Today is the dawn of a new column day here at TLRG.com. One of my very best friends and the gal who has the most intricate knowlegde of military weaponry, MK, just arrived to serve a year’s tour of duty in a sandy land far, far away. She’s the toughest, baddest girl I know and the one most likely to beat your pants off in court. To me, she’s like the exquisitely smart, muscley Angelina Jolie in Tombraider.
:cheer:

We all hear about the war everyday from our RSS feeds or from the Nightly News mouth of fake-bake tanned Brian Williams. Lucky for us, MK has agreed to share her birdseye view of the desert conflict with us in a recurring column as a fun alternative. Look for the address to send her goodies, tokens of affection and cough syrup in the coming days. And keep her in your thoughts and prayers. And now…the first installment of Postcards from a Sandy Place. (Isn’t this a clever way for me to post blogs without writing a word?:mrgreen:)

Dear Readers of That Little RedHeaded Girl;

TLRG has been kind enough to throw onto her web page my occasional musings
while I am deployed with the Army to a sandy place away from our beloved
United States. No, I won’t be posting any state secrets or tactical operations plans. In fact, I make no claim to even be factually correct or entirely truthful, the point is only to amuse and help me to lighten a dreary desert load.

After having flown 16 hours and landing with a thud, I received the unpleasant news that we were still hours away from where we would be able to lay our heads down. We would be bused to where we would be sleeping. Now I
must have an aside and let you know that the Army employs a large number of
local nationals aka “LNs.” They do everything from driving buses, trash
collection, laundry, serving food in the chow hall and cleaning the port-a-potties. With the unemployment rate so high, these jobs are highly sought after, and I must admit, they do keep the place in good, clean working order. They are also called “Hodgi’s” (a semi-affectionate American term for middle eastern men), but for fearless readers from our nation’s capital, I will stick with the politically correct term at the risk of offending any Washingtonian weenies out there.

We boarded the buses and took off into the dark sandy night in motor coaches
driven by LNs. Most of the trip was on regular highway, but since the Army
desires the sandiest of sandy places, we soon turned off the road onto packed dirt. At this point, all traffic laws and speed regulations went out the window. Five motor coaches raced across the desert dirt road, transmissions and shock absorbers be damned. It soon turned into a real race, each of the coaches side by side jockeying for the lead position, edging each other into the bermed edge of the road. My teeth rattled, my weapon jangled, and I feared for my portable computer, stowed in the underbelly of the demon steel steed. Watchers from each side of the bus took turns reporting who was approaching on the left or right flank. Major S shouted out “Get em Sea Biscut, Get em!” For my part, I closed my eyes and prayed.

When they say middle eastern drivers are aggressive, they aren’t kidding.
To the uninitiated (aka me) it seemed like a death race, disrespecting every
principle of car care known to man. However, we did make it safely to our
cots that night, and I will certainly never forget my introduction to the
quirks of sandy society.