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Deered in Afghanistan

The stories being shared among the men sitting behind me made me want to vomit. Dark humor I enjoy, but these guys had been in the shit, had stared death in the face, and now had to laugh about it or be forever scarred by it. 

"That fucker was lying in his bed when a goddamned R.P.G. came through the roof, landed 'tween his fuckin' legs. It was D-O-A. He sat right starin' at the female end. Lucky fucker jumped up an' ran. Didn't deer him at all. If it'd me, I'd a sat there two days...like a buddy a mine—got rattled. Shoulda ran. Couldn't. Got it right in the face. Fucker's dead. I had to help scrape him outta his tent. Don't know if an' when its my turn I'm gonna get un-deered. Shit." He grinned wide. His friends laughed. 

For them, I learned, the airline dumped all their wine and stocked up on extra Jack Daniel's. "Sorry, sir. We know what our boys like, and we take care of them on this flight." I understand, I said to the the flight attendant. I'll take some Jack too. 

Reader Comments (1)

I heard some stories like this from my cousin before he died. Some were shockingly morbid but side-splittingly funny at the same time. You're right, black humor reigns supreme or it will eat you alive.

January 3, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterArt Swift

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