TALES OF FIREFIGHTING

I joined the Coast Guard in 1982. Once out of boot camp I left the beautiful East Coast never to return (except to see family). Yay!!!

My first job in the Coast Guard was as a firefighter. I was 19 years old and had never been away from home. Never really had much responsibility, but then, Bam!!! I was driving firetrucks. Not just firetrucks, but big ones. The kind that they use on airports to put out airplane fires.

I worked my way up slowly. First just riding in them and putting out fires, and then driving them, and then becoming the crew chief on them. I was in charge of the truck and the team inside. Holy crap for crap!!! By the time I was 20 I was in charge of a 20 ton fire truck. A "Crash Truck". I'm talking turrets for blasting water at planes (or snowy owls that got too close) and speeds up to 65 mph. I never had to put out plane fires, but we practiced enough to know that we could.

Now, everytime you get inside your truck you have to be properly dressed out. In the crash truck, that meant wearing the silver suit. As the driver, I usually only wore the pants. Plus, I sat right in the middle of the cabin. There were 2 others in there with me, one on each side.

One day, I had horrendous gas. I'm talking stuff that would gag a maggot. It was a warm day and one of the other crewmen was a real jerk. Always thought he knew better than anyone else. So, I fire up the heater, after eating a meal of Mexican food the night before, and having a really full breakfast of bacon, eggs and raisin bran. My belly was gurgling and making all sorts of not so human noises.

So we have to practice approaching planes, in case of emergencies, and I am going slow just to let things build up. Every now and then I would let rip with an SBD (you know "Silent But Deadly") and just let it stew in my pants. This guy had to follow me out of the truck, so once we stop, I let loose with a "nuke". I thought I had crapped myself, it was that bad. Then I start fanning my pants. Letting all of the pent up "atmosphere" escape from my trow (trousers that is). all of a sudden, the guy starts gagging. And trying to push me out faster. By the time he finally gets out, he is hunched over the side of the truck, just yakking!!! He is green and spit, and the remainder of his breakfast, is flying from his mouth faster should be possible.

Needless to say, he never opened his mouth around me again, and never road shotgun as well. Ahhh, life was good!!!

Being One With My O-Ring

Ok, so I heard from my nephew Jared that he doesn't much care for bidets. I wholeheartedly agree with him. There is something unnatural about having warm water squirted on my "grommet", to clean up after going #2.

I've experienced that once myself. Uh uh, not ever again. If I want warm water sprayed on my "bungalow" then I will be in a shower. That's it. That's only it.

Speaking of O-rings. My wife and I got into a discussion about whether someone knows whether a fart is going to turn out "juicy" or not. I believe that this is an inherent genetic ability of men. We just know when a fart is a fart and when it is not. Of course, there are instances when we fool ourselves.

Take for instance: Once, in my much younger days, a bunch of us guys were sitting around the firehouse lighting farts. Man, you should have seen all of those flames shooting out of our nether regions. Some were like flame throwers, other like little balls of flaming gas.

I was sooooo ready when it came to my turn. I was wearing coveralls and work pants. The minute I got my legs up and that flame ready, I let go. Literally. Woof. And I am not talking flamage. I am talking leakage. Major leakage. Seems my rings was a bit loose from something I had eaten over the last few days. Whether it was the Raisin Bran or other greasy stuff, I let loose.

It is incredible how fast your sphincter can clamp down the minute it discovers an escapee from the colon factory. *Ka-Chang*!!! "All hands set Dog Zebra". We have a leak. My butt cheeks slammed together tighter than the skin on Bruce Jenners face.

I stood up, non-chalantly walked (waddled) slowly towards the bathroom, with my butt cheeks locked together so tight, you couldn't have slid a credit card between them. This ATM was closed!!!

Once in the bathroom, I hit the shower. Slid off my coveralls, checking for noticeable "bacon strips" or grease marks, and then removed my pants. These went immediately into the garbage, as did my tighty "non-whiteys". After a quick shower and change of clothes, badda boom, badda bing, I was back in action. Never to be remarked on or mentioned in front of others again.

Ah the joys of youth!!!