She's like Glenn Beck if he had tits.

Oh, wait.

She's like Glenn Beck if he had a vagina.

Dammmit.

She's like Glenn Beck if he had longer hair.

King Wicker: Less Victoria Jackson. More Sgt. Otter stories.


Sigh. Here is the tale of Vaseline Man, it's copy & pasted from my journal, so it might be a bit confusing at first:

Coming up next, on Reno 911!

Last month, I promised to tell the tale of Vaseline Man, which ranked up there with the shotgun-toting mental patient episode in terms of weirdness. I apologize for the delay, but I was trying to find out who had the pictures we took of the incident, which would have made a nice coda to the story. I had no luck tracking them down, so I gave in and decided to publish the tale of Vaseline Man, sans photographs.

When we first arrived in al-Dora some seven months ago, everyday things went apeshiat. We'd tangle with Al Qaida in Iraq (AQI) fighters in full-scale firefights until around noon, when they would break contact to have lunch and chai. We'd pile their dead on the hoods of our Humvees, drop the bodies off at the Iraqi National Police headquarters, hose the blood off the hood, and wait for them to finish lunch and come back for round two. Hell, when we first got there, we'd have to go in on foot using massive human waves, because the Humvees were just farking RPG magnets. Yeah, I know that sounds backwards, but whatever.

After a series of massive house-to-house clearing operations, which netted hundreds of AQI douchebags a one-way ticket on the Dirty Bird to Camp Bucca, things kind of settled down into a typical episode of Cops.

There are a few days where things devolve into Reno 911!-esque absurdity. This is one of those days.

We had set up a screen-line to overwatch the main boulevard in our mulhalla, when a frantic woman came up to one of our trucks yelling in Arabic. We could pick out "Ali Baba" and "biet," which mean "thief" and "house" respectively. We finally figured out she was trying to tell us there was an intruder in her home. The Lieutenant pulled up in his truck with the interpreter (a native Iraqi who works for the US Army), and he told us that she said that there was a terrorist in her house, armed with a pistol and a hand grenade.

She even described the pistol as nickel-plated, as it was shiny. This was odd, as all we had ever seen were matte-black Tariq 9mm automatics, which are cheap Iraqi knockoffs of an Italian Beretta 92F.

We rolled up to the house, and found the supposed terrorist on her front lawn, getting turf-stomped by about five of her neighbors. We pulled him out of the melee, and searched him for weapons. He was unarmed, but he had one of those squat, roundish jars of Vaseline in his jacket pocket. Odd.

We decided to get the wife's story first, as this would help us decide whether to use the Columbo or Vic Mackey style of interrogation. She lived with her husband and a friend, a young, attractive widow whose husband had recently been murdered by Moqtada al-Sadr's Jaysh al-Mahdi (the JAM).

She and her husband had gone to Karrada to buy a new satellite receiver, and had left the widow alone in the house. When they found out the store was closed, they came back early and surprised the intruder, and the wife ran to the nearest American soldiers for help.

We then started interrogating Vaseline Man. After much stalling and non-answers, he finally broke down when one of our more intimidating NCOs got in his face. It turns out he was the secret paramour of the young widow, and even produced some pictures of them as a couple on his cell phone. He said that she had called him up once she was alone in the house, and told him that she was in the mood for some backdoor shenanigans, and asked him to bring some Vaseline for a romantic night of balls-deep buttsex.

The jar of Vaseline was the "grenade." The "shiny 9mm?" Well, you know how skin has that kind of glazed-look when you smear Vaseline on it? Mmm-hmm. Because of the coitus interruptus, he had forgotten to stuff his dick back in his pants when he was caught by the lady of the house.

At this point, the widow was pleading to talk to our Lieutenant. She finally got him alone with the interpreter, and amazingly enough, she confirmed his story. She even offered to hike up her niqab to show him her greased-up butthole as evidence of her boyfriend's innocence, as she thought we were about to send him to the detention center at Camp Bucca. But he, being an officer and a gentleman, declined.

At this point, every trooper in the platoon is laughing hysterically. We call it up to our Tactical Operations Center, who refused to believe us. We even got pictures of Vaseline Man holding up the jar of Vaseline, while we gave cheesy shiat-eating grins and thumbs-up next to him (this is what I was looking for), while he forced an embarrassed smile.

We did this for the benefit of her neighbors, who know we bring digital cameras out on missions and take pictures of suspects. We threw him in the back of a Humvee, drove him out of sight, and let him off with a warning, with plenty of high-fives.

Considering what his neighbors were planning on doing to him, getting cock-blocked by the United States Army wasn't so bad.

OgreMagi: what_now: I have a girl scout uniform. I can tell you what that means.

I'm sure I speak for all the farkers when I say, "pictures".

Do it for us vets.

OK I always thought Victoria Jackson was an annoying bimbo BUT I always liked the "commercial" she did for getting rid of her extra fingers, Handi-off. Putting the acid on her extra fingers and blowing on them going "ooohhh" as they bubbled and fell off, now that was funny shyte.

you are a puppet: forcing me to have dirty sexual thoughts about a black man, making me cry while masturbating to dirty sexual thoughts about a black man,

You need to take responsibility for your own sexual thoughts. You can't blame Obama for that.

The best season of SNL was the one with Billy Crystal, Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer, Martin Short, and that one weird guy whose name I forget.

Unfortunately all these guys decided they'd rather spend time with their families than doing SNL so it didn't last.

Trainspotr: Sgt Otter:
Sigh. Here is the tale of Vaseline Man, it's copy & pasted from my journal, so it might be a bit confusing at first:

Great stories, and well told. Thanks for making me not care that I'm still at work at 7:30 on a Monday when I should be out playing softball in Grant Park.

This one is about the "weird shotgun-toting mental patient" that the Vaseline Man story referenced.

The past few days have been odd. I was giving some guy a business grant application so he could renovate his clothing store, which appears to only sell Iraqi schoolgirl uniforms. If his grant gets approved, we give him $2500. It helps develop the neighborhood, keeps people employed and happy (and too busy to link up with the insurgency), so it's a pretty good investment.

I had parked my truck near some woman's driveway, and she came up to me carrying a small white bundle and, through the English-speaking shop owner if she could drive through. I told her yes, and then she unwrapped the bundle and showed me a dead baby. She wanted to take it to the cemetery and wanted to make sure we weren't setting up a checkpoint. Odd.

We went to check on some other shops we've given grants to, including a new internet cafe, where most of the clients were either playing some cheesy CounterStrike knock-off or looking at Hentai.

My dismount and I got some lamb shawarma from a nearby stand. The owner's son spoke some English, and was wondering if Halo 3 was out in the USA yet, and wanted to know if Linkin Park had a new album coming out.

About an hour before our patrol ended, some guy came frantically running up to my truck and yelling for a mutahrjehm [sic], which is Arabic for "interpreter." I got on the radio for the LT to bring the terp up, and that's when we noticed he was bleeding, so I also called for the Doc.

He told us that he had gotten into a fight with his brother, and his brother came at him with a shotgun, and during the struggle it had discharged and opened up his scalp, hence the bleeding. Doc patched him up, and we had him lead us to back to his house, expecting some crazy shotgun-toting maniac. We went over the Rules of Engagement, fully expecting having to storm the house and kill the guy.

Well, we get there and then the supposed victim freaks out and charges at his sister-in-law, screaming and yelling. We grab him and end up tearing his shirt off, and pulling him off the sister, and sit his big ass down.

We talk to the brother, who speaks perfect English, and is actually a contractor working for the new Iraqi government. He produces some documents stating his brother is mentally disturbed and prone to violence.

Turns out "the victim" was the antagonist in this whole little mess.

So...we have a shirtless, sweaty, monstrously huge guy with a history of mental illness and violence, who owns a shotgun.

The brother turns over the shotgun, which is some bizarre home-made revolver/shotgun thing, and it actually works. It smelled like it had been recently fired.

Meanwhile, Tons O' Fun is getting agitated, as he's realizing we're getting the whole story. He gets up and charges Tony. Tony thumps him in the chest with the silencer on his M-4 and tells him to sit back down. He goes to grab the barrel when Mark jumps out of nowhere and twists the guy's head around nearly 180 degrees and drops him down the ground.

He agrees to calm down again, but then he sees the sister-in-law talking to our LT via the terp, and starts screaming and goes to charge her.

So it's on. Matty, Mark, Tony, and I deliver this guy a serious four-man ass beating, to little effect. He keeps trying to grab Mark's M-4, so he tears it off, throws it to Moose, and then chokes the shiat out of the guy until he finally drops, and we all pile on. Someone is screaming for us to get out of the way so they can shoot the motherfarker, which while it would have been justified, was unnecessary, so we go for non-lethal compliance. Honestly, the only thing that saved his life was this went down near end-of-mission, and we didn't want to do the paperwork on a fatal engagement.

I've got my knee in his throat and I'm punching the shiat out of his melon, using my gloves with the carbon-fiber reinforced "safety knuckles." Mark is punching the guy all over while Matty is trying to zip-cuff the guy, and Tony is kicking the guy repeatedly in the nuts, to no effect. He's still fighting us and screaming.

So Tony actually stands on the guy's scrotum, and GETS UP ON ONE FOOT and starts grinding his heel with his full body weight, plus gear. This finally makes the guy yelp and start cooperating. Yes, we fight dirty. Tough shiat.

Mark apparently dislocated the dude's shoulder when he took him down, so one arm is bent at a farked-up angle and we can't get his wrists lined up to cuff him, which encourages him to start struggling again. He finally stops struggling after we stomp his head into the driveway about a dozen times, until the point you can tell who kicked him where, as the individual boot patterns are visible on his face. We finally cuff the guy.

So now I'm straddling a fat, shirtless, bloody, sweaty crazy guy to keep him on the ground. His family is actually disappointed we didn't kill him, as he's tried to rape half of his female relatives, and has terrorized them for years.

As the guy is just a loon and not a terrorist/insurgent, we tell the family we can't take him, and to call the Iraqi Police if they want to press charges, but we will seize his shotgun. The sister-in-law begs us to shoot him. Crazy.

Homeboy finally calms down. In fact he's so calm, he looks me in the eye and say, "Meestah. Pepsi." The guy wants a farking Pepsi. The four of us just beat this guy so hard we're exhausted. I was punching him so hard his blood was sprayed on my Oakley sunglasses. The muscles in my arms are cramping up. While he's just calmingly looking and me and asking for a Pepsi. You know, I've heard the phrase "retard strength" before, but I never really appreciated it before now. Our relief arrives, and the LT orders us to cut the zip-cuffs on him and get the hell out of there. If the family does decide to kill him, we don't want the body to turn up in American-issue zipcuffs. Oh, and the next morning, the relief platoon who took the night shift said he came back a few hours later for round two. He took on three of their guys until he got bored, calmed down, and asked for a Pepsi.

This story does have a happy ending. We gave a microgrant to a local Catholic Iraqi woman who runs a pharmacy, which sells sketchy-looking Tahiti-brand condoms, and a cream that promises to "enhance vaginal sensitivity." She was able to get his anti-psychotics in stock, and now Big & Crazy is now a Gentle Giant who makes ballerina-themed music boxes.

Here's his steampunk homemade shotgun:

aaaand I can't close my tags.

Ahhh, men in uniform holding big ass guns - I'll be in my bunk-er!

RevMercutio: As someone whose father was a Psych Tech at a "Developmental Center", your "Big & Crazy" story screams of 100% legitimacy. =D

Well, even if you didn't take my word for it, you can take Time Magazine's:

"Then there was the young man with a mental condition whose brother blasted him with a homemade shotgun because he wasn't taking his medicine."

Man I can't find a Season 10 DVD anywhere, nor any clips on the official SNL website. Here's the only halfway decent clip I can find from Season 10:
Men's Synchronized Swimming

Do I have to wait for Lorne Michaels to die of old age before NBC will release the damn season?

Subby: Former SNL star Victoria Jackson attends L.A. Tea Party, calls for Obama to be impeached, then does a handstand on stage for the troops, proving once and for all her whole dumb blonde airhead routine on SNL was just an act an accurate assessment of her cognitive ability.

Victoria Jackson has become a stain on the legacy of Saturday Night Live. I'm absolutely ashamed that she spent a year in my state attending Auburn University. At least when Dennis Miller went Neocon, he remained funny. Jackson is merely a strident attention whore who hasn't realized her public influence died the day she left 30 Rock some seventeen years ago.

Yeesh. Can somebody post some Tina Fey pics? I think this thread needs a palette clearing.

1). The last time I wore a girl scout uniform I was 14, you sick farks.

2). Sgt Otter, beer, Boston etc. You'd probably have more to talk to with The Boy than me, but I'd be happy to hear more of your stories at the local.

3). Bring the hat. I'll bring my single friends.

what_now: 1). The last time I wore a girl scout uniform I was 14, you sick farks.



"Did I evah tell you 'bout how Pruh-sillah and I met?"

Thanks, ladytron. And to everybody else. I've run out of funny & weird stories. The rest are about you-know-what.

Rhaab: Sgt Otter: Consumption of alcohol by U.S. troops in Iraq is banned under the All Powerful, Gweat and Tewwible General Order Number One.

The hell? I thought General Order Number One was the non-interference directive. Not giving advanced technology to primitive planets, not screwing with their societies, that sort of thing.

Was this something they changed in Voyager, or is this another bit of revisionism from Enterprise? Fark, it's a good thing they reset the continuity....

/not really this clueless
//or this big a Trek geek
///Sometimes, intentional dorkiness is fun.
////Kirk broke the Prime Directive, but always followed his Primed Erective.

I thought the First General Order was: I will Guard everthing withing the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved.
The Forth was I w8ill will walk my post from flank to flank and take no shiat from any rank.