The Deployed Gentleman's Guide (continued)

In the interest of maintaining the Castle’s reputation as an asylum run by the inmates a bastion of calm and decorum in the midst of a somewhat chaotic and freewheeling internet, I sensed John’s usual grumble to get the damned lead out and post something the gentle call of the Muse urging me to – once again – add a chapter to The Deployed Gentleman’s Guide.

Lesson the Second: A Recognition Guide to the Armed Forces

The first thing the Deployed Gentleman will note upon recovering from incipient heatstroke his composure after moving into his new sewer pipe with windows demesne is that he does *not* stand out in the crowd because he isn’t wearing a kewl designer camouflage uniform, he stands out because he’s older than half the objects in the Oort Cloud not wearing a kewl designer Physical Training Uniform, henceforth referred to as PT sh*t gear. The D.G. does not wear PT gear because his running days are flat frikkin’*over*, Jack but a fond, youthful memory.

PT gear consists of trendy, boxer-type shorts in either pitch black or pitch blue, with a cutsey-poo chic reflective stripe angled on each leg, complemented by a trendy, muted grey T-shirt (the better to blend with the muted beige of the farking dust environment), its chicly-stark shade relieved only by a *huge* large optireflective insignia denoting the wearer’s Service affiliation, id est, an art deco “A” for “Army” or a three-foot tall Starship Trooper’s badge the official US Air Force™ logo, on the back of the shirt.

These reflective symbols serve a twofold purpose:

a. they provide a safety factor to the wearer by alerting the driver of an approaching vehicle that there is a pedestrian on the sidewalk upon which he is not driving and

b. they provide a perfect aiming point for any sniper on the berm with better than 20/400 vision.

However, it is difficult to discern these insignia when it’s as black as a hippy’s bedsheets the desert sun has set and the Deployed Gentleman is traveling afoot from his rat hole office to his rat’s nest hootch, so the D.G. learns to discern members of the various Armed Services by other means, such as the Service-particular method of perambulation. The D.G., as a retired Soldier, retains the 120-steps-per-minute, 30-inch pace (modified to about 36” to accommodate the size thirteens) to which he is accustomed. If the distance between the D.G. and the pedestrians to his front (who are traveling in the same direction) remains relatively constant, the D.G. can safely assume that they, too, are Army, or USMC Sloggerkin. If, however, the distance diminishes rather noticeably -- and *rapidly* -- the D.G. can safely assume that the pedestrians are Other.

The Air Force puts the “amble” in “perambulate.”

And the Navy *strolls*.

Now, during the normal course of overtaking this latter group of pedestrians, the D.G. would merely state, “Passing on the left, ladies guys,” and step off the sidewalk to proceed along the terrain at his usual pace, then resume the sidewalk after approximately three paces -- at this point, I should probably add that members of the aforementioned services all take noticeably shorter steps than the norm.

However, due to recent renovations and upgrades to the infrastructure, there happened to be a *ditch* on the left of the sidewalk at this particular point on this particular night.

A *deep* ditch.

A deep *unlit* ditch.

Ass over teakettle, kids The D.G. nimbly obeyed the Law of Gravity until he arrived at the lower elevation, recovered his damn footing normal aplomb and slammed the ol' kneecaps back into place continued on his journey, accompanied by the juvenile numbnuts giggling good-natured chortling at the jape the D.G. had provided.

Farkin’ no-walkin’ slow sonsabayutchin’ bandy-legged goat-smellin’ blue-pantsed weasels  I *love* those guys...

Next Lesson: Bunker Etiquette -- The art of Making Small Talk to fill that awkward silence between the sound of the launch and the sound of the impact...