I must admit I feel a bit dazed and disoriented myself after listening to Barack Obama for any length of time, so I can hardly blame the man for not quite knowing where he was, what month it was, and how much time he had until the general election.

One can only assume some of the vacuousness of a particularly rarefied stump speech breached the walls of his sphenoid sinus and leaked rarefied hope-phlegm into his braincase. That, or perhaps his soul-sucking opponent used that Lifeforce vampire alien trick to prematurely dodder him. I just hope to hell she wasn’t naked like in the movie.

Tags: obama, wilmington

Hey– Anybody out there remember what it means when it flashes red?

Tags: barack, obama, wright, operation, chaos

It seems like such a short 6 months ago when civilian Mindstation stumbled into a USMC recruiting station, three sheets to the wind with a fourth sheet crammed in my pants as a makeshift diaper, drunk on what seemed like a bottomless weekend of Zima. A lot has happened since then, two NJPs, one court martial (which did not– as I will again remind some here– convict anyone of any wrongdoing) and countless toilets scrubbed again and again and again, Pfc Mindstation stands before you a different man.

He nows sits at the very tip of the spear in the war on terror,

Fort Sill Oklahoma.

Things sure are different here than at the Imperial Palace nestled in the hills of Santa Barbara. The massive Doric styled columns that adorn the imperial facades are replaced with evergreen shrubbery outside of the chowhall. The 300+ bedrooms that filled hallway after empty hallway are replaced by crowded barracks filled with Marines. My cozy personal bedroom, known worldwide as the largest and most superfluous in current existence, is replaced by a tiny 15′x10′ two man abode.

At first I was outraged by such horrid living conditions– after all, I joined the elite Marine Corps, not some underfunded, hardscrabble group of lunkhead rabble-rousers.

Of course, I soon kenned the wisdom of my circumstance, when I realized how close my roommate would be to me, and hence how quickly he could respond to my commands and needs. The crystal bell I always carry with me to signal I am in need of service has become a common sound through the slightly off-white hallways of Echo wing. On a completely unrelated note, I have noticed that my fellow Marines have been buying a unusual amount of towels and soap bars from the PX lately. Fascinating!

Lars has been adapting to military life well. The plane ride from LAX to Oklahoma International was a bit hard for him, stuffed inside my extra sea bag, but he has recovered on the special diet I prescribed to him of Cheese & Veggie Omelet MREs.

Luckily, I found that Lars’ babyface closely resembles my own. So, with a few impromptu plastic surgeries performed in the head of my barracks, I have successfully created a double of myself, or at least what I might look like after a horrifying industrial accident. This comes in handy when I am given assignments such as scrubbing every toilet, or removing every blade of grass from PT fields, as so often happens when I attempt to relieve my NCOs of their positions because of incompetence.

In the free time I have found, while Lars dutifully cleans and mops, I have set out to learn some of Oklahoma’s history. Interestingly enough, Oklahoma ranks first in America in featureless flatland, dead grass, and water towers. I must admit I’m a little surprised, as my Marine recruiter enthusiastically affirmed it’s rights to the nickname the ‘Garden State.’ And I have no reason to believe he would steer me wrong. Nevermind, I’m sure it will all sort itself out. Another interesting fact about Oklahoma is that all the electrical outlets are upside down. Don’t believe me? Look at this damning evidence!

The evidence is damning.

Like some futuristic Hue City, an urban battleground ripped from the kidneys of time and transplanted to the 21st century, Oklahoma is the wild west of the war on terror. Except here, the Man with No Name wears blue jeans and a hoodie with the word ‘Side-Out’ printed on them. You know, I was going somewhere with this… I’m sure I’ll remember the point later. In fact, make up your own damn point, I need to go to the bathroom. I don’t think that Super-Lucky Orange Chicken I ordered from the Panda Dragon King is sitting so ’super-lucky’ after all. General Tso, you lied!

Until next time (if there is a next time, as you never know when a IED attack may hit the chow hall formation) this is Pfc. Mindstaion, USMC signing out.

-The Evil Emperor Mindstation, U.S.M.C.

“And so the boy, given up for dead, returns to his people, to the sacred Imperial Palace, an Emperor. Our Emperor: The Evil Emperor Mindstation!”

The spectacle of the Imperial Opera House illuminated by fireworks reminded me of the festive celebrations after I made my first doody in the big boy toilet. There I am on the left side next to the fourth window. Don’t I look magnificent?

Thus began the Imperial Pomp and Pageantry that followed my graduation from MCRD San Diego, as I returned in Triumph to the Imperial Palace. My breast swelled with pride as I saw Lars weep with joy upon seeing me for the first time in two months (I had managed to conceal him inside of my footlocker for the first 25 days of boot camp, but sadly he was thrown out after my Drill Instructors observed the unusually large amounts of food my gear was consuming and discovered him when he refused to become invisible as I had ordered him).

Even the Imperial Potential Pretenders to the Imperial Throne (otherwise known as extended family) attended. So drunk were they with admiration, that they had forgotten my vow to have them killed on sight to cement my position as Supreme Ruler. Amusingly enough, even I was in a mood so joyous that I forgot to give the orders to assassinate them. Oh well, the tracking devices installed on their cars are enough.

I must admit, it took me a full 2 weeks after graduation to put this post up; it seems some of a4g’s nasty civilian laziness has rubbed off onto me. At least the night terrors have stopped, and I’m wetting the bed with less frequency. Nothing that hours of morning PT cannot fix. I’m sure that there is no chance of me falling back into my regular civilian habits, no chance at all!

-The Evil Emperor Mindstation, P.Z.I.C.