehow US Airways slid a plane down the runway to rescue the poor, stranded Chairman’s Preferred passengers. Fifty of the fifty-six people on the plane were top tier, and the pilot confirmed the reason US Airways risked sending the plane was because of the unusually high amount of ‘Valued Customers’ (mostly WWE TV Whores) making up the flight. As they say, membership does have its benefits. I’m sure there are other benefits to being a ‘topper,’ but I can’t be bothered to find out.
But still, Ultra-Douche or not, I hate the whole process of flying. So, for a while I did something about that deep seated hatred. I took six weeks off from the drudgery this summer, and rode my trusty Yamaha FJR, Rain Cloud Follows to work.
This was probably the best six weeks of the year for me, at least commute-wise. But for every silver lining, there’s always a kick in the nuts. This month, I calculated that my little flying hiatus created a problem for my ultra-douche status. Without some creative routing on Delta through year’s end, I was going to end 2008 with about 97,000 frequent flier miles – 3000 miles short of the 100,000 mile Ultra-Douche threshold.
So, in booking the last month of 2008’s travel, I had to make a decision. Take the most direct flights and lose that top tier, don’t-worry-we’ll-send-a-plane-for-you-no-matter-what status, or take some less-direct Delta flights and earn the necessary 3000 miles. For the sake of ease next year, I chose the second option.
Yes, the lovely Deltalina had a lot to do with my decision.
Of course, being ignorant of most of the benefits of Delta Ultra-Douchidness, I was also unaware at some point Delta lowered the threshold to 75,000 miles, meaning I already qualified as a 2009 Ultra-Douche, sometime back in September! Fuck!
The bottom line is for the rest of the month I’ll be doing the very thing I hate most – taking a lot of unnecessary extra flights to pay for my ignorance. Ah well.
At least I’ll have Deltalina’s wagging finger to look forward to, proving that for every kick in the nuts, there is a silver lining.
You don’t need as much sleep as you think.
This, above all else, is a lesson that I have taken home from Iraq. Every year. I’d say that on average, the crew gets about ten hours of sleep in four days, give or take. I was racking up my dreamless hours when, suddenly, my sound sleep was shattered by the Adhan, the Muslim fard salah, or call to prayer. The helicopters flying overhead all night may have briefly made me stir; the sporadic sound of gunfire as patrols leaving Camp Victory test their 50 cal machine guns might have made me roll over; but when I heard the wailing call of the Adnan at 5 AM, I knew I was done sleeping for the night.
So, I did what any transient in Cyclone City would do when wide awake at 5 AM, I ponied up my credit card and signed on to the in suite WI-FI router. If I can’t sleep, I may as well rant.
It was a little weird to see the header in Arabic. I tried to sign on. And failed. Several times. I kept getting an error message – in Arabic. WOW, that’s helpful! I struggled for a while, until I figured out (by figured out, I mean made a wild guess) that Arabic reads from left to right. Entering my password first, then my username was the way to open the sesame to Blogger.com.
The Login Screen I’m Used To
Open Sesame
I wrote a silly little rant, added one picture, then waited thirty-seven minutes while the post and picture uploaded. The Internet may not be free, but at least it’s slow. While waiting, I carried out the second half of my Iraq mission, writing the first of two installments of my ‘crew blog’ for the WWE.com website. Before the trip began, I was asked if I’d write a blog about what it takes to set up an arena in the desert. I figured I’m going to blog about it here for the Faithful Fifteen to skim, why not write something on a website that people actually visit? The WWE wisely hid my blog from all but the most dedicated fans, including my brother Eric, Unleaded of The Great Nova Scotia Expedition and Air Force fame, and my Dad, who posted three of the five comments I received. To save time and trouble, here’s a link to that blog: WWE.com
Set day number two started much like set day one ended. Dark, with no electricity.
Good Moooorning, Baghdaaaad!
Overnight, the correct generators arrived, but of course, that wasn’t enough to solve the problem. No. That would be too easy. The thick cable needed to connect the generators was… frozen. That’s right. Frozen. In a desert. Frozen to the giant spool, and impossible to remove.
The electricians worked on defrosting the wire and hooking us up with some electrons all morning; taking frequent breaks for lunch, tea, and to rest from their long breaks. We worked on other things until there was nothing left to do but wait for juice.
Marty, the hardest working man in Iraq
Electricians, well rested from their break, wrestle the electric python into submission
The stage is hidden by camouflage
Kerwin, the director, shows JRob where he wants the sun for the show
Seems like electricity might soon be a reality
While waiting for the wattage to flow, I took a mini field trip, climbing the pigeon-shit crusted stairs to the top of the guard tower.
I wanted to see if my signature left from the 2006 Tribute to the Troops was still there.
It was. I improved on the original theme, and also claimed Iraq for the Kingdom of Rhode Island.
The electricians guarantee power ‘sometime after lunch.’ Then they promptly go to lunch. They neglect to specify which lunch the power will come after. Those electricians! Such a merry bunch of kidders!
For once, they weren’t kidding. After their mandated post-lunch, pre-break break ends, they flip a circuit breaker, we all hold our collective breath, and, rather than filling with smoke like we expected, miraculously, the tent fills with the wonderful sounds of whirring fans, electronic beeping and blinking lights. With half a set day to go, we’re in business!
Suddenly, there is a fairly loud explosion not too far away. The second lesson I’ve taken away from Iraq is – It’s Always Something. I flash back three years to the last time in Baghdad. We were waiting to go to lunch when a mortar attack hit the dining facility. Something about a rocket exploding a few hundred feet away really put me off my lunch that day. But this time, nobody’s running; nobody’s shouting “Get the fuck down!” In fact the soldiers working with us don’t even seem to have noticed. I walk outside to see what happened.
Well, whatever it was, it was pretty close. But if nobody else is going to worry about it, I won’t either. Back to work! Inside Supershooter Green, racks are set up, and the long, tedious job of patching everything together begins.
Turn that frown upside down!
Prof puts a round peg in a round hole
Abi puts a little box on a big box
Dave does whatever it is that Dave does
Cameraman Stu models his impressive headgear
Day turns into night, and setup chugs on. The lack of power means we are seriously behind on setting everything up, but behind is where we’re at our best. Problems are found, yelled at, bitched about, then fixed. Some problems take longer to fix than others. A few times I have to step out of the tent to regroup. The voices of exhaustion in my head are getting louder, and I’ve starting answering them. Out loud.
The set, surrounded by MRAPs (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles) HMMWVs (Hummers!) and other impressive looking military vehicles looks, well… impressive.
After suffering through another brief power outage, much briefer than the previous day-and-a-half long outage, I get as far as I am going to get for the day. I’d say that I’m about 80% ready for tomorrow’s show, which is close enough for comfort. Speaking of comfort, before leaving for the day, we pour some smuggled adult liquid comfort from a flask, and hoist a red plastic cup to the Best Set Day Ever.
Marty, Abi, Dave, Me, JRob and Prof raise a toast
While Marty, Prof and Dave stay behind attempt to break the Guinness World Record for sleeplessness, I escape to the solitude of the tent, and within minutes pass out cold. Seconds later, the Adhan wakes me – again. Somehow another five hours has past, and show day has arrived with a wailing chant. Wide awake, I ponder the hundreds of things I forgot to do, and say a little prayer that I’ll be able to fake my way through this show. Then, I take out my laptop, hack out a second post for WWE.com, and stagger to my feet to face show day.
Final preparations happen, minor adjustments are made; the four groups reunite, and in the blink of an eye, Kevin, the producer, is counting backwards – a sure sign that some form of television production is about to occur.
Show time – Inside Supershooter Green:
Show time – Outside Supershooter Green:
The WWE entertain the troops the best way we know; soldiers cheer, scream and yell, and maybe, for a little while at least, forget where they are. The show, for all the headaches during setup, is a good, clean show. I can’t ask for more than that.
My re-hired wingman – still on probation
In all six Tribute to the Troops tours, there are only twelve veterans that have worked each and every one. Four of those vets snuck out of strike – the long process of repacking and readying everything for travel once again – a little early for some top secret sightseeing.
Our top secret tour guide took us deep into the base, to places we’d never seen before. We drove by the Victory over America palace, which, surprisingly, isn’t complete yet. He took us to a palace Saddam Hussein built for his ‘favorite’ wife. The palace was huge! I’d hate to see what Saddam built for the wives he didn’t really care for.
Here are a few pictures from our tour:
Six time Tour veterans Marty, Abi, JRob and Me
We did not, under any circumstance, go to the range and fire machine guns. Without proper body armor and helmets, that would be against the rules, and dangerous too. It simply didn’t happen.
And that was that. Seventy-two hours after leaving Washington DC, the show was in the can, ready to be edited into the special that will air on NBC, and on top of that little miracle, for the first time in six tours, the Redheaded Stepchildren got to see something other than dust! Our top secret tour guide dropped us near Cyclone City; we packed, showered, ate, waited on a bus for a few hours, then got back on the C-17 for the eighteen hour flight home.
It’s Wednesday, 1 AM Baghdad time, and we’re on the ground. Finally. The big group splits off into five smaller groups – four will travel to Forward Operating Bases and entertain the troops, while my group, The Redheaded Stepchildren, get to stay behind to set up the arena and TV production facilities for Friday’s show. The other four groups vanish into the darkness, while we start unloading pallets of luggage. Poor Team Cinderella…
The C-17 Gives Birth to a TV Studio
As always, the Stepchildren stay behind and help supervise unloading of the gear. Our ‘supervision’ includes moving things from here to there, then watching as they get moved back again. This dance goes on for an eternity. Finally the trucks are loaded. At 2:30 we start the convoy that will take us to our makeshift arena.
I climb in the cab of the front truck, and the driver immediately barrages me with conversation. This twenty-two year old soldier has been in Iraq for fourteen months. His daughter, born while he was away, has started learning to walk in his absence. He tells me that now that the CHU’s (Crappy Housing Units) have Internet, he video conferences with them daily, which makes being away a little more bearable. He tells me how boring everything is now, and how much better it was when there was combat. He informs me that the lowest guys on the totem pole, like him, are the only ones that really know what’s going on. He worries about getting out of the military, and finding a job. He said he tried to find a job as a forklift driver once, but was rejected. “I’ve driven a fuckin’ M1 tank and they don’t think I can handle a fuckin’ forklift?” He also worries about fitting in to what he calls ‘normal society.’ He tells me how weapons are being smuggled out of Iraq, and shares his theories about the real reasons behind the war. He says he doesn’t like President-elect Obama, “not because he’s black, who gives a fuck what color he is? I don’t like him because he’s going to try and take my guns away from me.”
Between my exhaustion and his verbal diarrhea, the ride, the whole night takes on a surreal quality. I happily let him ramble until we arrive at the arena, and, though tired, I am thoroughly entertained throughout the long ride.
At the arena, which is really nothing more than a vacant dirt lot, we’re met by another soldier with a pickup truck. It’s now well past 3 AM. I’m so tired I feel giddy, almost drunk. It’s not bad, except for the swirling feeling in my head, and the faint ringing in my ears. The guy in the uniform motions for me, Abi and Dave to get in the truck. By now, we’ve lost Marty, JRob and Prof – the three other stooges who make up the rest of the Stepchildren. At this point, high on sleeplessness, you simply do what you’re told, in the hopes that a cot is in your immediate future. Wearily, we sit down in the dusty truck.
Our driver takes us to the Joint Visitor Bureau Hotel; fancy rooms inside a fancy palace where the talent are staying. We know from previous years that Redheaded Stepchildren aren’t allowed inside. We stay in tents. Rumor has it our luggage is at the JVB, and once we find our luggage, we’re assured the nice, warm tent is imminent.
We don’t find our luggage. I question the pilot’s earlier statement that they aren’t Delta Airlines, since Delta manages to lose my luggage with some regularity. We do, however, find Marty, JRob and Prof, who assure us our luggage is waiting for us at the tent. Prof jumps in the truck with us, JRob and Marty disappear again. After talking to his buddies for a while, our driver finally decides to take us to Cyclone City, a mass of tents for ‘transients’. One more hurdle – I swear I am not making this up – checking in to our tent, remains. We pull up to a small building with a single light inside.
The heavily mustached Iraqi man behind the desk asks to see our reservations. Reservations? For a tent? In the middle of Baghdad? Oh, of course! I KNEW I forgot to get something from my travel agent! This is too much for us, and we burst into a giggle fit. The guy soon gets sick of us and grumbles we should go to Tent 95.
Now.
After stumbling around in the darkness, we accidentally find Tent 95, and sprawl into our home for the next three days. Of course our luggage is nowhere to be found, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. My sleeping bag and stuff are in it, but that’s tomorrow’s problem. I take the bath towel out of my carry-on bag and wrap up in it. I’m asleep before my head hits the… well, there was no pillow, but if there WAS one, I’d have been asleep before my head hit.
Sometime later, Marty and JRob come in. It’s about 4:30 in the morning. They tell us they’re heading to the arena to get a jump start on the day. These fucking guys don’t sleep. Ever. Dave wakes up and joins them. With a weak half-wave, I pass back out, lack of pillow notwithstanding.
The next morning, my former wingman Abi, unemployed since the little Germany trick and I track down our luggage, which is in Tent 24, of course. After moving our stuff to Tent 95, showering, changing into less dirty clothes and eating, we meet the rest of the Redheads at the vacant lot, which will be transformed into a WWE arena in exactly two days. Apparently, the sun has risen in the time that passed since we laid down.
General JRob lets the troops know what they’re in for
The day begins with fits and starts. Marty is concerned about a possible generator problem. Everyone else is concerned with other problems. Following a strict military custom, the empty tent we’ll transform into a makeshift TV truck needs to be moved before we can fill it with our TV toys. Most of our gear seems to have showed up, though some of it fell five feet from a pallet during unloading. I’m sure the fallen boxes are mine. There’s no way to know if anything is damaged or broken yet. All in all, a typical first set day for the Stepchildren.
The Redheaded Stepchildren militia get to work
Hours flow by. Sometime after lunch, our production tent is set up, road cases are positioned, and the real work for me, Prof and Dave begins.
Soon to be Supershooter Green – Some Assembly Required.
Setup continues as it should. Everyone knows their job, knows what needs to be done, and for a change, we actually enjoy doing it. Marty still has an issue with the generator, evidently they’ve delivered a generator designed for United Kingdom style power, 220 volts instead of our puny 110 volt needs. Marty thinks this is a problem, and tells us we most likely won’t have any power until the following day. This means that when the sun goes down, we’re done working for the day. This is the best news yet!
Setup continues, and the vacant lot begins to resemble an arena. Soldiers and referees build the ring.
Then have an impromptu match, as any good soldiers and referees would.
Meanwhile, in a tent completely lacking electricity now known as Supershooter Green, serious work continues.
Trying my best to fake my way through another day
Prof ponders the meaning of life
Shoulder deep, Dave helps his racks give birth
Finally, the bright glowing orb in the sky starts to dim, signaling the end of day one.
We may not have electricity to test our possibly damaged gear, but we’ve done all we can do for the day. Tomorrow is another set day, then, as it always does, the show will go on, one way or another.
The rest of this tale can be found here.
The final announcement of the night rings through the Verizon Center, “Good night everyone! Thank you, and please drive home safely.” Most people will be going home after the show, but a select few volunteers, WWE Superstars and technical crew alike, won’t be. Hard to believe, but it’s time once again for World Wrestling Entertainment’s Sixth Sandbox Invitational – otherwise known as the Tribute to the Troops show.
Another Tribute to the Troops show means another year has flown by; it seems just weeks ago we were gearing up for the Fifth Annual Tribute show. The thought of going to Iraq used to be a source of weeks of trepidation, nervousness and worry, at least for family and friends that think we’re crazy for going. The first time, I shared that trepidation, nervousness and worry over traveling to a war zone, but now, six years later, more than anything I’m excited to see how Baghdad has changed. Seems funny to think that now even Baghdad is ‘just another place we go.’ Not funny like a monkey playing an oboe would be, but funny just the same.
Once the show ends, we are issued official Department of Defense ID cards (this is new), get on the bus (this is not new) and travel to an Air Force Base. The C-17 cargo jet that will be carrying us is loaded, fueled, checked out, and idling on the runway, ready to go (this is also new.)
Past trips have been fraught with delays, but this year’s corporate retreat starts off relatively smoothly. The cast and crew trickle onboard, and everyone takes the same seats they had the previous year.
For the technicians, this means right side bench seats. Being veterans of this show, we know by now that the sides are where the power outlets are. Extension cords string along the sides, ensuring everyone has power for iPhones, iPods and laptops.
Veterans JRob, Marty and Sean see, hear and speak no evil.
Before sitting down and becoming unconscious this year, I have my picture taken with some of the talent coming along. The talent don’t know me. They are probably surprised to see ‘that guy they always see in catering’ going to Iraq. Working inside a TV truck has it’s disadvantages.
And of course, I have to pose with the Divas as well. They all recognize me instantly. I know they all love me.
Me and Eve Torres
Mickey James. Not sure if she likes me or not.
Me and Maria. I really think she likes me!
Before take off, I’m not the only one taking pictures, everyone gets into the fun.
Gunner taking a picture of me taking a picture of him. How original!
Jeff Hardy – where else but high above on a pallet.
At 1 AM, playtime is over. The massive engines shake the plane, and 100,000 pounds of crew and gear roar into the night sky. There’s not much that I can say about these flights that hasn’t been said before. They’re long, boring and uncomfortable. People deal with the boredom the best they can.
Those That Have To, Work, Or At Least Try To
Others Just Suffer in Silence
The smart ones disappear into the cargo area, because in-flight boredom usually leads to in-flight pranks. Idle hands and all that. And, as always, The Chairman of Practical Jokes has the most idle hands of all.
Those that weren’t paying attention, hiding or sleeping fell prey to Mr. McMahon’s idle prankster hands. Veterans know that nobody sleeps until the boss does.
I wandered up to the safety of the cockpit. On Air Force flights, the pilots are armed, so entering the cockpit is allowed.
The pilot was staring out the window, while the co-pilot wrote out her Christmas cards. Occasionally, one would reach over and adjust something, but mostly they just sat. Who knew flying was so easy? I pestered them with my hundreds of questions, and I think they actually enjoyed the distraction. I learned so many top-secret things about the C-17 that I’d surely be shot if I divulged them. That is, if I could explain or even understand anything the pilots told me.
What felt like a few days later, the plane touched down at Ramstein Air Force Base. I joked with JRob that it’d be fine if the plane left without me. I’d be perfectly happy renting a motorcycle and cruising the autobahn, then flying home commercial and looking for a new job. My wish nearly came true.
As usual, we were ushered in the front door of the Enlisted Club, served a nice meal, then sat and waited. Previously, we’ve sat and waited and waited and sat for hours while whatever has gone wrong with our aircraft is fixed. Once we had a tire blowout on landing and had to switch planes. Another time, something went drastically wrong with an engine, forcing a multi-hour delay while mechanics pondered the problem.
Feeling restless, and positive that many more hours of nothingness awaited us in Germany, JRob and I wandered next door to the bowling alley.
Since there is no record of the actual score, and since I am writing this, let’s just say that the Audio Department crushed, destroyed and completely obliterated the Lighting Department. Yeah, that’s how it happened. Exactly. Or at least it would’ve happened that way if they put up the gutter-bumpers for me…
After his loss, JRob and I debated bowling a second frame. Since nobody knew where we were, and since there was no way he could bear to suffer another stunning defeat from me and my massive bowling technique, we decided staying in Germany, renting motorcycles and racing down the autobahn would be better enjoyed another time and, doing the smart and responsible thing, we returned to the Enlisted Club.
I stood outside the front door, enjoying the cool, fresh air, making a few phone calls and waiting for the buses to return. And stood. And waited. For a long time. Time takes on a slippery quality when you are being shuttled halfway around the world, it’s difficult to gauge if minutes or hours have passed. The only way I knew that a significant amount of time passed was my feet started getting cold. I decided to wait inside with the others.
The problem was apparent immediately. Inside was empty. Everyone was gone. If this was a joke, it was a damn good one. My heart thumped and my throat went dry as I croaked out to one of the workers inside, “Where’d the WWE go?!?’
“Oh, they’re gone.”
“Gone!” I practically screamed, “Gone, as in gone gone?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “They went out the back and got on the buses a while ago.”
“Went out the what? The back? There’s a fucking back door? OH SHIT!”
In the six years we’ve waited in the Enlisted Club, we’ve never used the back door. So much for being a tour veteran. I started frantically dialing people, but of course nobody answered their cell phone. At that point, I didn’t know what was worse, the possibility of being left behind in Germany and my impending unemployment, or the reality of facing a planeload of waiting pranksters. My heart thumped away, all thoughts of the autobahn banished from my head.
A van pulled up and the driver, motioning me to get in said, “You the one that got left behind?” Great. At least everyone in the entire world knew. We raced off to the flight line, and to my immense relief saw the line of buses heading for the still-waiting-on-the-ground C-17. “Dude,” I begged, “I’ll give you $100 to get me there in front of those buses.”
“I’d do it,” the driver answered, “but if we pull out of line, we’ll most likely be shot at. These people take flight line security seriously.”
My driver managed to craftily park right behind the buses, saying, “Just sneak in, nobody’s gotten on yet.” I tried my best to sneak into the line, to no avail. I took my imminent ball-busting like a man. Thanks go to my awesome wingman Abi for having my back on this one.
Wingman for sale – CHEAP!
The next seven hours slipped by. After being awake for 27 hours, my fatigue overcame my fear of more pranks, and I dozed off for a while. Some time later I was awakened by the announcement that we were entering Iraqi airspace. The interior lights changed from white to red, indicating we were in a combat zone. The pilot announced we’d be making a tactical decent into Baghdad, saying, “Hang on everybody, this could get a bit rough. Remember, safety is our number one concern, but we aren’t Delta airlines.” No kidding, Delta Airlines has
Deltalina, something the Air Force sorely lacks.
A tactical decent means twisting, turning, and trying to force lunch back up. With no windows, it’s hard to tell exactly what is happening, though my stomach reported that it was unhappy with this tactical descent. After a while of this screwing around, reverse thrusters roared in my ears. Fourteen hours and thirty-nine minutes after leaving Washington DC, we’d made it once again. The WWE has returned to Baghdad for a third time!
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