Anyway, so

Me and the Chief get called in to HQ to fix some stupid wiring problem or other.

Ensign: (At the front desk, looking at our boots) Why aren't you men's boots polished?

Chief: (looking the Ensign dead in the eye) Because we're in the middle of the fucking desert, and unlike some people I could mention, we actually work for a living.

[Beat]

Chief: Sir.

Ensign: (incoherent with rage)

A captain walks up, and asks, "Is there a problem?

Ensign: (spluttering)

Captain: (not even looking in the Ensign's direction) I wasn't talking to you. Chief?

Chief: (jerking a thumb at the jerk) Man wants to know why our boots aren't polished, sir.

Captain: (looks at Ensign, shakes head, walks away without a word)

Chief: C'mon, Hawkins. You know, you're a smart guy, you could probably get into OCS.

Me: Damn, Chief, what did I do to deserve an insult like that?

And people ask me why I ain't re-up. . .

Update: Actually, think it was a Lootenant, not an Ensign, but I can't be arsed to look up the proper spelling. And the Chief was actually this crusty old white guy from the South -- Alabama or Mississippi, can't remember which -- who normally I shouldn't have gotten along with at all, but serving together as we did, we united in our hatred of the common enemy.

Fucking Junior Officers.

Oddly, I get the feeling that if any warbloggers did actually, you know, sign up to fight the wars they seem so very enthusiastic about, that. . . no, what am I saying. No way those fuckers would actually sign up.