>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks

April 15, 2007

This article is dedicated to the sexy solider who sent me the following message on MySpace.

You know, I wonder how many of these random “OMIGOD!!!! I just looooooooove your PIC column! It's the BEST! Can we be BFF's???” messages you get. If it's a lot, then this ain't it, congrats! If it's not that many, then sorry, this ain't it. Truth be told, I started reading PIC back in college and I've kept reading it ever since, and when our internet works over here in Iraq (which is hit or miss depending on if hadji has cut the cables, remembered to turn it on, or if a mortar blew up the satellite again… no, I’m serious about the last one, it happened when we got here. Take away beer, women, and sleep, but so help me God, take away internet and we're looking to tear down a neighborhood…anyway, I digress) I still find time to read it. I read your column to give me something to laugh at and stay in good humor between patrols, because God knows, all you really have to keep you going over here is your sense of humor and pack after pack of Iraqi cigarettes, and I'll put it to you this way, when you'd rather smoke an unfiltered Marlboro Red that's been soaked in gasoline than an Iraqi cigarette, you try damn hard to keep the humor going. Anyhoo, just dropping a line to say I love your stuff along with the other guys at PIC. Thanks for the laughs and keep on writing.
1LT Terron Wharton

“When your cards are down and your JCPenney one-piece is full of watery feces, you know who your real friends are.”

I’m a wicked woman. I swore I wouldn’t write this story, but I can’t think of anything else so I really have no choice. The heroine of this tale never reads my column, so what’s the harm? If any of you shits tell her I will take a belt sander to your nipples and karate chop you in the beaver/flesh baton.

One weekend in high school my friend “Laverne” and I went to the Sacramento Delta to go water skiing in my father’s new boat. My father’s previous boat was acquired by swapping a Volkswagen Beetle—it had plywood squares screwed to the floor and was always on the verge of sinking. So, naturally, he was very excited to take the shiny new Mastercraft on its maiden voyage.

For those of you without my keen athletic abilities, one simple rule of waterskiing is, when you fall down, you let go of the rope, as the laws of physics and gravity prevent you from getting up once you have fallen. I suppose this would apply to you hip wakeboarders too.

Laverne didn’t believe in rules. She took her turn skiing, then allowed herself to be dragged behind the boat for several yards. We turned around, picked her up, she got in the boat, and all seemed well for the moment.

Next it was my dad’s turn to ski. He got in the water and started getting his ski gear in order. That’s when my mother’s BFF, Patty, smelled an unholy stench.

“What is that odor?!” she said.

We all searched for the offending smell. Laverne got up to aid in the search efforts. When she arose, we all saw a brown smear violating the glistening white seat. As luck would have it, Laverne had given herself an enema by dragging herself in the water.

When your cards are down and your JCPenney one-piece is full of watery feces, you know who your real friends are. I am no friend. I sprinted to the bow of the turd vessel dry heaved while my parents helped her pick dingleberries out of her bathing suit.

My father eventually picked all of the offending doo doo out of Laverne’s swim suit.

Laverne made me proud that day. She was a trooper of a pooper and handled her embarrassment like a man. In her position I would have moved to the other side of the country and never spoken to the boaters again. Or maybe drown them in the delta so no one would know my shameful secret.

Let Laverne’s plop plop shame serve as a warning for your own boating fun. Let go when you tumble or your colon will start to rumble!