 Pink Monkey Soap Company: Salt Bar Soap Sell Gold Jewelry-OKC Gold Buyers Oklahoma City OK | Gold Bars Cool Turbo shirt Vicki made for me - 3000GT/Stealth International … From Google Blog Search The Buck Stops Here in Midtown Tulsa Oklahoma If you’ve ever been to Tul… read more… Paseo Arts District A Garth Brooks Bio From GoArticles.com ‘ Twilight ,’ ‘ True Blood ‘ take opposing approaches to vampire sex (Dallas Morning News) N. Tulsa grocery deal took initiative (Tulsa World) Nichols Hills doctor’s bond denied (Oklahoma’s NewsChannel 4) Voting Question: audition song for alto/mezzo?? (16-32 bars)? Resolved Question: can a california bar certified attorney practice law in oklahoma? Resolved Question: Does this story bring a tear to your eye? I served over 7 years in the United States Army. From 1994 to 1996, I was stationed in the country of Panama. I had just recently attained the rank of Sergeant, and at the age of 20, I was still cultivating my leadership skills. All I knew about leadership was how to be an abusive asshole, which I was very good at due to being brought up in the Army by the abusive asshole NCOs at 1st/75th. The soldiers under my command were treated well, provided they didn’t fuck up. If they did happen to fuck up, it was another story altogether. I tried to be more creative with my punishments than my own mentors were though, and just making people do push ups or grass drills just didn’t cut it for me. I’d make someone who did something stupid, such as show up for first formation unshaven, not have their room clean for inspection, or fail a training program carry around the can of Treet for a week. Picture if you will having to carry around a giant tin can of barely edible meat everywhere you went, even off duty. Trust me, my soldiers knew me well enough to not even try just leaving it at the barracks, lest I catch them somewhere without it. I had this kid from Oklahoma named Boutwell. Though I eventually turned him into a fucking bad-ass soldier, he was kind of a fuck-up to begin with. He wound up carrying the Treet a lot. The thing was, Boutwell had a good sense of humor (or humour, for my Brit and Aussie friends), and took it in stride. He’d sit the Treet on the bar if we went out and talk to it. He’d introduce himself to girls at clubs, then introduce his can of Treet. He’d refer to himself out loud as “King Treet” or the “Treet Master.” We were infantrymen. We worked hard, so we played hard as well. Every once in awhile, I’d take my whole squad out drinking on me. At this time we were located at Fort Clayton, right by the capital of Panama, Panama City. Like any third-world country with a US military presence, the local economy was largely dependent on American soldiers who are mostly fools soon parted with their money. Of course, one of the biggest industries in an area like this is prostitution. There was something that pretty much every soldier that just gets into country gets told very quickly. If you go somewhere to get a piece of ass, do NOT go to the area around Gorgas Army Community Hospital. The “girls” around there aren’t really girls. Anyway, it was a Friday night, and we’d been out drinking into the wee hours of the morning like most soldiers do. I had rented a car, a piece of shit Ford Mustang convertible. I was driving (drunk, of course) and Boutwell’s drunk ass was half standing up in the passenger seat, wielding his can of Treet in the air, screaming something about being the Keeper of the Treet or some other nonsensical shit as we careened at about 60 miles an hour down the road leading back to Fort Clayton. As we were passing Gorgas Hospital, Boutwell all of the sudden became silent in mid-rant. Naturally, I turned towards him to see why he abruptly became silent. I turned just in time to see him cock his arm back and launch a throw worthy of the greatest of Major League Baseball outfielders. My initial rage at seeing my squad’s prized can of Treet so unceremoniously disposed of was immediately replaced with hilarity upon watching the Treet’s perfect trajectory, as it sailed what must have been 50 feet. I have know idea how the skinny little bastard made such a perfect throw, but perfect it was, and we saw it land square in the chest of a transsexual prostitute, who immediately crumpled to the ground like a sack of shit. Needless to say, we didn’t hang around to see if the tranny was alright, as the last thing we wanted to do was face some sort of c here’s the rest: charges. If you want the truth, I could care less if it was hurt. Hell, I hope it at least popped a silicone boob. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting end to the can of Treet, and never purchased another one again. The End Also, stay the hell away from the Chicken & Rice (#11) that one’s mine.
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I’m going to take a trip to Oklahoma… and I’m looking forward to coin night at the local bars!
I’m going to take a trip to Oklahoma… and I’m looking forward to coin night at the local bars!
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