This game is called Titties. Like Samuel Jackson, it'll get you drunk. This shit ain't for amateurs. Make sure you have fucktons of beer on hand before you begin. You'll still run out, but that's okay.
Game starts with the dealer calling out a suit. He deals around until someone draws a card of that suit, at which point they drink the number on the card, as counted out by the other players. So, let's say the dealer calls Spades, and deals until Player 3 draws the ten of Spades. Player 3 begins drinking, while Player 4 starts the count with "one", the next continues with "two", and so on and so forth. This continues until the count is over. The drinker then calls a suit, sets his beer down, and the game continues. The counters can count at whatever pace they desire, and the drinker can drink at his own pace.
Now here's the catch: if the drinker finishes his beer before the count is over, whoever missed the count has to take his place. Let's use the above example to explain this. Player 3 is drinking for a count of ten, while players 1, 2, and 4 count. Player 2 says "eight", as Player 3 finishes his beer and slams it to the table. Because Player 4 didn't count, he then assumes Player 3's place, and starts the count anew - he has to drink for a count of ten. This can theoretically go on forever.
The other rules:
Whoever draws a 2 is the Two Bitch until someone else draws a 2. Being the Two Bitch means drinking anytime someone else has to drink. You cannot set your beer down until they have set theirs down. The Two Bitch cannot slam on anyone, and must continue drinking with whoever is the designated drinker until another 2 is drawn.
If you mess up the count, you take the place of whoever is drinking. That means starting over from their original number.
If you forget to call a suit before setting your beer down after a round of drinking, you must repeat your turn.
This game will ruin everyone but the most experienced drinkers. I personally witnessed two fairly accomplished alcoholics vomit from it tonight... though I'd been drinking for twelve hours prior to the start of it, I managed to avoid that fate. I am, however, very, very drunk.
Anyway. Try it if you need something to do. It's fun.
-Jack
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Good Morning Whiskey, Good Morning World
Well, it's not yet 9am on this wonderful Saturday morning, and I'm already down a few beers and possibly a glass or two of whiskey. However, I've also already cleaned my room, unpacked my gear (to be cleaned), and done a couple loads of laundry, so I don't feel too bad about my drinking.
After getting off work yesterday around 1pm, I made it until about 6 before giving in to the sleep that was calling me. Evidently I woke up for a phone call or two, and long enough to downgrade from jeans and polo, but I don't remember any of that. I finally woke up on my own around 6:40 this morning. Anyway, I've had a little time to reflect on my life over the past two weeks.
That field problem was one of the worst experiences I've ever had. Without a doubt, that was one of the lowest points of my life. Allow me to explain.
I was out with my platoon, many of us humping around way more weight than is safe or reasonable, rucking from place to place over long distances. Day one, and everyone's feet, back, and knees were already crying out in pain... a great way to start. In addition, we were running on next to zero hours of sleep, a trend that would continue over the next week or so. So anyway, we set up a patrol base (woods camp with security) around 2:30 one morning, exhausted from rucking, and hastily set up our shit before attempting to sleep.
And then came the rain. Biblical motherfucking rain. Rain that plowed its way through our paltry hooches, through our "waterproof" bivouac bags, into our sleeping bags, clothes, and every ounce of gear in our ruck sacks. Into our very existence. There was nothing except for the rain, and us.
None of us were prepared for the giant shitstorm that crushed our souls over the next three days. No one escaped the rain, nor did any of our gear. Ever tried sleeping outside in 40 degrees of windy thunderstorm, in wet socks, wet uniform, a wet sleeping bag inside a wet bivvy sack, under a wet goddamn poncho? Well it's not very fucking comfortable. Attempting to get our allowed two-to-three hours of sleep per night in those conditions was, shall we say, absolutely and totally pointless.
I mentioned wet socks. I also mentioned that we were rucking everywhere we went... the curse of the light infantry. Well, as it turns out, soaked boots/socks/feet, when combined with long walks under heavy weight through sandy jungle, equals pain and misery. The soles of my feet will need some time to recover from that particular horror, and I didn't even have it as bad as some of the guys.
During the course of these events, I managed to get myself fired as the platoon's RTO (short for radio-telecommunications operator). That may sound like a bad thing. Let me assure you that is not the case. Why? Let me explain. First, I get to go back to a rifle squad, which means I get to bust down doors and shoot things/people again - the entire point of being an infantryman. Second, I no longer have to carry (or jump!) an extra thirty pounds of radio shit in my ruck sack. Third, I no longer answer directly to my glorious, brilliant platoon leader and incredibly friendly platoon sergeant, which is reward enough in and of itself. Fourth, I'm no longer responsible when the weather/location/equipment/company RTO/supply guys/commo gods/Satan conspire to provide poor communications capabilities.
God, I fucking hated that job. Words cannot express how excited I am to be back as regular Joe Douchebag, wielding an M4 against the evil Green Plastic Men who conspire for tactical and strategic control of our shoot houses. Or, if we ever deploy, against the hostile populace of whatever country we happen to invade that week.
Anyway. I'm drunk enough that I should stop writing, lest you people get more than you bargained for. I'm not getting paid for this, after all.
Carry on, you animals
After getting off work yesterday around 1pm, I made it until about 6 before giving in to the sleep that was calling me. Evidently I woke up for a phone call or two, and long enough to downgrade from jeans and polo, but I don't remember any of that. I finally woke up on my own around 6:40 this morning. Anyway, I've had a little time to reflect on my life over the past two weeks.
That field problem was one of the worst experiences I've ever had. Without a doubt, that was one of the lowest points of my life. Allow me to explain.
I was out with my platoon, many of us humping around way more weight than is safe or reasonable, rucking from place to place over long distances. Day one, and everyone's feet, back, and knees were already crying out in pain... a great way to start. In addition, we were running on next to zero hours of sleep, a trend that would continue over the next week or so. So anyway, we set up a patrol base (woods camp with security) around 2:30 one morning, exhausted from rucking, and hastily set up our shit before attempting to sleep.
And then came the rain. Biblical motherfucking rain. Rain that plowed its way through our paltry hooches, through our "waterproof" bivouac bags, into our sleeping bags, clothes, and every ounce of gear in our ruck sacks. Into our very existence. There was nothing except for the rain, and us.
None of us were prepared for the giant shitstorm that crushed our souls over the next three days. No one escaped the rain, nor did any of our gear. Ever tried sleeping outside in 40 degrees of windy thunderstorm, in wet socks, wet uniform, a wet sleeping bag inside a wet bivvy sack, under a wet goddamn poncho? Well it's not very fucking comfortable. Attempting to get our allowed two-to-three hours of sleep per night in those conditions was, shall we say, absolutely and totally pointless.
I mentioned wet socks. I also mentioned that we were rucking everywhere we went... the curse of the light infantry. Well, as it turns out, soaked boots/socks/feet, when combined with long walks under heavy weight through sandy jungle, equals pain and misery. The soles of my feet will need some time to recover from that particular horror, and I didn't even have it as bad as some of the guys.
During the course of these events, I managed to get myself fired as the platoon's RTO (short for radio-telecommunications operator). That may sound like a bad thing. Let me assure you that is not the case. Why? Let me explain. First, I get to go back to a rifle squad, which means I get to bust down doors and shoot things/people again - the entire point of being an infantryman. Second, I no longer have to carry (or jump!) an extra thirty pounds of radio shit in my ruck sack. Third, I no longer answer directly to my glorious, brilliant platoon leader and incredibly friendly platoon sergeant, which is reward enough in and of itself. Fourth, I'm no longer responsible when the weather/location/equipment/company RTO/supply guys/commo gods/Satan conspire to provide poor communications capabilities.
God, I fucking hated that job. Words cannot express how excited I am to be back as regular Joe Douchebag, wielding an M4 against the evil Green Plastic Men who conspire for tactical and strategic control of our shoot houses. Or, if we ever deploy, against the hostile populace of whatever country we happen to invade that week.
Anyway. I'm drunk enough that I should stop writing, lest you people get more than you bargained for. I'm not getting paid for this, after all.
Carry on, you animals
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Field Work... Out of Comms
Been shitbagging about this site lately - field training ops got me workin' my little RTO ass off. Be back eventually.
Stay classy
Stay classy
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Funny How a Song Can Fuck You Up
The only song that can drop me to my knees is Eric Church's "Springsteen". Just makes me completely fucking useless. It brings up amazing memories of a girl I was truly in love with, who then proceeded to totally shut me out of her life.
I'm listening to Brad Paisley's "Whiskey Lullaby" on repeat, and it's not at all helping my outlook on anything.
Unresolved issues eventually rise to the surface. Note that.
I'm listening to Brad Paisley's "Whiskey Lullaby" on repeat, and it's not at all helping my outlook on anything.
Unresolved issues eventually rise to the surface. Note that.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Back to Work, Then.
Well, it's the last day of my very relaxing, very worry-free four day Easter weekend. Which means I have to go back to work tomorrow. Fuck.
The highlight of my weekend was Sunday, which was, of course, Easter. I took the "day of rest" thing to the extreme by literally never setting foot outside of my room or putting on a shirt or pants (other than my stripey PJ pants, they don't count). My accomplishments yesterday were measured not in any real or meaningful way, but instead tallied in empty beer bottles and Skyrim quests completed. Hell, I didn't even find out my hot water was working again until like 1800. Truly a glorious day of being absolutely worthless.
Still, I would much rather have gone to New York for the weekend and done things like, I don't know, maybe see some people I actually care about. Fuck it, there's always next time. Definitely missed some good times though.
I dropped like $120 on one (just one!) new set of ACUs this weekend. I kept trying to put it off, or hold out for the promised-but-highly-unlikely resupply, but it was time. You can only listen to "Hey dude your name tape's falling off" so many times in a day before you start randomly punching people in the dick, just because. I FUCKING KNOW MY NAME TAPE IS FALLING OFF, GUY. Maybe it's because the Army relies on goddamn Velcro (correction, hook-and-pile tape) to secure necessary shit onto a "combat" uniform. That's roughly the equivalent of attaching body panels to an Indy car with duct tape - that shit's coming off, one way or another. Mercifully we're now allowed to have our tapes, badges and rank sewn. Cue $20 in said additions and sewing. Hoo-fucking-ah.
Anyway. That's my little rant for the day. I'm going to go cry while I shave my scruffy five-day beard. Seriously can't wait until I never have to shave again. Not only do I hate the physical act of shaving, but it screws up my skin as well. Gross. There is also the main issue, which is that I just enjoy having facial hair - it's fun to play with, it looks boss as fuck, chicks dig it, and your mustache always tastes like Scotch. At least mine did... maybe that's just me though.
Deuces.
The highlight of my weekend was Sunday, which was, of course, Easter. I took the "day of rest" thing to the extreme by literally never setting foot outside of my room or putting on a shirt or pants (other than my stripey PJ pants, they don't count). My accomplishments yesterday were measured not in any real or meaningful way, but instead tallied in empty beer bottles and Skyrim quests completed. Hell, I didn't even find out my hot water was working again until like 1800. Truly a glorious day of being absolutely worthless.
Still, I would much rather have gone to New York for the weekend and done things like, I don't know, maybe see some people I actually care about. Fuck it, there's always next time. Definitely missed some good times though.
I dropped like $120 on one (just one!) new set of ACUs this weekend. I kept trying to put it off, or hold out for the promised-but-highly-unlikely resupply, but it was time. You can only listen to "Hey dude your name tape's falling off" so many times in a day before you start randomly punching people in the dick, just because. I FUCKING KNOW MY NAME TAPE IS FALLING OFF, GUY. Maybe it's because the Army relies on goddamn Velcro (correction, hook-and-pile tape) to secure necessary shit onto a "combat" uniform. That's roughly the equivalent of attaching body panels to an Indy car with duct tape - that shit's coming off, one way or another. Mercifully we're now allowed to have our tapes, badges and rank sewn. Cue $20 in said additions and sewing. Hoo-fucking-ah.
Anyway. That's my little rant for the day. I'm going to go cry while I shave my scruffy five-day beard. Seriously can't wait until I never have to shave again. Not only do I hate the physical act of shaving, but it screws up my skin as well. Gross. There is also the main issue, which is that I just enjoy having facial hair - it's fun to play with, it looks boss as fuck, chicks dig it, and your mustache always tastes like Scotch. At least mine did... maybe that's just me though.
Deuces.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Happy Easter, Bitches
Hope everyone is doing their little tradition thing, whether you're religious or not. It's the spirit of the holiday that counts.
Me being a heathen, I'm rather hammered, in my room, alone. I would have gone up to see my mom and my friends for the four day weekend, but I got fucked out of a pass. Thus I sit and brood.
Having this much free time is strange and foreign to me. Without the hatred that emanates from me as a result of my workday, I am lost... a dog with no master. It's an uncomfortable feeling. Alcohol to the rescue!
Tonight a buddy loaned me the entire series of The Pacific on Blu Ray. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, it's an HBO miniseries about the Pacific campaign in World War Two, with U.S. Marines squaring off against Imperial Japan. It's a lot like Band of Brothers, but sadly not as good for two reasons: A., it all seems frivolous given how we ended the campaign, and B., there is an alarming lack of paratroopers on screen. And as we all know, a WWII show without a paratrooper is like a stripper with A cups. Pointless.
Anyhoo. This is the first four-day weekend I've spent on Bragg since I've been in the Army (true story), and I'm completely at a loss. So unmotivated. Not a fan.
Me being a heathen, I'm rather hammered, in my room, alone. I would have gone up to see my mom and my friends for the four day weekend, but I got fucked out of a pass. Thus I sit and brood.
Having this much free time is strange and foreign to me. Without the hatred that emanates from me as a result of my workday, I am lost... a dog with no master. It's an uncomfortable feeling. Alcohol to the rescue!
Tonight a buddy loaned me the entire series of The Pacific on Blu Ray. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, it's an HBO miniseries about the Pacific campaign in World War Two, with U.S. Marines squaring off against Imperial Japan. It's a lot like Band of Brothers, but sadly not as good for two reasons: A., it all seems frivolous given how we ended the campaign, and B., there is an alarming lack of paratroopers on screen. And as we all know, a WWII show without a paratrooper is like a stripper with A cups. Pointless.
Anyhoo. This is the first four-day weekend I've spent on Bragg since I've been in the Army (true story), and I'm completely at a loss. So unmotivated. Not a fan.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Boredom.
Status: Drunk. Very drunk. Watching Blackhawk Down on Netflix, laying in bed with lots of booze on my nightstand and/or filtering through my liver.
I know it's been a bit since I've posted. I'M FUCKING SORRY. Been remarkably busy lately, which is un-goddamn-cool. Though I should be blackout drunk with my buddy Wes in New York right now, I'm instead stuck here in America's b-hole due to some bureaucratic nonsense... c'est la vie.
Regrettably, I am actually seeing double so we're done here. More to follow as time permits.
Out.
I know it's been a bit since I've posted. I'M FUCKING SORRY. Been remarkably busy lately, which is un-goddamn-cool. Though I should be blackout drunk with my buddy Wes in New York right now, I'm instead stuck here in America's b-hole due to some bureaucratic nonsense... c'est la vie.
Regrettably, I am actually seeing double so we're done here. More to follow as time permits.
Out.
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