A lotta knots

For the ladies....

The winds are gusting here. Maybe 35 knots sometimes. That's a lot of knots. If I've done the math in my head correctly, it's about 402 mph, give or take. I know it sounds crazy, but in the military we measure winds and temperature and moon illumination in knots. My Hello Kitty sleeping bag blew away but I found it and secured it with four bayonets, a roll of duct tape and a few knots of the old 550 cord.

I've noticed I've got several readers of the female persuasion. While most of my writing is of the virile, manly variety, this special post is dedicated to you. (And yes, especially you, my knotty little special one. You know who you are.)

But in addition to being manic fans of moi, it seems more than a few of you fawning femininities appreciate other types of literature, too. And one of the Yawnettes sacrificed a bit of sleep last night (which on? A true gentleman never tells... and I will NEVER BETRAYUS) to prepare this veritable feast for all our eyes.



"When I read the writings you write I feel as though I was reading a romance novel co-authored by Hunter S Thompson and Louis L'amour," she wrote to me in the email she emailed to me that I just read. But reading and writing and typing and emailing are two very different things, like love and lust and hate (MCSPIDERS!), or my stuff and that crap you get from the lamestream media or traditional bloggers.

I don't fully understand it, but I like the pictures (and I suspect you like it, too). If they bring even half the pleasure to you that it does to me than I dare say you will be satisfied...

Or perhaps unsatisfied. Believe you me, I understand that feeling, alone here because of McChrystal on the windswept plains of a foreign and savage land, the golden moon - that cold-hearted orb that rules the night - the sole witness to my solitude... out in the wild, so distant in space and time from the heat of your lips and the warmth of your passionate embrace...

Then, as the warm breeze ripples the walls of my Power Rangers Pup Tent, soft music lulls me towards slumber...



"How do you resist the temptation, my mighty warrior monk?" You might ask, in a throaty whisper... In truth it isn't easy - in fact it's often unbelievably hard - and even the mightiest of stout oaks bends to the stiff breeze from time to time.



But I remember what my grandpa said about hard things, and though it takes more effort than I think I can bear, I remind myself of this lesson, imparted to me by a ninja master so very long ago...



And to sleep I go, perchance to dream, my fist wrapped firm but gently 'round my 9 while my bandanna hangs drying close at hand.

Thailand can wait. There are stories to live, and some to tell, and new names to add to my shit list. That is my burden, the load I carry. I don't have to prove anything to anyone.

Don't forget to hit my tip jar.

Highway to the Danger Close Zone

I just got an email:

Mr. Yawn,

I was reading Michael Yawns Online and had an inspiration for this totally original song. Here is a link to the music, and the lyrics are below. Maybe if we all donate enough money, you can hire Bruce Willis to produce and sing it on Sean Hannity’s Freedom Concert Tour. Here are the lyrics:

The Highway to the Danger Close Zone (Ballad of Green Beret Mike Yawn)

Revvin' up his camera
Listen to it hum and whir
Shutter speed on slo-mo
Ready for helo lights to glow
Highway to the Danger Close Zone
Ride into the Danger Close Zone
Headin' into twilight
Strapping on his kevlar tonight
Combat got him jumpin' off the FOB
Stryker shovin' into overdrive
Highway to the Danger Close Zone
Yawn'll take you
Right into the Danger Close Zone
He'll never say hello to you
Till you embed a year on the front line overseas
He'll never respect what you can do
Until you embed as long as he can go
Out along the edges
Always where Mike Yawn burns to be
The further on the edge
The hotter the intensity
Highway to the Danger Close Zone
He’s gonna take you
Right into the Danger Close Zone
Highway to the Danger Close Zone

Jack Idema on YAWN

Listen up pussies, I now have a list of asses to kick that is so long it's going to take me a year just to read them all. What the hell is up with all these punk ass bloggers messing with Mike Yawn. Mike is a Super Patriot just like me. Hell I'd share a cell in an Afghan prison with Mike any day. Matter of fact Mike give me a call we could bunk up and get to know each other. You ever seen a grown man naked?

There's nothing that makes we want to open up a can of whoop ass more than to hear some lazy bastard chicken hawk son of a bitch mouthing off about his betters who had the balls to deploy to combat zones, break every rule, act like freakin' lunatics and then get their asses booted out of county.

let's start with that bald jackass Uncle Dimbo. I have super-secret sources in intel agencies so black they don't even take calls from Jack Bauer. Hell I think Yawn has been communicating with them recently as well and I'm sure they are the ones who got him those secret spider-proof moon gloves. But these folks tell me that Dimbo's entire Special Forces career consisted of banging midget Thai hookers and playing pool at Super Head in the Philippines. Compared to the months of time me and Mike have getting booted off teams his years of deployments and un-blemished career make a real Super patriot wanna puke.I still owe that miserable bastard a beat down from when he was talkin' smack while I was bravely serving my country from a jail in the Stan, and I don't mean that loser McChrystal.

The rest of you gutless chickenhawks better watch your asses, 'cuz Jack is back and I'm teaming up with other Super Patriots like Mike Yawn. And we will be bringing that kind of bad assery that only Napoleon complex-havin' rejects from Special Forces can bring.

Danger Close with Destiny

Some of McChrystal’s milblogger goons are trolling my comments demanding “evidence” that he is waging a smear campaign against me. Others want “proof” that he doesn’t know how to run this war.

The evidence has been sent to my lawyer. And the proof … well, the proof McChrystal doesn’t know what he’s doing is everywhere. The proof is in Afghan children making paper airplanes because they don’t know how to read. The proof is in Mayor McChrystal McCheese monopolizing whoppers. The proof is in the pudding.

Nevertheless, I have something bigger than evidence. Larger than proof.

I have destiny.

Six years ago.

There I was, there I was, there I was … in … the Congo.

I’d been hot on the trail of a pack of fugitive Nazi cannibals for months, and just stumbled across their abandoned camp. Crept into a clearing, pistol drawn. Heard no voices. No footsteps. A dwindling fire hissed its dying breaths under the sounds of the jungle. A rhesus monkey laughed at man’s impotence against nature. The macaw cried about something sad. The ominous notes of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung drifted from an antique victrola atop a tree stump.

Over the cooling firepit was a charred human body, split down the middle by a metal spit. A German eagle and a swastika set in silver relief from the handle. Some of the meat on the body was gone. Nazi cannibals were ass men, apparently. An Iron Cross glinted from the ashes. Its black and silver finish tarnished by oxidation and history’s judgment.

I’d just missed the Nazi cannibal bastards.

Suddenly, a crack. Gripped my revolver tightly. Spun and leveled it on the chest of an intruder. Fear was greeted by mirth. A small, brown man stood barefoot and naked, except for a scraggly white beard and a necklace of shrunken heads draped around his neck. His eyes hard to see past the wrinkled folds of his smile. The brown slits gleamed with wisdom and power. I recognized the mark of a shaman. He recognized the mark of a warrior.

“Away put your weapon, I mean you no harm,” he said with a raspy accent.

“Who are you?”

“Not important it is who I am, Michael Yawn,” he answered.

His gaze became serious. “To you more important – to the fate of the world more important – is who you are … uh, is.”

“I don’t have time for word footsie, little fella, I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’m hot on the trail of a pack of Nazi cannibals.”

“Take you to them, I will. But now, must eat.”

The old man reached into a pouch made from the skin of a panther. He rummaged around and pulled out a pack of saltines.

“No, will not do, this,” he harrumphed and tossed them aside. The shaman dug through the bag again, this time finding and discarding a pack of wet naps. After tossing away mints, Crest White Strips and a dog-eared Danielle Steele novel - the shaman finally found what he was looking for. His eyes closed and his long, pointy ears twitched in satisfaction. He pulled something out of the bag and thrust it toward me.

“Here. Eat this, you must.”

It was a human skull, top sawed off above the eyes. Inside was a creamy paste. Looked like peanut butter. Looked like danger.

It just so happens, I like peanut butter and danger. It’s my middle name. (“Danger,” not “peanut butter.”)

I ate the paste. It tasted like destiny.

“Well thee fare, Michael Yawn. Your destiny, you will find.”

The world swirled. Blurriness, then blackness.

Color. Swirling color. A tunnel of light. A strange figure, riding, walking toward me. On eight legs. A giant spider on a bridge of light. Only, its torso was that of a man with craggy features wearing a green uniform. Next to the spider man was a demon in a hockey jersey negligently discharging a weapon.

In front of them was a man. His steely gaze and rigid shoulders obviously marked him as an American soldier. Behind the soldier was an Afghan girl, making paper airplanes. The spider man and the hockey player were attacking the American soldier and the Afghan girl. They spotted me.

“There is nothing you can do to stop us, Michael ‘Danger’ Yawn,” they said in unison.

“Eh,” added the hockey demon.

“God damn you bastards, I must try.”

“Yes, try you must,” echoed the voice of the shaman. “Try you must, try you must, try you …”

“… must.”

I awoke on the wooden floor of a Thai cathouse. Naked. Two sleeping ladyboys tangled on straw mat next to me. Opium incense sticks burning. Empty tequila bottles. Pounding head. Was it a memory? Was it a dream? Was it a vision? I didn’t know.

Until now.

Another very nice email

Got a very nice email from Hactor Magillicuddy. Here is what it said:

"I linked your post at my blog"

That is very nice. At his blog he says this: "McChrystal is incompetent and dangerous. He is in over his head."

That confirms a lot of the things I've been saying here. People keep asking for "evidence" even as it keeps piling up higher and higher and higher.

Don't call me milblogger

I understand from email a number of "milbloggers" are suddenly concerned about my mental health. Where was their concern when we started losing the war? Suddenly I expose McChrystal for an incompetent fool and the "milbloggers" are concerned for my "health" and think I need a "vacation." That I should "take a break" or just "relax." "Get refreshed." "Come back later after "resting" for a while." "Soak my toes in the beach somewhere", or maybe "at least just go to Thailand for a weekend and get laid." Funny how that concern only appeared after I exposed McChrystal for an incompetent fool. Where was their concern when we started losing the war?

I don't even read milblogs. Never have. No one who is serious about the war reads milblogs. When the mainstream media wants to ridicule or marginalize me they call me a "milblogger." I have heard a thousand spiders scream beneath a flaming blood red moon. I do not have a blog and am not now and never will be a "milblogger." Name me any of the top five milblogs who have ever been embedded as a war correspondent for over a year. Not. One. If they did they would know McChrystal is incompetent and we are losing the war. Sleep is for pussies. I've been up for over 73 hours now an I will not rest.

Hell Yeah!!!!!

Now that's what I'm talkin about:



Another picture sent from a reader. I have no idea who thought this up, but it's sheer genius. Exacly right.

Incompetence

Some claim I don't have "evidence" that McChrystal doesn’t know how to run this war. I (and my lawyer) have lots.

Just received this email:

I am Robert Johnson, a sargent in the American armies, presently in Afghanstan among peace keeping force.

During the raid of the Osama bin Ladin hide out, which was also where he kept funds and valuables and cars and prize sexing goat, I smuggled out a box contain $13 million, which I have moved out of Afhganstan through a diplomadic channel.

The funds is presently in the custody of a securities and finance company in Europe. I want to move finally to safe bank account through a reliable person with good trust.

If you are willing to assist me in deal, urgently contact for further details.

Regard
Bob Johnson (a sargent in the US armies and marines)

I wonder if all the milbloggers full of hot air can please tell me: If McChrystal and his staff of switch-flipping monkey soldiers can’t keep track of Osama bin Laden’s confiscated treasure ... how can we expect them to win this war?

McChrystal must go. This war is over his head.

McWhoppers

McChrystal is trying to monopolize Whoppers and whoppers from Afghanistan. Whoppers coming out of Afghanistan will be coming from General McChrystal. I'm not surprised. McChrystal/McDonalds... he thinks he's a regular Mayor McCheese, but the troops all call him "Hamburgler". Soon enough he'll be asking "want fries with that"? He wants to have it his way. Well, hold the pickle, buddy. Special orders DO upset us. Yeah... I got your five dollar footlong right here. Send in the clowns, Ronald. Time to put Jack back in his box.



Eat me.

Message to McChrystal's Gang:

STOP EMAILING ME!

Fags.

No turning back

Another photo via email.


I have no idea where this was taken. Afghanistan... West Virginia... some godforsaken place where I wish I was, but I know an American soldier when I see one. Something about the stern jaw, the steel-eyed gaze, the determined posture.

I wish I was there, at his shoulder. I SHOULD be there at his shoulder.

Keep this in mind whenever you read one of my dispatches: They need me. I shall return.

Major Pain

I could watch the film Major Payne another few dozen or so times. Love this show but I think having kids would take the steam out of a war writer. Would want to be with the kids all the time.

Am taking the bayonet to my balls tonight.

Ernie is still dead, and I am not

The moon again.

Under that strange high moon rising to meet its eclipse, I thought of Ernie. No, not Ernie Pyle. The other one. Bathtime. Rubber ducky. Rage, thinly shrouded in orange felt.

After that, I thought of Ernie Pyle. His was a name I hardly knew just a few years ago, except in some vague way I knew he had been a writer, at war. That changed when people compared my work to his, and sent a couple of Ernie’s books to me. After reading them, I thought the comparison extremely flattering but inaccurate. After all, who would compare him to the greatest war correspondent of all times?

There are some obvious similarities between Ernie and me. I say “folks” a lot; so did Ernie. We also use the word “the” quite often. Ernie loved the infantry; I spend most of my time with infantry. We both reported on wars, even if I did spend more time in Iraq than Ernie or any other reporter ever did (Afghanistan too). The name Ernie Pyle has nine letters, and the name Michael Yawn has eleven letters – and that is pretty close.

But while Ernie talked bluntly about the ugly parts of war, I simply lack the skills to make anything ugly look pretty. Believe me I've tried, in many Thai massage parlors. And Ernie was never disembedded four times. Ernie never called for the dismissal of top generals in theater. He wasn’t arrested by US Customs and subjected to treatment not seen under the Khmer Rouge. The horror. The horror. Maybe those were different times. Maybe Ernie really wanted to do those things but he was restrained. Or scared. But not me.

Where Pyle and I share closest ties is in our knowledge of the value our work has for troop morale, for strategic gains, and victory. But in Ernie’s day, it seems that more of the military leaders knew this as well. Military leaders made it possible for Ernie Pyle to do his best work, something I wrote about more than one year ago, when no one else had the courage to write it.

Not so today. If only our military leaders would get rid of McChrystal. If only they’d relieve Menard and tell the Canadians we Americans won’t be subject to their maple-syrup coated tyranny. If only they’d allow a new Ernie Pyle the same opportunity to spread the truth.

Then maybe we’d win this war.

But comparisons between Pyle and myself really shouldn’t be made. Ernie is dead after all, and I am not. Unlike Pyle, I am still able to report the truth of this war to you.

The day has ended. Moon Ring. Liquid Moon. Moonbats. Blue Moon. Afghan Moon. Moon of Sorrow.

But something is on. Combat aircraft are over top. Big guns? Predators? C130 hovers. Action. Godspeed to the bros who need it. I miss them so much. Blast McChrystal, he is denying our troops my presence.

Packing. Gun at ready, good man said put away. Was that Ernie's ghost? No, Ernie is dead. But he lives in me.

Goodnight moon.

Here's another excellent milblogger

Michael Yon is an excellent milblogger. He and I are on the same wavelength.

I got another email with a picture in it

A reader sent this:

Not the actual action figure, just the picture. When people send me actual objects like action figures or stuffed animals I have to cut them into small pieces to make sure there's no spy stuff on the inside. I don't think cameras in a picture can see me though.

But I added the picture to the sidebar to represent me. Whenever readers send me things I get the courage to continue. The best way to send something is money through paypal and then I can pick out a gift for myself.

People are getting tired of McChrystal's garbage. Robert Gates is my friend.

For you

I took this picture for you.

Waiting

Looked up at the night sky and felt the twinkling eyes of the world upon me. Billions of stars. Billions of souls. Begging askance for the truth about McChrystal's war.

I alone, can deliver.

Only my duty (and your donations through the Paypal link, authorize.net or check or money order made out to “Mike Yawn” and sent to the PO Box below) keeps me going.

For now, must get rest. Brushed my teeth. Heard a noise. Thought it might be the Taliban, or Charlie. Grabbed the loaded and cocked pistol, placed with care under my pillow.

Just a mangy Afghan dog. Choked it. Watched the smoldering embers of life fade slowly from its eyes. Now they are black. Just like another night, at war. Perhaps my dreams will be better, more innocent.

Tomorrow, another mission.

McBugs

Sent out by McChrystal's gang. To watch me.

This proves

we cant win the war.

All the people who said I was crazy are awfully quiet about this. NOW WHO IS TEH CRAZY ONES, MCSPIDERS?!?!?!?!

I got a email

bY mIKE yAWN

"Mike, we should call him McChrystalBowersox. All the troops call him that to make fun of him. The lady who does my drycleaning says her son did a hitch in service but got out to go to college but he's still in touch with some guys who have been to Afghanistan and they call him McChrystalBowersox to make fun of him."

I have no idea who Chrystal Bowersox is because I don't watch American Idol, but that pretty much proves what I've been saying about McSpiders. I was the first person to call Iraq a civil war. Ever. The Canadians are our enemy. They are waiting to take advantage of our war with Mexico, but Menard can't even shoot a helicopter from the inside.

It's daylight here so I'm going to take a picture of the mountains. They look beautiful but I think they are moving. Towards me. I will try to upload them later.