Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Reaction Repression: Or Why My Life Appears to be screwed up

I have found over the years that the overwhelming majority of people I know just do not get me. They are geneticly incapable of comprehending even the most straightforward parts of my personality. Notable exception is the [sainted] Mother, who honors me with the title of "Person I can talk to about Everything.", I'm not sure what that says about her....moving on....

So this post entitled "Reaction Repression..." is meant to give an illustration of why people do not "get me". If you do not understand, do not sweat it, just read the military humor for what it is. If you do not understand the Freudian referance, do not sweat that either. I cannot stand Freud and question the cognitive capacity of people who will form their cosmology based on the opinions of a cocaine addict. I digress...

The set-up: It is the crack of dark, I am supposed to be finishing a PY term paper on PTSD/trauma psychology which is overdue, I am listening to a w i d e l y broadcast radio program which I will never admit to even knowing about with the subject matter of the nuances of the whole 911/terror theme, I do a google search loosly based on the SEAL swim buddy theory for illustrative purposes related to this term paper, below is part of what I find:

U.S. Navy Oath of Enlistment:
I, Top Gun, in lieu of going to prison, swear to sign away 4 years of my life to the United States Navy because I want to hang out with Marines without actually having to BE one of them, because I thought the Air Force was too "corporate," and because I thought, "hey, I like to swim...why not?"

I promise to wear clothing that went out of style in 1976 and to have my name stenciled on the butt of every pair of pants I own. I understand that I will be mistaken for the Good Humor man during the summer, and for Waffen SS during the winter. I will strive to use a different language than the rest of the English-speaking world, using worlds like "deck, bulkhead, cover, and head" instead of "floor, wall, hat, and toilet." I will take great pride in the fact that all Navy acronyms, rank and insignia, and everything else for that matter, are completely different from the other services and make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

I will muster (whatever that is) at 0700 hrs every morning unless I am buddy-buddy with the Chief, in which case I will show up around 0930 hours. I vow to hone my coffee cup handling skills to the point that I can stand up in a kayak being tossed around in a typhoon, and still not spill a drop. I consent to being promoted and subsequently busted at least twice per fiscal year. I realize that, once selected for Chief, I am required to submit myself to the sick, and quite possibly illegal, whims of my new-found "colleagues."
Signature, Date

U.S. Marine Corps Oath of Enlistment:
I, state your name, swear... uuhhhh... high-and-tight...cammies... uhh... ugh... Air Force women... OORAH! So help me Corps.
Thumb Print,
Date (Y/N)

Keeping in mind the hour, the activity I am supposed to be engaged in, the "background music", the fact that I understand why this is unusually funny well beyond my own experience and one other important factor;

there is a third party in the immediate ao so to speak, I cannot laugh out-loud or make any noise whatsoever. My only option for the tension release of threatening gales of laughter is silent convulsions, tears running down my cheeks and choked snorting into my sleeve. On a scale of ten, about a two on the reaction richter, so very unsatisfying indeed. Digressing again...

All these factors, converging upon my psyche, constitute "normal" for me. The sublime, serious pursuit of academic knowledge is without warning, violently interrupted by the most inane krappiccino.

I'm off to repair my duct tape hat...


If you did not understand why this is so hilarious as to actually waste time posting about it, nevermind. You won't ever understand me either.


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