Good Evening to all my Wretched Refusnics and Politically Unreliable Readers! (Least ways to the Powers That Be that is….To me y’all are my besties LOL)!
Yep the Intrepid Reporter here after many slugs and shots of his favorite mental Lubricant, Finlandia Vodka. Yeah.. I was stationed in Germany ‘back in the day’ and was dating a MAD hottie who happened to tic numerous boxes in ye Olde I.R. box o’ wishes list… She was half Polish… her Da was a old school former behind-the-Iron-Curtain reformed commie… which meant he
A) Held most things American in contempt
B) Despite the aforementioned, he constantly hoped I’d marry his spawn to get a ticket to the “Land of the Big PX”
C) He was an ‘Old School” Pollack… which meant the following…
About two months into me bangin’… er… dating his daughter, one Friday night before we were destined to hit the Club (The Green Goose specifically in Nuremberg to those who may have pulled a tour in the 90’s in Deutschland) Da called me and my buddy (who was dating my girls sister… a twin sister no less… no bullshit… identical twins. And yeah I got real time stories on THAT particular shitstorm for later… to continue:) into the main living room of the apartment.
Now any GI or even American Civilian who’s spent time in Germany knows about these fucking pre-IKEA GIGANTIC all encompassing entertainment centers the Krauts are so fond of… for sake of the editor before he starts ranting and for those who don’t know, Herman the German LOVES his giant assed wall size entertainment centers… think of a TV stand that covers an entire 15 foot wall, made of hardwood, weighs 3 tons and besides holding the TV, has the most elaborate built in bars known to mankind.
So Pops calls me over and starts rambling to me in Pollack. Me, my German was OK… better than OK. It got me Anna, a 6’0 tall 185 pound blue eyed Teutonic Goddess of the Valkyrie Type. And the best part was she was 18 (I was 23/24) and she fucked like a hot mink on steroids, never mind one half of Identical Twins. 36 DD… legs from the neck down and a long distance track runner… only reason she didn’t have black eyes from running was the industrial grade sports bra she was fond of… Ass like a pair of 8 pound pumpkins havin’ a wrasslin’ contest under a spandex blanket…Literally the only thing that could have been better was if her Da had owned a liquor store!
So her pops is going off on me, and opens, nay… correction… UNLEASHES the bar from the aforementioned entertainment system. It opens, and he produces two shot glasses, digs into the assorted bottles, and then he starts loading with some Polish style Vodka. OK… NFBD (No fucking big deal). Anna (my girl) starts getting all nervous and starts telling me a translation of what her Da is spouting off about.
Apparently this’s some old assed cultural Russkie-style drinking shit… Essentially Pops wanted to make sure his baby had a -MAN-. No wimps or non-load bearing motherfuckers allowed. And to do this means the attempted murder of the Potential-Suitor-in-Question by Vodka. Lots of Vodka. Like a Metric Fuck-Ton o’Vodka.
Now the Olde I.R. of fame and lore can hold his own… quite fucking well I might add… Even in my old age now I can shoot down about a liter to a liter and a half and function the next day… Back then? Even moreso. Something about a liver made of Adamantium and 4 kidneys (an interesting Irish birth mutation according to the docs)… So yeah, I can hold my own. Anna, the poor sweet thing starts getting all worried and tells me that this’s REALLY important… A “Pass/Fair” sort of thing… Looked her dead in the eye, and told her “Baby, I got this…” Turned to the Old Man, looked him dead in the eye, raised my glass, said “Prosit Motherfucker!” and we commenced to drinking.
Thats a bit of an understatement… sorta like the Bombardier on the Enola Gay: “Then I dropped the Bomb.”. Yeah. Drinking? Oh my Christ… 90 minutes into it Da was wobbly, I was too, but wasn’t giving away anything. Keeping ye olde military bearing… pride in the Regiment… what the fuck ever… as we had progressed, my boy Toby, the other B/F was like “Dude… he did this to me two weekends ago… I couldn’t hang… I ralphed all over the place… he’s got like zero respect for me now.” I was like “No shit… thats because your a gas-jockey and I’m a Grunt dude!” Yeah poor prick was a refueling specialist and I regularly busted his balls for it… typical Green Grunt shit.
I was however timing my shit pretty closely… Dead Old Dad was starting to spill while pouring, and I had Anna tell him we needed to finish up so’s we could still hit the club. I kept this smug-assed smile on my grill, not giving away that by now, my gut was literally sloshing w/various flavors of Vodka… from smooth as glass Russian to Razorbladed Ukrainian Rotgut… it alllll went down… The booze itself hadn’t -quite- hit the cerbral cortex, nor did I want it to… that amount of hootch was a one-way-trip to the medics and poisoning if I didn’t end it soon.
So Dad Rummages around in the back of this cavernous bar and produces a small, dusty OLD bottle w/ a clear liquid. He takes it, pulls the cork… muttering to no one in particular, and pours us both a half a shot each. I picked it up, sniffed it, and realized “Gotcha Motherfucker.” Everclear or the Rooskie variant… Dad thought he was gonna put the final nail in Big Country’s coffin. He didn’t know that we regularly drank that shit as part of that stupid-balls-to-the-walls Infantry retardation that all grunts from the age of 18 to 25 suffer from… So… I picked it up, shot it, and waited for him to follow through. He did… although I could tell it hurt him. I then added insult to injury by pouring one more full one… just for myself and shot it down…
Motherfucker was impressed I will say that… his eyes bugged out at the audacity… Started all backslapping me and slurring out what had to high praise for my steel spine (yeah right!). Anna was pleased but then Pops there started making kissy faces and sing-songy things towards my boy that wasn’t complimentary towards Toby. Anna later told me that Toby was ‘less than a woman’ to Dad. Oh well.. tough shit to Toby. Thank a dissolute lifestyle and good booze-genetics for my achievement.
So we bailed… and as soon as we hit the outside, I -immediately- took action and three-fingered the throat. Couldn’t chance actually processing that much Vodka…. alcohol poisoning at best, Death at worst. Anyways, I was pretty successful in the purge… I barfed up a vile mix that smelled like someone had upset a nurses cart filled with isopropyl and spilled that shit -everywhere-. All and all a pretty good night… Good times, good times…
I love being able to relay these kind of memories… they’re funny, and I hope y’all are enjoying it. Tomorrow I’ll be getting a bit political, and I’ll be getting into more shit later. Also my man Mark from Charlie Mike is discussing me doing a whole Big Country Book edition on its own, from some of these stories.
I also surprise! surprise! re-discovered a trove of old emails and stories from Iraq that haven’t been published publicly. I’ll be hitting them out as we go along… so stay tuned!
Until then I remain the Intrepid Reporter