Everybody loves a parade! Or so they say; whoever the hell they are. Now I don’t know who they are, but if I ever find out their identity, my combat boot will be planted so far up their assholes that they will think my boot grew there.
You love a parade you say? Well goody for you. But you probably know squat about the parade I’m talking about.
The Change Parade.
Yes buds and buddettes, it’s a basic training thing. But don’t go getting any silly ideas of marching around the parade square like you’re all that with your chest puffed out with pride; buttons all shiny and boots spit-polished. The change parade is more like running around like a dick-fuck chicken with your head cut off and your chest heaving from gasping for breath. Your buttons are sort of done up and boots are about as done up as they can be and your feet are raw with blisters over blisters (who the hell has time for socks now?) bleeding ounces of who knows what.
You’re in your room and rushing your ass off getting ready for tomorrow morning’s inspection. You’ve just come back from scrubbing all those urinals until you could see your fact in them (don’t ask) and you were afraid to use them for their real purpose. You and your roomies are shooting the shit while tending to all those details (like burning the threads off those uniforms) when all of a sudden all shit breaks loose.
Two Platoon! Out in the hall now!
Scrambling out into the hall, never quickly enough, you are greeted by scowly faced instructors. Their steps echo menacingly as their boots thud up and down the hall and this is just the storm before the detonation. You stand at attention, looking straight ahead, wondering what in the fuck happened now.
‘This platoon is the embarrassment of the entire BRT School!’ and there is no mistaking the severity of this sentence bellowed out at super high decibels.
‘There is no, I say again, no team spirit here! You all think that you are still individuals, that you are special, and that the rules do not apply to you. You have been here for how long?’ the Master Corporal is not amused.
Who is going to be stupid enough or smart enough to answer? Everyone just stands there with the blankest look imaginable.
‘I say again, how long have you been here?’
‘Three weeks!’ although the unison in the response is something to be desired.
‘Three weeks, what?’
‘Three weeks, Master Corporal!” again unison sucks but the voices are taken up a few notches.
‘See what sorry idiots you are? You can’t even answer as a unit. You are not a team. And you think you are ready for the rifle range next week? You are going nowhere until you prove yourselves. You all fail to meet your timings, you fail to pass inspections, and you even fail to meet the most basic common sense expectations,’ and with that, the Master Corporal turns it over to the Sergeant.
‘Now we have to spend our valuable time teaching you these lessons you should have learned in the first week. All the other platoons have long since passed their basic tests and yet you are all still acting like you’re back on Civvy Street.’
I have to interject there that that statement is pure bullshit, but there has never been a better time to keep your pie-hole shut.
‘You have three minutes to be in uniform, with full webbing, including gas masks, wearing your helmets, carrying your rifles, and lined up in formation outside the barracks!’ screams the Sergeant as she looks at her watch.
‘Move!’ and you have never heard a more motivating command in your life.
Everyone scrambles around like those stupid dick-fuck chickens, trying to meet an impossible timing. That’s because you had spend the evening making sure all the webbing was completely pulled apart for tomorrow morning and you and your buddies were cleaning your rifles. By the time everyone somehow manages to line up outside, there are a lot of noticeable shortcomings.
‘This is disgraceful! You look like a bunch of morons and are a disgrace to your home units and your country. You are all to be changed into your p.t. gear, weapons dismantled, and standing at the ends of your beds. Uniforms will be hung properly for inspection, and, wait for it!’
A few of you thought you’d get a head start didn’t you? Nice try.
‘You have four minutes. Move!’
Back upstairs, the rooms are kit explosions in progress as uniforms are flung around like confetti, rifles are torn apart, and new combinations of curse words are invented.
‘Hey shithead for fuckin brains, move it!’
‘My cock mother asshole rifle is jammed!’
‘Where the hell is my dickless arsewiping gas mask?’
‘Fuck you and your gas mask. Get that uniform put away!’
‘Fuck you and the horse you and your mother rode in on!’
Well, needless to say by the time the instructors arrive, the timing is a failure and the next hour is spent changing from uniforms with webbing, to p.t. gear with rucksacks, to uniforms with no webbing, to p.t. gear with webbing. Do the enemies have to go through this?
‘Now we hope you all have finally learned what it means to be a team and work together. Otherwise, you will get yourself or others killed on the field. Get back to your inspection tasks and you only have forty minutes until lights out so I suggest that you get moving.’
So you love a parade?
Don’t get me started on the invisible chair.
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