A Cautionary Tale

In every soldier's life there comes a time to make a choice between good and evil, between right and wrong. Down one path lies eternal light and fulfillment, down the other... self-loathing and despair. Come with me, then, and listen as I spin a tale of deepest horror.
The place: Somewheresville, CT.
Our subject: A young Meredith DiMenna
Her destiny: To defile the ear canals of our nation's best and brightest.

A young girl sits alone in a school stairwell, eyes still stinging from the taunts and jeers of her cruel classmates. She hears a door open and moves to leave but is stopped short, looking up into the welcoming eyes of a stranger.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but notice that you were crying...
in C# minor." (WINK!)

And so it began. Friendships were founded as scales were solfeged. Ties were tacked, costumes were co- ordinated, and recitals were rehearsed. Above all, alliterations were abused.

A dark cloud had decended upon young DiMenna. What was once called glee club, barbershop, doo wop - a bonafide, Boone-ified way for youngsters to get their music fix - we now know by its Latin name...

a cappella.

Fun Fact: New York's Binghamtonics host the annual
For-The-Longest-Time-A-Thon, responsible for nearly
half of Binghamton's student suicides.

Whee-oo-oooh-huuuh-the longest...

After long years of harmonizing and martinizing*, Dimenna honed her powers of vocal prowess, to the point where A over high C is no longer a challenge, but a weapon. Her powers are now used for evil rather than the other, better, if perhaps a little boring, super-good. I give you exhibit A:

The_Argument.mp3


If you haven't heard the original, then rush over to Amazon and plunk your buck down. It's worth it. This poor song, once tall, was brought to its knees by the sheer power of sibilant cymbals, fricative flams, and plosive percussion. DIY-indie-punk will never be the same. And now that liberal-arts college students have gotten their hooks in it, (Their catchy, catchy hooks,) soon we may not be able to tell the difference between Fugazi show and Phish Phestival.

So I implore you. If, in spite of the evidence, you're still inspired to wear a constrictive uniform, shout on command, and stand stock-still for hours... why, have you considered the Army, son?!

We've got a home for you right here!

---

*you think the seams in those chorus shirts are gonna pop all by themselves?!

No Men=No Maids

You're aware, I assume, that there exist very real threats to our livelihood. We're surrounded on all fronts by faces of terrorists and journalists; war criminals and rock music critics. And trust me, they are cut from the same cloth. Their intent is to instill fear and self-doubt. They have chosen to destroy rather than create. They are instigators.
What is our reaction—Do we negotiate? Do we panic? Do we hide up in our hidey-holes with our lil' hidey-blankets, calling up imaginary hidey-friends on imaginary hidey-phones?

Don't be ridiculous. We build missile laser defense shields. It's what the big boys do.
How else to make sure that those ne'er-do-wells are kept outside our nation's borders? And for those of you worrying about your own private borders, this tech tree trickles down to consumer products like Illegal-Immigration-Laser-Defense-Shield, Unwarranted-Wiretapping-Laser-Defense-Shield and Definitely-Not-A-Recession-Probably-Laser-Defense-Shield. All pocket-sized, on-the-go like. Which brings us back to the age-old equation:

X + Y = (^_^)

In which X = Tax Dollars
Y = Flagrant Government Spending
(^_^) = Cool Gadgets For Me To Buy

Even with all of these precautions, the breakdown in security starts with the introduction of the human element. How else to explain this recent lapse in protocol, that another article of DemoWAR contraband has been discovered on the premises? A bootlegged song à la Meredith DiMenna, no less. This is disquieting.

A_Man_Needs_A_Maid.mp3

I've got no choice left but to slowly shake my head in consternation. I try to tell you men that this stuff is dangerous - you don't listen. I tell you that you're furthering the breakdown of our puritanical society - you label me a paranoid old coot. These pirate broadcasts offer nothing more than empty promises! Trust me - there are no women coming to visit you in the wee hours, bearing gifts of sonorous song and bountiful bosom. There are no maids coming to make your meals or tuck your sheets under your chin like mommy used to do. There is only a progressive weakening of your manlinesses, resulting in a feminization of the entire corps.

The truth is when you bunk down, listening to these...these "records," our squad of MACHO Operatives (Muscle Atrophy CHecker-Outers) is sneaking into your dormitories with calipers—big, shiny calipers—to sure your muscles aren't atrophying. But it turns out they are atrophying, like bananas in the sun.
Imagine you took a bicep and hollowed it out, but instead of all that bicepy stuff, you replaced it with gummy-bear gummy-stuff. And now that the temperature has hit 90°, the melty-gummy-stuff is trickling out of your pores like high-fructose sweat. So here you are stuck to your clothes, your copy of Jet magazine, a nearby picnic table and oh look, it won't be long before bees arrive. Oh god, the bees!*


So let that be a lesson learned. No golden radio voice will save you from the horrors of sticky magazines. Wait, that came out wrong. ...damnit!


*...and the horseflies! Whence these plagues were visited upon us?!

Femme Fatale

Attention, recruits! It's time for a good, old-fashioned Bunk Check! I like to think we run a pretty tight ship here at DemoWAR HQ, so get your gear in order, clear out your foot lockers and iron your sock garters. We'll meet in the barracks at oh-ten-hundred. No, it means ten o'clock, lunkheads. How in the hell could it mean a "thousand o'clock"? You know what, skip the timetable. Let's just get this over with right now.

Private Grenier, you missed a button. And a trouser leg. Damn, man, that looks uncomfortable.

Shipley, are those army issue? Funny, I don't remember the dress code allowing cowboy boots covered in...what is that, barbecue sauce? Oh, they're your "bastin' boots," are they? Well, keep them outside if you're not gonna hose 'em off. (...and save me some dark meat.)

Johnson. At ease, boy... I said at ease, what's wrong with you? ...Oh, for the love of... Who duct-taped Johnson to his bunk? Well clearly he's unconscious, don't you think I can see that? Just... god, just get him down before lunch.

Pemberton, Pemberton, Pemberton... What? No, no, nothing wrong. I just like the sound of your name. It amuses me... kind of like the way you're trying to hide something behind your back by putting it in your mouth. That's charming. Hand it over.
Why, it's just a little radio. Nothing to be ashamed of - wait, what's this little button on the back do? *click*
I_Write_The_Book.mp3


Gods, I recognize that voice. Oh, it can't be.
DiMenna.




I thought she was dead. Pull up a chair, little ones. It's story time. You see, way back in DemoWAR Alpha, a lass by the name of Miss DiMenna had a pirate radio program she put together to entertain the troops. She thought that by giving them a little taste of home, the men would be happier, morale would be raised, and the war would be won. Well the unexpected side-effect of that smoky, come-hither voice was that our recruits were reduced to jelly-legged little schoolboys, huddling around their radios for hours at a time.

We lost the war. (Obviously. Just look at the late 70s.) Suspicions abounded, allegations were made and before too long, Miss DiMenna just ...disappeared. Except now it looks like she's up to her old tricks. This vixen - this... temptress of tawdry transistors is akin to the spawn of Tokyo Rose and the best parts of Mata Hari, and what you end up with is like some sort of science-fiction monster that I'll call...Matoharatokyosie.

I been eating your crops like a big old locust

We work hard to make sure you pathetic walking hormones get the cold shower you so desperately need. The saltpeter in your food, compulsory wind sprints at dawn, flat-front khakis—and yet despite all our efforts, some prurient thoughts still remain, and they weaken your resolve. No, not that kind of resolve, Shipley, and get your mind out of the gutter.

So I'll just... confiscate this little device. I should destroy it right now to teach you a lesson, to rub your noses it in like the dogs you are, but you'd enjoy that too much. No, I have just the place in my - my office. Yes, my office. Where I keep things like this—dangerous things—away from prying eyes. Ears. Away from prying ears.