In eight illustrated books, elegantly held together in a single beribboned case, McSweeney's Issue 28 explores the state of the fable. For the next two days, it's $5 off. - - - - |
While on a reconnaissance sweep north of Tay Ninh City, our lieutenant put us on
half-rations because enemy action had cut us off from our usual supply
routes. The lieutenant, a voluble sort, told us, "If that isn't enough for you,
you can start shooting rats or squirrels or whatever and eating the soft
insides of bark. It's good enough for Charlie, and he's been kicking our
behinds up and down the peninsula all winter." My buddy Jones and I took
the lieutenant at his word, and Jones, a good shot, managed to pick off one of
the Asian species of squirrel with his M1 the next morning as we were on
patrol. But the shots ripped up the animal's little body so that all that
was left was his head and his tail, and besides we couldn't start a cook
fire anyway because it would attract enemy attention.
As an employee of a check-cashing outlet near Fort Leonard Wood, Mo., my
nephew was familiar with the recklessness with which many young recruits
would spend their pay. Late one Saturday evening, a soldier attempted to
cash a check while a raucous group of his buddies waited inside the
entrance to the store. When my nephew asked him where they were headed
that night, the soldier mentioned the name of a local gentleman's club.
One Friday at the Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, Calif., the blacks and the whites were at it again down by the weight room. It really was getting sort of ugly, when the sergeant (he's black) came around. Things quieted down, and then suddenly one of the white guys from my unit chimed in, "Look who's here—it's Colin Powell." He didn't even look that much like Colin Powell. — Contributed by Cpl. J. L. Winston. My carrier group was on maneuvers in the South China Sea, and I had just
been released from the brig for, I don't know, something. My "act," a lieutenant
had told me, was "getting a little tired." Well, we were all getting
a little tired, I'm sure. I took to imagining myself as a leopard,
patrolling belowdecks. I like the big cats: they are so sleek and they
just couldn't care less. And obviously, if you were in a fight to the
death, who would you want on your side? A leopard, a panther, a mountain
tiger: one of the big cats.
Our son Dan recently acquired a shirt with a picture of the former
Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh on it. One day when he was boarding an
airplane while wearing the shirt, he was angrily confronted by an older
man, who said, "Hey, I don't like your t-shirt. I was over there. People
died." Dan was too startled and frightened to reply, so he just continued
on to his seat without saying anything.
During my first tour of duty in southern Germany, our unit was watching Lawrence of Arabia in the mess hall. My C.O. must have had some sort of a chemical imbalance. He stood up and launched into this zig-zag monologue that I couldn't even understand and then wandered out of the hall. It was raining outside. I hovered with the sign-up sheet while he smoked. The headache pills in my pocket dissolved in the downpour. I couldn't decide which was more humiliating: his abject breakdown or my inability not to stand there watching him crumble. — Contributed by Staff Sgt. Ed Beveridge.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Forward-Looking Statement By Stuart Wade Urban Myths About Urban Legends By Rick Larsen The Unusual History of My Impending Prominence: A Book-Tour Timeline From the Future By Neal Pollack Untimely Week: A Message From Lovey Johns-Atchison The Acting President of the Trump Place Condo Association By Kevin Guilfoile Untimely Week: NRA Grille Menu By Noam Weinstein |
Red dot denotes content that is new today.
Black dot denotes newish content.