So here I sit in Kuwait waiting to hop a plane north to Iraq. All things considered Kuwait is not terrible. The internet is existent most of the time. The showers are hot (while I’m sure Kuwaiti plumbers are second to none, I do believe we can give the warm water credit to the 115 degree temps this place averages.)

The food in the chow hall is plentiful and 93% non-fatal. The Kuwaitis who serve it are nice enough fellows, well not unpleasant anyway.

I assume they are Kuwaiti. I don’t know. My apologies to anyone of you decides to be offended. No I take that back. If you are offended by innocuous comments then stop reading. Seriously…stop. Go read another blog that is more to your oversensitive likings. I don’t have time or patience to deal with you. Go on! Get!……. Are they gone? Good. Where was I?

You work your way up line and hand them your plastic plate. They then blankly stare at you until you point at whatever strikes your fancy. (It’s not unlike being sloshed in a waffle house at 3 a.m. Point to the picture of what you want and then put your head down until the food arrives.) The food service engineer then takes a heaping spoonful of whatever and unceremoniously splatters it all over the section of the plate he thinks it should go in and hands you back the plate. I normally give the food a 6 and the presentation a 2 but crude and effective will suit me nine times out of ten.

They have a dessert bar in the chow hall with an impressive array of cakes and ice cream and cookies. The local who works the counter is a shorter gentleman with graying hair and wire rimmed glasses. Aziz, or so his name tag claims, smiles at you as he cuts the piece of diabetic suicide chocolate cake and hands it to you with a knowing smile, as if to say to, “Really dude? You chubby fuck, in no way can you justify this piece of cake.” “Shut up, Aziz.” I say in my head. “Don’t judge me. Jesus said not to.” Ha! Point Mackin.

If mess hall food is not your thing, you are more than welcome to go by the burger king, taco bell, or some Asian place who’s food looks and tastes like any mediocre cat dish you could get from the same caliber restaurant in the states.

One thing I am enjoying is pop tops on coke cans with Arabic labels. I don’t know why but I think they are cool. Yes, I am one of those people that likes old things simply because they are old. I accept it, why can’t you? Jimmy Buffett immortalized pop tops in a song after he drunkenly treaded on one after his sandals malfunctioned. A sign he had not been drinking enough. He soon fixed that. Atta boy, Jimmy.

So after rereading this I guess the underlying point here is that the chow is pretty decent. Just don’t expect to see old Wolfie Puck in the short order eggs line at breakfast.

Side note: as one of my sergeants was disappointed to find out, in Kuwait when you order a biscuit with your three piece Kentucky Fried Chicken meal what you are actually getting is a dinner roll. What the fuck Col. Sanders? It’s morale killers like this that will cause us to lose the war.  That topped with the fact that the only thing close to alcohol we can have is near beer and communion wine.(For any of you readers who know me, you know the alcohol rant is coming. I am just letting it build up a bit before I unleash it on the unsuspecting public.) You get that bird on your chest and you think you can take liberties with a soldier’s God given right to have a delicious biscuit while in theater. Lock it up, sir!

That’s it for me for the moment.