No, this isn't a joke.
What? You thought you'd get the sugarcoated version of my army experience? Nnnnnnnnope. Here's the Newly-Fucked-Up-Knuckles truth.
First of all, no excuses. I am the one to blame. I committed the 'crime', and I fully accept that. I am no scapegoat, I'm not even an example (yet). I was busted drinking underage. Big fucking whoop, right? Your kids do it regularly. They pay a small fine, go to a class, and call it a day. Here's what happened.
I woke up. I spent the night before doing NOTHING but watching episodes of "24" on my computer through WinAmp. Welcome to a healthy new addiction to rival The Sopranos. Once I gained cognitive consciousness the next day, I opened my fridge and grab an illicitly acquired beer. I cracked open said beer. The rest of the day had been a downward spiral. Me with my computer in bed, drinking a few. Me at my Xbox 360, playing Ghost Recon with teenage shit-talking strangers, drinking beer. Me watching TV, drinking beer. Me me me, beer beer beer.
Eventually, myself and another of more rank than I end up heading to the shopette. We're on our way back to the barracks, and we see two girls walking. He pulls over and asks what the hell they're doing walking, and offers them a ride. These girls want to meet up with some dude in some random unit that we don't know. For some reason, we have a heart, instead of laughing at them, and accusing them of indirect prostitution. We drive a total of fifty yards, when flashing lights fill our irises.
Our driver is asked to step out. The girls and myself are asked for ID. I supply my military ID like the total idiot douchebag moron that I am. The MP steps away, and cures cancer or whatever it is they do when they aren't grilling me. At this point, I'm telling these two civilian girls to shut up and chill out, and to stop being stupid. Their panic annoys me, and only serves as a flag to further fuck us over. Yes, I said fuck.
Five minutes later, an MP wants ME to step out of the vehicle. GREAT!!! I drunkenly fumble past the steering column, which scored me MASSIVE points. No breathalyzer. No questions. Put your hands on the car, CLICKETY RATCHET CLICK! I'm in handcuffs.
Yes they are painful.
Next thing I know, I'm in the backseat of an MP's cute little car. The seats are plastic. The seatbelt is not reassuring. I realize how easily I could put my arms under my legs and bring them to my front, but decide not to risk it, because comfort is NOT that important. So instead, I do the smart thing, and I shut my stupid mouth, because I'm freaking guilty.
After Jesus rose again and saved mankind from complete stupidity and Reality TV, we finally began to move, and the cute MP Impala crawled down the road along the airfield. After God reinvented Heaven and fixed everything that was wrong with Earth, we arrived at the MP station, which is Spanish for "The Epitome of Suck".
I got to sit in a cell, and lost the cuffs. Everything in my pockets, shoes, and belt were confiscated. Seeing as I escape from prison with my cheap Etnies belt that often...
After I beat on the door and begged to take a piss in a toilet, I was finally allowed to do so. Don't get me wrong, I was not above pissing all over the tiny cell with the two chairs and table in it. I should have written my name on the wall? Why? Because you're supposed to be a pissed off badass when you get in trouble with the law. But I didn't . I'm a sellout.
An MP, Sergeant (E5) comes in and questions me and gets me to sign all sorts of shit. I decline the opportunity to have a lawyer because the truth is that I AM in fact not 21, and I WAS in fact drinking alcoholic beverages, and loving every motherfucking second of it. The MPs themselves were actually pretty cool, considering their suckass job. I have to give them credit. Granted, if I were in their shoes, I'd be doing all I could to reclass to...I dunno.....INFANTRY. That's just me though.
I pissed a couple times when I was stuck in that holding cell. They only watched me once. The first time. I pushed while I pissed, inspired to prove to the MP that I did in fact have to piss. After demonstrating a 45 second urine jettison, I was satisfied for the next five minutes, and was ready to go back to my cell.
After the questioning and after I signed my life away and completely fucked myself (admitted that I was a guilty little moron), I was moved to a cell that had a cute little bed. I sat there for a good thirty seconds before I started to get really pissed. I was in trouble for underage drinking. Whoopity fucking doo. That's like J-Walking when traffic isn't allowed on the road. My buddy was losing a lot more than me. In fact, we're yet to see.
This was all sinking in, and I realized that a damn, DAMN good friend could be losing a lot because of this, and it got to me. I was seeing red, and needed something to break. My knuckles were the only choice. So there I am, half drunk and pissed as hell at myself and the situation in general, beating the piss out of the walls, which have more endurance than I do. My cell door opens.
My First Sergeant (the sergeant that leads the company, the big boss) steps in. He asks me nwhy the fuck I'm beating the damn walls and acting stupid. I have no logical answer, so I stand at parade rest and provide no argument to his assumption that I am in fact an idiot. He manages to mellow me out, and then he leaves to talk to the other guy I suppose. The door closes. I sit back down on the little bed, silently livid. At what, I don't know. At me, at the MPs for doing their job, at the legal system for allowing 17 year olds to join up and get blown into Chef Boyardee splatters, but not allowing anyone under 21 to get stupid with alcohol. I understand that the liver takes time to develop. The liver also doesn't stand so well against explosions and bullets, so pardon me if I don't give two shits.
I wait for a couple more minutes. Eventually, I'm given all my shit back, I put my shoes back on, and the MPs can finally take their gas masks off. I get my precious iPod and my dogtags. My wallet. I am the first OFFICIAL member of my platoon to fuck up. Great. When I got in shit before, we kept it In House, under the table. A slap on the hand and a shitty detail. Now I have a record with the fucking MPs. So we'll see how bad I get sodomized.
I get my shit, we head out. The guy that got in trouble with me is pretty distraught. I'm trying to shut him up, the First Sergeant is driving us back to the barracks. My friend orders me to shut up. So I sit there and listen to him talk all sorts of idiotic shit. We get to the building, the First Sergeant enters first, I grab my buddy by the shirt, give him the evil Steven Seagal stare in the eyes and tell him he is GOING to stay in the barracks tonight and not think about shit. I was told to go to my room and go to bed. Of course I didn't. Can't withold a good story from you great people.
Besides, after all this? What would I do? Go to bed? Or grab another beer? I think you know. Gotta ease the knuckle pain.
[All is good with me, if I lose rank, I'll let you know.]