30 JUL 2015

Only the military could make things so drab.

Through the check-in process I have been sent back and forth, forwards and backwards.  Endless acronyms.  Endless paperwork.  Every minutia covered.  Inflexible and inefficient.

I am getting my “CIF” gear.  A laundry list of military supplies.  Hijame, a local who resembles Johnny Tsunami (everyone here sort of does) helps me fill my shopping cart, drawling out item after item.
“Assault pack… tactical hydration pack….laundry bag….”  Hijame I think you mean bookbag.  And Camelbak… and okay that IS a laundry bag, you got that one right.

An endless list of things, a microcosm of the time since I’ve been on island.  Checklists.  Lines. Nothing productive.

“…tactical helmet… trench tool…gas mask….” The shopping cart, which is Shrek sized, is almost filled to the brim.

“…grenade bags….m16 ammo…Kevlar vest.” Wait… WHAT?  No, Hijame still made those sound boring.  Like he was a grocery clerk and he just scanned my charmin and my lean pockets.
It reminded me of one of my favorite scenes of all time.

Onto pursuing my “FMF” – essentially a badge that says, “I’m actually in the military, I’ve shot a gun, and I have an inkling of what being a marine is all about even though I’m an idiot Navy dentist.”
Essentially, becoming John Cena.