day 95: officially, the end
Wednesday, 30 August, 2006
This,
can you believe it, is the end. Final day. No more
mornings. In exactly two hours and fifteen minutes I am
scheduled to return all my equipment, 11:30 Finnish
military time. That means I will need to change into my
civilian clothes before that, and that will officially
be it. If all goes well, I will be driving out of the
gates, forever, at 12:30, give or take a few minutes.
I have nothing further to report, except to thank you for reading my musings and ramblings this summer. I look forward to seeing everyone soon.
Until then, goodbye from Office Clerk Mountain. I salute you all.
I have nothing further to report, except to thank you for reading my musings and ramblings this summer. I look forward to seeing everyone soon.
Until then, goodbye from Office Clerk Mountain. I salute you all.
|
day 94: i would never make a soldier
Tuesday, 29 August, 2006
I
tells ya, even till the very last I keep on making the
kinds of gaffes that are just not kosher in the
military.
Just yesterday I had my final shooting assessment. Everyone doing their military service has to do a shooting assessment when they first arrive and when they leave, to see how they have progressed. Even though there is ten years between my shooting assesments, and I have spent the entire summer inside my little office and on my little green bike, the Finnish army decided that rules are rules, and that I should do the assessment as well. So I was summonsed by lieutenant Leaf and told to go get my RK-95 (basically the Finnish AK-47, with interchangeable parts, so in a war against Russia, Finnish soldiers would be able to use killed and captured enemy soldiers' guns). Immediately I hit a little snag. You see, I have not used my gun a single time over the summer, and so I had already forgotten what its serial number is. I knew it had four "6s" in it, but apart from that, I could not remember the number, nor where I had left it. Big faux pas, of course: every soldier should know his serial number off by heart, and where they left it, so in case of an attack, they are ready to rock and roll. So while lieutenant Leaf watched my hopeless search for my weapon amongst all the identical RK-95s, he was getting more and more irate, berating me for my hopelessly unsoldierly conduct. Finally I found a gun with four "6s" in the serial number (966667), and I collected it.
"I think this is mine," I said.
"You think it is yours?" lieutenant Leaf barked.
Well, with gun and ear protectors packed, we drive up to the range, around 6km from the barracks. We are the only two people there, and lieutentant Leaf was clearly a little annoyed to be babysitting a useless embarassment of a soldier such as myself. We set ourselves up (well, he set my stuff up) at the 150m range and he asks me if my gun is sighted.
"Sighted, sir?" I ask.
"Yes, sighted. Have you lined your sights on this?"
I vaguely understand what he means.
"No sir, I have not used it before at all."
Lieutenant Leaf grumbled something inaudible, but I knew it wasn't praise for me.
"OK, fine, we need to sight the weapon. Get out your sight-adjusting key."
"Sight-adjusting key, sir?" I ask.
"Yes, Mountain, the sight-adjusting key. Are you going to parrot everything I say?"
I was smart enough to know that lieutenant Leaf had made use of the so-called "rhetorical question", and I stayed quiet.
"Does this mean, Mountain, that you have not brought your sight-adjusting key with you?" lieutenant Leaf shouted.
"I am afraid so, sir. I did not know I was supposed to." I answered.
"Fine. We'll have to go back and get one then. Why don't you stay here and clean the oil out of the barrel while I fetch my sight-adjusting key."
"With what shall I clean my barrel, sir?" I asked.
"Mountain, don't test my patience. With the oil rag, of course."
"The oil rag, sir?"
"Are you telling me you didn't bring your oil rag either, Mountain?" lieutenant Leaf roared.
"No sir, I din't know I was supposed to."
"Well what did you bring, Mountain?" lieutenant Leaf asked in despair.
"I brought my gun and my ear protectors, sir." I answered, proud that I had at least managed to bring something useful.
"What this means, Mountain, is that we are going to have to return to the barracks to collect your sight-adjusting key, oil rag, oil bottle and barrel-cleaning stick. Do you know where they are?" lieutenant Leaf shouted.
"Are they in that little bag that contains the optional accessories for the gun?" I asked innocently.
"They're not optional, Mountain. You need them every single time you fire the gun." lieutenant Leaf fumed.
Well, half an hour later and one sight-adjusting key, oil rag, oil bottle and barrel-cleaning stick later, we were back at the range. I'll spare you the dialogue between myself and lieutenant Leaf when he ordered me to clean and sight my weapon again, because the long and the short of it is that he ended up getting my gun ready for the assessment itself.
Which I was surprisingly good at, I'll have you know. You get 12 shots in total. First you shoot from 150m. You have three clips, each with two bullets. You fire the first two bullets from a lying-down position at a turning target, visible for five seconds per shot. Then you change clips quickly, and fire the next two at the same target, except this time it's only visible for three seconds. Then change clips again, quick as you can, and fire the final two bullets on automatic fire into the same target, visible for five seconds. Then you have a little break, and reload a clip with three bullets. These you fire into the target from a kneeling position, no time limit, because it is bastard hard to keep steady when firing from a kneeling position at a target 150m away. When this is done, you move to 50m from the target, load a clip with three bullets again, and fire them from a standing position into the target, which is visible for five seconds per shot.
Now, despite not having shot a gun for 10 years, I managed to hit the target 10 times out of 12, and I was millimetres away with the eleventh bullet. The twelth? Well, who can say, A little wild, I fear, probably from the kneeling position, which I found the hardest by far. My performance thawed lieutenant Leaf a little, pleased that I was in fact able to hit the target (he was very concerned that I would miss it entirely), and he started even getting chatty with me on the drive back in the jeep. But when we returned to the barracks, boy had the shit hit the fan. It turns out that the gun I had taken, 966667, was in fact one of the professional soldiers', and that when he had discovered it missing, there had been a general barracks-wide alert. You see, each weapon is purely for the use of each individual soldier, and if and when they go missing, it is a HUGE deal. The commanding officer was involved, and half the boys at the barracks were looking for the missing weapon, fearing some disgrunteld soldier had stolen it, and gone on some crazy killing spree. So when I turn up with it, pleased with my result of 10 out of 12, they were not impressed. The only thing that saved me from yet another military tribunal was the fact that I am out of here tomorrow, and I think they will all be quite pleased to see me leave...
Oh for the record, my weapon's number is 966663, and I subsequently found it. On the upside, the sergeant whose weapon it was didn't want me anywhere near it when I offered to clean it for him, so I was spared from that unpleasant task.
Just yesterday I had my final shooting assessment. Everyone doing their military service has to do a shooting assessment when they first arrive and when they leave, to see how they have progressed. Even though there is ten years between my shooting assesments, and I have spent the entire summer inside my little office and on my little green bike, the Finnish army decided that rules are rules, and that I should do the assessment as well. So I was summonsed by lieutenant Leaf and told to go get my RK-95 (basically the Finnish AK-47, with interchangeable parts, so in a war against Russia, Finnish soldiers would be able to use killed and captured enemy soldiers' guns). Immediately I hit a little snag. You see, I have not used my gun a single time over the summer, and so I had already forgotten what its serial number is. I knew it had four "6s" in it, but apart from that, I could not remember the number, nor where I had left it. Big faux pas, of course: every soldier should know his serial number off by heart, and where they left it, so in case of an attack, they are ready to rock and roll. So while lieutenant Leaf watched my hopeless search for my weapon amongst all the identical RK-95s, he was getting more and more irate, berating me for my hopelessly unsoldierly conduct. Finally I found a gun with four "6s" in the serial number (966667), and I collected it.
"I think this is mine," I said.
"You think it is yours?" lieutenant Leaf barked.
Well, with gun and ear protectors packed, we drive up to the range, around 6km from the barracks. We are the only two people there, and lieutentant Leaf was clearly a little annoyed to be babysitting a useless embarassment of a soldier such as myself. We set ourselves up (well, he set my stuff up) at the 150m range and he asks me if my gun is sighted.
"Sighted, sir?" I ask.
"Yes, sighted. Have you lined your sights on this?"
I vaguely understand what he means.
"No sir, I have not used it before at all."
Lieutenant Leaf grumbled something inaudible, but I knew it wasn't praise for me.
"OK, fine, we need to sight the weapon. Get out your sight-adjusting key."
"Sight-adjusting key, sir?" I ask.
"Yes, Mountain, the sight-adjusting key. Are you going to parrot everything I say?"
I was smart enough to know that lieutenant Leaf had made use of the so-called "rhetorical question", and I stayed quiet.
"Does this mean, Mountain, that you have not brought your sight-adjusting key with you?" lieutenant Leaf shouted.
"I am afraid so, sir. I did not know I was supposed to." I answered.
"Fine. We'll have to go back and get one then. Why don't you stay here and clean the oil out of the barrel while I fetch my sight-adjusting key."
"With what shall I clean my barrel, sir?" I asked.
"Mountain, don't test my patience. With the oil rag, of course."
"The oil rag, sir?"
"Are you telling me you didn't bring your oil rag either, Mountain?" lieutenant Leaf roared.
"No sir, I din't know I was supposed to."
"Well what did you bring, Mountain?" lieutenant Leaf asked in despair.
"I brought my gun and my ear protectors, sir." I answered, proud that I had at least managed to bring something useful.
"What this means, Mountain, is that we are going to have to return to the barracks to collect your sight-adjusting key, oil rag, oil bottle and barrel-cleaning stick. Do you know where they are?" lieutenant Leaf shouted.
"Are they in that little bag that contains the optional accessories for the gun?" I asked innocently.
"They're not optional, Mountain. You need them every single time you fire the gun." lieutenant Leaf fumed.
Well, half an hour later and one sight-adjusting key, oil rag, oil bottle and barrel-cleaning stick later, we were back at the range. I'll spare you the dialogue between myself and lieutenant Leaf when he ordered me to clean and sight my weapon again, because the long and the short of it is that he ended up getting my gun ready for the assessment itself.
Which I was surprisingly good at, I'll have you know. You get 12 shots in total. First you shoot from 150m. You have three clips, each with two bullets. You fire the first two bullets from a lying-down position at a turning target, visible for five seconds per shot. Then you change clips quickly, and fire the next two at the same target, except this time it's only visible for three seconds. Then change clips again, quick as you can, and fire the final two bullets on automatic fire into the same target, visible for five seconds. Then you have a little break, and reload a clip with three bullets. These you fire into the target from a kneeling position, no time limit, because it is bastard hard to keep steady when firing from a kneeling position at a target 150m away. When this is done, you move to 50m from the target, load a clip with three bullets again, and fire them from a standing position into the target, which is visible for five seconds per shot.
Now, despite not having shot a gun for 10 years, I managed to hit the target 10 times out of 12, and I was millimetres away with the eleventh bullet. The twelth? Well, who can say, A little wild, I fear, probably from the kneeling position, which I found the hardest by far. My performance thawed lieutenant Leaf a little, pleased that I was in fact able to hit the target (he was very concerned that I would miss it entirely), and he started even getting chatty with me on the drive back in the jeep. But when we returned to the barracks, boy had the shit hit the fan. It turns out that the gun I had taken, 966667, was in fact one of the professional soldiers', and that when he had discovered it missing, there had been a general barracks-wide alert. You see, each weapon is purely for the use of each individual soldier, and if and when they go missing, it is a HUGE deal. The commanding officer was involved, and half the boys at the barracks were looking for the missing weapon, fearing some disgrunteld soldier had stolen it, and gone on some crazy killing spree. So when I turn up with it, pleased with my result of 10 out of 12, they were not impressed. The only thing that saved me from yet another military tribunal was the fact that I am out of here tomorrow, and I think they will all be quite pleased to see me leave...
Oh for the record, my weapon's number is 966663, and I subsequently found it. On the upside, the sergeant whose weapon it was didn't want me anywhere near it when I offered to clean it for him, so I was spared from that unpleasant task.
day 93: i can taste freedom already...
Monday, 28 August, 2006
day 89: tv
Wednesday, 23 August, 2006
I
have told you about my mornings, now allow me to share
a little about what I do in the evenings.
As in most parts of the world, television forms a considerable chunk of people's free time, especially so in the evenings. And why should it be any different in the Finnish army. So everyday, between the hours of 21.00 and 22.00, I descend the stairs into the so-called TV room (it's actually a classroom, with uncomfortable benches and a TV in it) and watch what is on offer from the four Finnish TV channels. It is, invariably, the hour of crappy American police dramas, as it is in so many other parts of the world, and so on Mondays I am subjected to "Medium", on Tuesdays it's "Cold Case" and on Wednesdays it's "CSI: New York".
"Medium" is the story of a lame blonde woman, not even attractive, who has random dreams about people being murdered, tells about these dreams to the district attorney, who does not believe her at the start of the show, but is converted by the end of the show when everything she dreams comes true. Then the following week, he is back to being an unbeliever, and the same format begins all over again. This one is the crappest of the lot.
"Cold Case" is about a team of investigators who look into unsolved crimes from years gone by. Some random clue pops up 25 years down the line, finding its way into their office, and they're off, interviewing all the suspects from back in the day. One of them is always guilty, naturally, and it is always a crime of passion. I have discovered that the guilty one is always the one who appears the least guilty, and the ones who are blatantly guilty as sin are actually the kindest souls you will ever meet on the face of this earth. This series always has an element of redemption to it. It's crap too, but not quite as crap as "Medium".
"CSI: New York" is about a team of crime scene investogators in, where else, New York. Every episode has a perplexing murder, with no sign of the murderer, except... a small sample of spittle, attached to a lamppost 18 miles from the crime scene which the investigators fortuitously discover. The tiny sample is then placed in a petri dish, some magical solution is squirted onto it, it is placed under a microscope and hey presto, they have a machine attached that synthesises the murderer! Or it might as well - the computer usually spits out a recent photograph, an address and a psychiatrist's evaluation from the fifth grade which shows that the suspect identified a shapeless inkblot in the Rorschach test as the Prince of Darkness riding a fire-breathing stallion. There is always a totally unnecessary scene in the morgue, where the token black guy on the show (probably gay too) shows the investigators a severed piece of the victim's body that contains an obscure clue. Last night it was the femur, with a bullet lodged in it. Last week it was a ruptured spleen, crushed by the force of a baseball thrown really, really hard. They crack a joke, everyone's happy. The crime is always solved in under 24 hours.
I was thinking that they should set one of these shows here, at the barracks. We could have an annoying psychic, dreaming of the future, running around warning the commanding officers who don't believe him. "No, no, don't step on that pine cone, you will trip, Lieutenant Bollocks, and you will accidentally use an inappropriate swear word in front of the soldiers, and Private Feeble will be offended, and company morale will be adversely affected!" Or maybe a small detachment on patrol in the forest will come across a pile of very small bones from many years ago. And then they will realise that it is a squirrel that died under mysterious circumstances 18 and a half years ago. And then they will need to investigate it. And they will bring out a curmudgeonly badger, and a wild moose and a cuddly raccoon that turns out to be the killer after all, smothering the squirrel with its bushy tail in a love feud over a foxy fox.
But "CSI: Finnish Army Barracks" just wouldn't work, and I'll tell you why. There is so much spit everywhere that they would need the biggest goddamn petri dish in the world to analyse it all. For some reason soldiers are really into spitting. They'll be talking, and in mid-sentence they suddenly realise, "Well shit, I haven't hocked a loogie in over 27 seconds, I better get on it," and so they expertly drag up the phlegm in their throats, swizz it around in their mouths, and send it flying in an impressive arc. Sometimes you have to really be on the lookout to make sure you don't get hit by friendly fire, especilly when coming out of the messhall. IThe messhall is the one place where soldiers restrain themselves, and so when they come out, having not spat for 15 minutes or even more, it'slike being at the firing range.
I think I need to get out more. Just a week to go. A week today, exactly. Bring it on.
As in most parts of the world, television forms a considerable chunk of people's free time, especially so in the evenings. And why should it be any different in the Finnish army. So everyday, between the hours of 21.00 and 22.00, I descend the stairs into the so-called TV room (it's actually a classroom, with uncomfortable benches and a TV in it) and watch what is on offer from the four Finnish TV channels. It is, invariably, the hour of crappy American police dramas, as it is in so many other parts of the world, and so on Mondays I am subjected to "Medium", on Tuesdays it's "Cold Case" and on Wednesdays it's "CSI: New York".
"Medium" is the story of a lame blonde woman, not even attractive, who has random dreams about people being murdered, tells about these dreams to the district attorney, who does not believe her at the start of the show, but is converted by the end of the show when everything she dreams comes true. Then the following week, he is back to being an unbeliever, and the same format begins all over again. This one is the crappest of the lot.
"Cold Case" is about a team of investigators who look into unsolved crimes from years gone by. Some random clue pops up 25 years down the line, finding its way into their office, and they're off, interviewing all the suspects from back in the day. One of them is always guilty, naturally, and it is always a crime of passion. I have discovered that the guilty one is always the one who appears the least guilty, and the ones who are blatantly guilty as sin are actually the kindest souls you will ever meet on the face of this earth. This series always has an element of redemption to it. It's crap too, but not quite as crap as "Medium".
"CSI: New York" is about a team of crime scene investogators in, where else, New York. Every episode has a perplexing murder, with no sign of the murderer, except... a small sample of spittle, attached to a lamppost 18 miles from the crime scene which the investigators fortuitously discover. The tiny sample is then placed in a petri dish, some magical solution is squirted onto it, it is placed under a microscope and hey presto, they have a machine attached that synthesises the murderer! Or it might as well - the computer usually spits out a recent photograph, an address and a psychiatrist's evaluation from the fifth grade which shows that the suspect identified a shapeless inkblot in the Rorschach test as the Prince of Darkness riding a fire-breathing stallion. There is always a totally unnecessary scene in the morgue, where the token black guy on the show (probably gay too) shows the investigators a severed piece of the victim's body that contains an obscure clue. Last night it was the femur, with a bullet lodged in it. Last week it was a ruptured spleen, crushed by the force of a baseball thrown really, really hard. They crack a joke, everyone's happy. The crime is always solved in under 24 hours.
I was thinking that they should set one of these shows here, at the barracks. We could have an annoying psychic, dreaming of the future, running around warning the commanding officers who don't believe him. "No, no, don't step on that pine cone, you will trip, Lieutenant Bollocks, and you will accidentally use an inappropriate swear word in front of the soldiers, and Private Feeble will be offended, and company morale will be adversely affected!" Or maybe a small detachment on patrol in the forest will come across a pile of very small bones from many years ago. And then they will realise that it is a squirrel that died under mysterious circumstances 18 and a half years ago. And then they will need to investigate it. And they will bring out a curmudgeonly badger, and a wild moose and a cuddly raccoon that turns out to be the killer after all, smothering the squirrel with its bushy tail in a love feud over a foxy fox.
But "CSI: Finnish Army Barracks" just wouldn't work, and I'll tell you why. There is so much spit everywhere that they would need the biggest goddamn petri dish in the world to analyse it all. For some reason soldiers are really into spitting. They'll be talking, and in mid-sentence they suddenly realise, "Well shit, I haven't hocked a loogie in over 27 seconds, I better get on it," and so they expertly drag up the phlegm in their throats, swizz it around in their mouths, and send it flying in an impressive arc. Sometimes you have to really be on the lookout to make sure you don't get hit by friendly fire, especilly when coming out of the messhall. IThe messhall is the one place where soldiers restrain themselves, and so when they come out, having not spat for 15 minutes or even more, it'slike being at the firing range.
I think I need to get out more. Just a week to go. A week today, exactly. Bring it on.
day 86: bored, bored, bored
Monday, 21 August, 2006
ow.
Rarely have I been this bored for this long. I am so
bored that I even bore myself. I have decided that even
talking to myself is boring, and hence I no longer even
have me to talk to. You see, until now, having had no
one else to talk to, I have been having little
conversations with myself. I'd ask myself:
-Mountain, shall we go to lunch 10 minutes early today?
-But of course, Mountain, what an excellent idea. Shall we take the bike, or shall we walk?
-Hmm, good question. What do you think?
-Well, Mountain, I'm partial to walking myself, we take the bike everyday.
-Yes yes, true true, but the bike is so much quicker, Mountain!
-Why how very observant of you, Mountain, it is indeed quicker. But you know what that one Military Police is like, doesn't approve of us using the bike to go to meals. Against the rules, he says.
-Yes, that MP really is a pain in our ass, isn't he Mountain? If only he knew how few days we have left.
-But, Mountain, gloating to such a fascist could make things worse, now couldn't it. He might decide that instead of just commenting on our trouser legs being too high and reprimanding us for using the bike to go to lunch and shouting at us for using the front entrance to exit the mess hall and bitching about our hands being in our pockets he might become even worse!
-Now now Mountain, don't tell me you have become fearful of authority! Please assure me that three months in the army hasn't made you go all soft. We have to fight the power, Mountain, fight the power!
-Indeed, Mountain, indeed. You are of course right, as always.
[Silence]
-So, Mountain, what's it going to be? Soon we will miss our window of opportunity to get to the mess hall ahead of the marching gimps. We must make a decision soon. Especially if we are going to walk.
-Well, I have an idea, Mountain. Perhaps if we take our messenger bag and wear that over our shoulder when entering the mess hall, we will have a good excuse for arriving by bike. If that meddlesome MP decides to harass us again, we can simply tell him that we are making a delivery, thereby causing our trip to become part of our official duties, hence giving us permission to use the bicycle.
-Mountain, I like the way we think! Perhaps to strengthen our case we could print out a bogus order for scrubbing brushes and Fairy liquid, so if that moon-faced goon of an MP challenges us, we can show him that.
-Beautiful, Mountain, beautiful. Flawless logic. To the green bicycle! Don't forget the green messenger bag - we don't want any Russians spotting us cutting across the forest path into the carpark, now do we?
-Certainly not, Mountain, certainly not.
I fear that future posts may be along the same lines. My existence here is devoid of all external stimuli, and as a result I have been reduced to a gibbering fool. Though some of you may argue that there isn't much change there. So, if I decide to start talking to myself again, I may be back.
-Mountain, shall we go to lunch 10 minutes early today?
-But of course, Mountain, what an excellent idea. Shall we take the bike, or shall we walk?
-Hmm, good question. What do you think?
-Well, Mountain, I'm partial to walking myself, we take the bike everyday.
-Yes yes, true true, but the bike is so much quicker, Mountain!
-Why how very observant of you, Mountain, it is indeed quicker. But you know what that one Military Police is like, doesn't approve of us using the bike to go to meals. Against the rules, he says.
-Yes, that MP really is a pain in our ass, isn't he Mountain? If only he knew how few days we have left.
-But, Mountain, gloating to such a fascist could make things worse, now couldn't it. He might decide that instead of just commenting on our trouser legs being too high and reprimanding us for using the bike to go to lunch and shouting at us for using the front entrance to exit the mess hall and bitching about our hands being in our pockets he might become even worse!
-Now now Mountain, don't tell me you have become fearful of authority! Please assure me that three months in the army hasn't made you go all soft. We have to fight the power, Mountain, fight the power!
-Indeed, Mountain, indeed. You are of course right, as always.
[Silence]
-So, Mountain, what's it going to be? Soon we will miss our window of opportunity to get to the mess hall ahead of the marching gimps. We must make a decision soon. Especially if we are going to walk.
-Well, I have an idea, Mountain. Perhaps if we take our messenger bag and wear that over our shoulder when entering the mess hall, we will have a good excuse for arriving by bike. If that meddlesome MP decides to harass us again, we can simply tell him that we are making a delivery, thereby causing our trip to become part of our official duties, hence giving us permission to use the bicycle.
-Mountain, I like the way we think! Perhaps to strengthen our case we could print out a bogus order for scrubbing brushes and Fairy liquid, so if that moon-faced goon of an MP challenges us, we can show him that.
-Beautiful, Mountain, beautiful. Flawless logic. To the green bicycle! Don't forget the green messenger bag - we don't want any Russians spotting us cutting across the forest path into the carpark, now do we?
-Certainly not, Mountain, certainly not.
I fear that future posts may be along the same lines. My existence here is devoid of all external stimuli, and as a result I have been reduced to a gibbering fool. Though some of you may argue that there isn't much change there. So, if I decide to start talking to myself again, I may be back.
day 81: waterworks in the army sauna
Wednesday, 16 August, 2006
There
I was, happily relaxing in the army sauna after my
usual work-out yesterday, when what I presumed was a
rather senior officer, based on his age, walks in with
his little five year-old son. They'd been swimming, it
transpired, and now they were done for the day too. The
little boy, very Finnish-looking with his white-blond
hair and pale complexion, decided that sitting on the
top level was too hot for him, so he settled himself
lower down. His father joined me on the top level.
General father-son chit-chat ensued, which I paid not
much attention to. Then the little boy decided he
wanted to go:
"Daddy daddy, let's go." said the little boy.
"Just a little longer now." replied the father.
"Daddy daddy, I want to go." the little boy retorted, more insistently.
"Well, you can go, I'll be out in just a moment." the father calmly responded.
"But daddy, I want to goooo." the little boy whined.
[Silence]
"OK, daddy, I'm going" the little boy said adamantly, rising up, and starting for the door.
[Silence]
"OK daddy, I'm not going." the little boy said, realising his cunning reverse psychology tactic hadn't worked, and sat down again.
[Silence]
"But daddy, I want to go, I want to go, I want to go!" the little boy squawked.
"Well I said you can go, I'll be out in just a minute." the father replied.
"But daddy, I don't want to go alone!" the little boy said.
[Silence]
And with this, the little boy stood up and pissed all over the lower seats in the sauna, not even bothering to hold on to his little todger to guide the direction of the spray. It happened so quickly and was for some reason so very very comical that I burst into laughter. The father gave me a quick look, and then addressed his son:
"Now look what you've done, you can't go wee-wee in the sauna!" he admonished his son.
"But daddy, I told you I had to go!" the little boy exclaimed with such righteous indignation that I couldn't help but guffaw with a real gut-pleaser of a belly-laugh. The father once again gave me a bit of a look, but then turned to the more pressing matter of cleaning up his son's piss on the sauna seats.
It may well be one of those "you had to be there" moments, what with the sauna setting and the little boy's tone of voice and the sight of a naked senior officer with his shiny, hairy white ass pointed skyward, cleaning up piss in a sauna, but it was one of the funniest moments I have ever witnessed, and I simply could not stop laughing. I tell you, you couldn't have scripted it better.
"Daddy daddy, let's go." said the little boy.
"Just a little longer now." replied the father.
"Daddy daddy, I want to go." the little boy retorted, more insistently.
"Well, you can go, I'll be out in just a moment." the father calmly responded.
"But daddy, I want to goooo." the little boy whined.
[Silence]
"OK, daddy, I'm going" the little boy said adamantly, rising up, and starting for the door.
[Silence]
"OK daddy, I'm not going." the little boy said, realising his cunning reverse psychology tactic hadn't worked, and sat down again.
[Silence]
"But daddy, I want to go, I want to go, I want to go!" the little boy squawked.
"Well I said you can go, I'll be out in just a minute." the father replied.
"But daddy, I don't want to go alone!" the little boy said.
[Silence]
And with this, the little boy stood up and pissed all over the lower seats in the sauna, not even bothering to hold on to his little todger to guide the direction of the spray. It happened so quickly and was for some reason so very very comical that I burst into laughter. The father gave me a quick look, and then addressed his son:
"Now look what you've done, you can't go wee-wee in the sauna!" he admonished his son.
"But daddy, I told you I had to go!" the little boy exclaimed with such righteous indignation that I couldn't help but guffaw with a real gut-pleaser of a belly-laugh. The father once again gave me a bit of a look, but then turned to the more pressing matter of cleaning up his son's piss on the sauna seats.
It may well be one of those "you had to be there" moments, what with the sauna setting and the little boy's tone of voice and the sight of a naked senior officer with his shiny, hairy white ass pointed skyward, cleaning up piss in a sauna, but it was one of the funniest moments I have ever witnessed, and I simply could not stop laughing. I tell you, you couldn't have scripted it better.
day 80: death metal
Tuesday, 15 August, 2006
I
am so very, very sick of the music here in Finland. For
some bizarre reason, Finland, and all of the Nordic
countries, are in love with heavy metal, hard rock and
death metal. In addition, they seem to have an affinity
for various subgenres of the aforementioned musical
directions, including, but by no means limited to,
thrash metal, black metal, deathgrind, metalcore,
progressive metal, gothic metal, nu metal, epic metal,
crossover thrash (crossing over from what, I ask you?),
speed metal, stoner rock, sludge metal and last but not
least, post-black metal.
While the Swedes are, rather understandably, enthralled with Swedecore, the Finns in particular are associated with the melodic death metal movement, though what is so melodic about it, I cannot say. Anyone who heard the record-breaking Eurovision song contest winners Lordi can probably vouch for this.
My theory is that the Nordics are a sad, dark and internally-focused people. The cold and long winters here make us very sombre, and naturally cause us to scream at the top of our voices. Back in the olden days, that was all music was here - screaming to the sound of flakes falling while dragging our asses through the piles of snow. Then someone had the clever idea to set the whole thing to what they called "music". First it was the deep, growling sound of the hibernating bear that inspired us Nordic folk:
"Petteri, I like how the cheerful sound of that sleeping bear makes me feel. I think I will use it as a bassline, and scream out of tune to accompany it. What do you think, Petteri?"
"Brilliant idea, Sven. Maybe I can be the back-up screamer? This thing could go huge!"
That was the birth of Swedecore, I believe. It was quickly followed by black metal, where the growling bear was accompanied by the mating calls of a sick moose, and yet more people screaming. Then we moved into the distinctly post-black metal era, where the sounds of the bear and the moose were sampled, amplified and played backwards. The screaming was still in the same direction. Then someone accused the Nordics of going all Satanist, and thus melodic death metal was born. The sound is characterised by yet more screaming, loud banging of an unidentified percussion instrument (I could be wrong, but it sounds like a tree being chopped down in a forest) and the death gargles of a strangulated cat.
Anyway, the point being that I cannot escape this so-called "music". It's everywhere: on the radio (bizarrely, often played in conjunction with Justin Timberlake's new single, "Sexy Back"), on TV and, worst of all, played in the gym. The gym is particularly bad, because it is here that people decide that the melodic death metal on the radio is not repetitive and crap enough, so they bring their own, supposedly more melodic, Finnish melodic death metal CDs with them and play them at full volume. How you are supposed to work out to someone screaming (you'll notice screaming is a theme in today's post) "Let me suck up the blood/Why have you left me in this mess?/I am bleeding out of my ass" in Finnish is beyond me. If anything, it makes me worry about straining a little too hard, if you know what I mean. But the Finns love it! The louder, the more screaming, the more out of tune, the more they love it.
As if this wasn't enough, the barracks provides a practicing room for up-and-coming "musicians" who don't want to give up their budding post-melodic death metal careers on account of the army. It's right above the cafeteria where I come to write these blog entries, and let me tell you, if the pile of bollocks that I listen to on the radio and in the gym isn't enough to make you want to kill yourself, then the gnat's shit caught in the scraggly pubes of this particular pile of bollocks definitely is. No wonder Finland has one of the world's highest suicide rates.
And this in the only other country in the world in addition to Argentina to adopt the tango as their national dance. Go figure.
While the Swedes are, rather understandably, enthralled with Swedecore, the Finns in particular are associated with the melodic death metal movement, though what is so melodic about it, I cannot say. Anyone who heard the record-breaking Eurovision song contest winners Lordi can probably vouch for this.
My theory is that the Nordics are a sad, dark and internally-focused people. The cold and long winters here make us very sombre, and naturally cause us to scream at the top of our voices. Back in the olden days, that was all music was here - screaming to the sound of flakes falling while dragging our asses through the piles of snow. Then someone had the clever idea to set the whole thing to what they called "music". First it was the deep, growling sound of the hibernating bear that inspired us Nordic folk:
"Petteri, I like how the cheerful sound of that sleeping bear makes me feel. I think I will use it as a bassline, and scream out of tune to accompany it. What do you think, Petteri?"
"Brilliant idea, Sven. Maybe I can be the back-up screamer? This thing could go huge!"
That was the birth of Swedecore, I believe. It was quickly followed by black metal, where the growling bear was accompanied by the mating calls of a sick moose, and yet more people screaming. Then we moved into the distinctly post-black metal era, where the sounds of the bear and the moose were sampled, amplified and played backwards. The screaming was still in the same direction. Then someone accused the Nordics of going all Satanist, and thus melodic death metal was born. The sound is characterised by yet more screaming, loud banging of an unidentified percussion instrument (I could be wrong, but it sounds like a tree being chopped down in a forest) and the death gargles of a strangulated cat.
Anyway, the point being that I cannot escape this so-called "music". It's everywhere: on the radio (bizarrely, often played in conjunction with Justin Timberlake's new single, "Sexy Back"), on TV and, worst of all, played in the gym. The gym is particularly bad, because it is here that people decide that the melodic death metal on the radio is not repetitive and crap enough, so they bring their own, supposedly more melodic, Finnish melodic death metal CDs with them and play them at full volume. How you are supposed to work out to someone screaming (you'll notice screaming is a theme in today's post) "Let me suck up the blood/Why have you left me in this mess?/I am bleeding out of my ass" in Finnish is beyond me. If anything, it makes me worry about straining a little too hard, if you know what I mean. But the Finns love it! The louder, the more screaming, the more out of tune, the more they love it.
As if this wasn't enough, the barracks provides a practicing room for up-and-coming "musicians" who don't want to give up their budding post-melodic death metal careers on account of the army. It's right above the cafeteria where I come to write these blog entries, and let me tell you, if the pile of bollocks that I listen to on the radio and in the gym isn't enough to make you want to kill yourself, then the gnat's shit caught in the scraggly pubes of this particular pile of bollocks definitely is. No wonder Finland has one of the world's highest suicide rates.
And this in the only other country in the world in addition to Argentina to adopt the tango as their national dance. Go figure.
day 79: a morning in the life
Sunday, 13 August, 2006
I
think the boys are finally getting to grips with how I
should be treated and respected. It's been long enough,
but the time has arrived. Allow me to recount the story
of this morning to you:
05.00 The usual wake-up time. The wake-up guy in the corridor makes the announcement, all the petty officers in my dorm wake up and leap out of bed as if someone has poked them in the ass with a branding iron. That's army conditioning for you. The boys switch on one of the lights in the dorm, but very considerately leave the other one, at my end of the dorm, off, to allow me that extra 45 minutes of sleep that they now know I like to get.
05.45 I get up. Yes, it's still bloody early, but compared to 05.00, it's luxury. I grab my towel and soap and head off to the showers. The young gimps are going about their morning washing business, brushing teeth, relieving their bladders, loudly lightening their loads in the cubicles. My boys know that I like to go about my morning business in peace and quiet, so one of them offers to clear out the toilets. I gratefully accept.
"Right, who's still in here, out, now!" low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall announces.
The gimps scurry and begin to move rather rapidly. Toothbrushes are quickly rinsed and half-shaven faces are hurriedly toweled off. Most gimps are out of the bathroom within 30 seconds of the order.
"Are you still pissing? For fuck's sake, the stream stops RIGHT HERE!" low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall shouts.
Incredibly, the stream did stop right there, I can vouch for it based on the cessation of all sounds from the urinal region of the bathroom. Two sheepish-looking young gimps dash out, zipping up as they go. No time for them to wash their hands, no sirree.
"Are you FUCKING JOKING? Which MOTHERFUCKERS are still in there having a dump? Did you not HEAR ME? Suck that turd BACK IN RIGHT NOW! I don't give a SHIT about your bowels, get the FUCK OUT, NOW!"
I felt that low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall's shouting was a little excessive, but it certainly did the trick. Within 15 seconds, an amount of time that would not have pleased me at the end of what really should be a relaxing and pleasurable morning experience, a couple more young gimps were out of their cubicles. I could see the gimps thinking, "do I dare to try to wash my hands?", but the death-stare of low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall dashed those hopes before they even had the time to fully form.
"There you go, Mountain. Enjoy your shower." low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall announced with a grin, and walked out, obviously pleased with himself.
06.15 Showered and feeling as refreshed as I can at this time in the morning, I prepare for the journey to breakfast. I note that I am a little bit behind the ideal schedule, meaning that I will be arriving in the mess hall AFTER the gimps, resulting in long queueing times and the risk of the "good stuff" (it's all relative) being gone before I get there. I grab my bicycle from the bike shed and take the illegal short-cut through the forest. This shaves a sufficient amount of time off my journey, allowing me to catch up with the three formations of young gimps marching towards the mess hall. The first formation is already waiting by the door. I know that as soon as the second and third formations stop, I will have to queue, a prospect I am not willing to allow to come to pass. Breaking all military marching formation etiquette, I pick a gap in the second formation and steer my bike in a sweeping arc through the middle. This time it is low-level sergeant Blackie (I don't make these names up, I promise!) who helps me out, barking the order "formation, HALT!", thus ensuring I have enough time to ride through. I burn some rubber slamming on the brakes, hop off, and hey presto, I'm at the front of the queue! And there's still plenty of ham left. Nice.
06.35 Having finished breakfast, I decide it is time to go back for a little nap. I head back to the dorm before anybody else, giving me ample time to get some shut-eye. Some way through my sleep, low-level sergeant Woodpecker comes in to warn me: "Senior Lieutenant Leafhill is here," he tells me. Not wishing to risk a third military tribunal, I decide it is safest to get up and look lively. Ever since the sleeping-in incident, I always wear my boots to bed if I am napping at, shall we say, "inappropriate" times, to give me a speedy escape. So I get out of bed for a bit, and show my face around the office. Senior Lieutenant Leafhill is only around for a very brief moment, to collect some papers, and then he is gone again. I return to bed, safe in the knowledge that I have my sentries to warn me of any enemy activities and movements.
08.00 I wake-up for the day, though if tiredness should strike, I know the bed is always there. I hop on my bike for my first mail round of the day, spreading joy and happiness to all in my path with my tidings of peace and goodwill in the form of newspapers, letters from family and pay checks.
05.00 The usual wake-up time. The wake-up guy in the corridor makes the announcement, all the petty officers in my dorm wake up and leap out of bed as if someone has poked them in the ass with a branding iron. That's army conditioning for you. The boys switch on one of the lights in the dorm, but very considerately leave the other one, at my end of the dorm, off, to allow me that extra 45 minutes of sleep that they now know I like to get.
05.45 I get up. Yes, it's still bloody early, but compared to 05.00, it's luxury. I grab my towel and soap and head off to the showers. The young gimps are going about their morning washing business, brushing teeth, relieving their bladders, loudly lightening their loads in the cubicles. My boys know that I like to go about my morning business in peace and quiet, so one of them offers to clear out the toilets. I gratefully accept.
"Right, who's still in here, out, now!" low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall announces.
The gimps scurry and begin to move rather rapidly. Toothbrushes are quickly rinsed and half-shaven faces are hurriedly toweled off. Most gimps are out of the bathroom within 30 seconds of the order.
"Are you still pissing? For fuck's sake, the stream stops RIGHT HERE!" low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall shouts.
Incredibly, the stream did stop right there, I can vouch for it based on the cessation of all sounds from the urinal region of the bathroom. Two sheepish-looking young gimps dash out, zipping up as they go. No time for them to wash their hands, no sirree.
"Are you FUCKING JOKING? Which MOTHERFUCKERS are still in there having a dump? Did you not HEAR ME? Suck that turd BACK IN RIGHT NOW! I don't give a SHIT about your bowels, get the FUCK OUT, NOW!"
I felt that low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall's shouting was a little excessive, but it certainly did the trick. Within 15 seconds, an amount of time that would not have pleased me at the end of what really should be a relaxing and pleasurable morning experience, a couple more young gimps were out of their cubicles. I could see the gimps thinking, "do I dare to try to wash my hands?", but the death-stare of low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall dashed those hopes before they even had the time to fully form.
"There you go, Mountain. Enjoy your shower." low-level sergeant Smithywaterfall announced with a grin, and walked out, obviously pleased with himself.
06.15 Showered and feeling as refreshed as I can at this time in the morning, I prepare for the journey to breakfast. I note that I am a little bit behind the ideal schedule, meaning that I will be arriving in the mess hall AFTER the gimps, resulting in long queueing times and the risk of the "good stuff" (it's all relative) being gone before I get there. I grab my bicycle from the bike shed and take the illegal short-cut through the forest. This shaves a sufficient amount of time off my journey, allowing me to catch up with the three formations of young gimps marching towards the mess hall. The first formation is already waiting by the door. I know that as soon as the second and third formations stop, I will have to queue, a prospect I am not willing to allow to come to pass. Breaking all military marching formation etiquette, I pick a gap in the second formation and steer my bike in a sweeping arc through the middle. This time it is low-level sergeant Blackie (I don't make these names up, I promise!) who helps me out, barking the order "formation, HALT!", thus ensuring I have enough time to ride through. I burn some rubber slamming on the brakes, hop off, and hey presto, I'm at the front of the queue! And there's still plenty of ham left. Nice.
06.35 Having finished breakfast, I decide it is time to go back for a little nap. I head back to the dorm before anybody else, giving me ample time to get some shut-eye. Some way through my sleep, low-level sergeant Woodpecker comes in to warn me: "Senior Lieutenant Leafhill is here," he tells me. Not wishing to risk a third military tribunal, I decide it is safest to get up and look lively. Ever since the sleeping-in incident, I always wear my boots to bed if I am napping at, shall we say, "inappropriate" times, to give me a speedy escape. So I get out of bed for a bit, and show my face around the office. Senior Lieutenant Leafhill is only around for a very brief moment, to collect some papers, and then he is gone again. I return to bed, safe in the knowledge that I have my sentries to warn me of any enemy activities and movements.
08.00 I wake-up for the day, though if tiredness should strike, I know the bed is always there. I hop on my bike for my first mail round of the day, spreading joy and happiness to all in my path with my tidings of peace and goodwill in the form of newspapers, letters from family and pay checks.
day 74: porn, plain and simple
Wednesday, 09 August, 2006
Back
to normal, whatever "army" normal means. I went to
sleep yesterday at 18:30, and apart from a brief break
from sleeping between 19:30 and 20:00, I slept all the
way through until wake-up this morning at 05:00. And
boy did I need it. The only slight disturbance I had to
put with was the noise of the boys in the dorm, all 8
of them, watching a porno on someone's laptop. Now
while I am thoroughly impressed by the achievements of
the porn industry over the years, I was never convinced
that watching a one-and-a-half hour porno as a group
was really that enjoyable. But the boys in my dorm have
proved me wrong, yet again. Despite the fact that this
was not one of those European style films, especially
favoured by the French, where the plot is almost as
important as the action, the boys were well into it. It
wasn't even a stylishly cinematographed piece of
theater. Boiled to its core, the porno they watched was
one-shot mounted footage (no pun intended) of somebody
called Cindy Steams (reckon that's her real name?)
being penetrated by a mystery man, who's face was never
even revealed. As I said, I was sleeping, I really was,
but whenever I accidentally happened to open the corner
of one eye there was our Cindy, in the same position,
bouncing away, up and down. How they could watch an
hour and a half of that, I don't know, but that they
did. Fortunately the moaning and groaning was so
rhythmic that it actually helped me fall asleep.
day 73: atlantic college reunion
Tuesday, 08 August, 2006
Well,
I am back. It has been a hectic, amazing, tiring,
emotional weekend of excess. A trip down to Wales and
back, all in the space of four days, with lots of
drinking, eating, activities and catching up with
people I haven't seen for 10 years. Amazingly, nothing
had changed. Everyone looked pretty much the same, some
slightly thinner, some a little heavier, but all
totally recognisable. Even the biggest changer of the
reunion, legally going from woman to man over the space
of 10 years, was very much the same person. Now I am
exhausted, both physically (3 hours of sleep a night,
and a 12-hour journey back and forth) and mentally
(seeing old friends is throughly tiring). And I hope I
never have to explain what a "valuation consultant" is,
ever again. I've decided that for the next reunion I am
going to invent a whole other persona. Maybe porn star.
Calvin Klein underwear model. Tuna fisherman.
Professional potato grower. Something along those lines
might be easier to explain than valuation consultant,
and a lot more interesting too...
What more can I say about the reunion? It was one of those "you had to be there" events, and my descriptions of what people are now doing will not be very interesting to the majority of you. And because I was so busy talking to people and, of course, drinking, I didn't end up taking a single photograph.
Now being in the army is one hell of an anticlimax. Delivering mail is hardly the perfect antidote to such an active and festive weekend. I know it's only 22 days to go here, a mere 3 weeks, with a few days of weekend leave thrown into the mix, but now the biggest event of the summer is over, the one I was most looking forward to. The Hole is even talking of canning his visit to Finland over the August Bank Holiday weekend, which would not be appreciated at all! No backing out now, Hole. I've got the Monday off and everything.
The one good thing these 3 weeks will do for me is to detox my body. I woke up this morning, at 5am, after a 12-hour journey from Wales, and a particularly eventful drive from Tampere airport (I managed to avoid killing a hedgehog, a badger and a deer through a combination of some sharp swerving and heavy braking), feeling like the largest turd on this planet. I think I might be getting old...
I will return to my army "adventures" soon enough, once I am back down to earth and feeling more humorous. Until then, adieu.
What more can I say about the reunion? It was one of those "you had to be there" events, and my descriptions of what people are now doing will not be very interesting to the majority of you. And because I was so busy talking to people and, of course, drinking, I didn't end up taking a single photograph.
Now being in the army is one hell of an anticlimax. Delivering mail is hardly the perfect antidote to such an active and festive weekend. I know it's only 22 days to go here, a mere 3 weeks, with a few days of weekend leave thrown into the mix, but now the biggest event of the summer is over, the one I was most looking forward to. The Hole is even talking of canning his visit to Finland over the August Bank Holiday weekend, which would not be appreciated at all! No backing out now, Hole. I've got the Monday off and everything.
The one good thing these 3 weeks will do for me is to detox my body. I woke up this morning, at 5am, after a 12-hour journey from Wales, and a particularly eventful drive from Tampere airport (I managed to avoid killing a hedgehog, a badger and a deer through a combination of some sharp swerving and heavy braking), feeling like the largest turd on this planet. I think I might be getting old...
I will return to my army "adventures" soon enough, once I am back down to earth and feeling more humorous. Until then, adieu.
day 67: lazy day
Wednesday, 02 August, 2006
I
can't be arsed to write a post today, so I present to
you
The Onion instead.
If you aren't reading it yet, you should start right
away.
From today's issue:
Bush Grants Self Permission To Grant More Power To Self
August 2, 2006
WASHINGTON, DC—In a decisive 1–0 decision Monday, President Bush voted to grant the president the constitutional power to grant himself additional powers.
"As president, I strongly believe that my first duty as president is to support and serve the president," Bush said during a televised address from the East Room of the White House shortly after signing his executive order. "I promise the American people that I will not abuse this new power, unless it becomes necessary to grant myself the power to do so at a later time."
The Presidential Empowerment Act, which the president hand-drafted on his own Oval Office stationery and promptly signed into law, provides Bush with full authority to permit himself to authorize increased jurisdiction over the three branches of the federal government, provided that the president considers it in his best interest to do so.
"In a time of war, the president must have the power he needs to make the tough decisions, including, if need be, the decision to grant himself even more power," Bush said. "To do otherwise would be playing into the hands of our enemies."
Added Bush: "And it's all under due process of the law as I see it."
"The president can grant himself the power to interpret new laws however he sees fit, then use that power to interpret a law in such a manner that in turn grants him increased power," said Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez.
In addition, the president reserves the right to overturn any decision to allow himself to increase his power by using a line-item veto, which in turn may only be overruled by the president.
Senior administration officials lauded Bush's decision, saying that current presidential powers over presidential power were "far too limited."
"Previously, the president only had the power to petition Congress to allow him to grant himself the power to grant more power to himself," Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez said shortly after the ceremony. "Now, the president can grant himself the power to interpret new laws however he sees fit, then use that power to interpret a law in such a manner that in turn grants him increased power."
In addition, a proviso in the 12th provision of the new law permits Bush the authority to waive the need for any presidential authorization of power in a case concerning national security, although legal experts suggest it would be little exercised.
Despite the president's new powers, the role of Congress and the Supreme Court has not been overlooked. Under the new law, both enjoy the newly broadened ability to grant the president the authority to increase his presidential powers.
"This gives the president the tools he needs to ensure that the president has all the necessary tools to expedite what needs to be done, unfettered by presidential restrictions on himself," said Rep. John Cornyn (R-TX). "It's long overdue."
Though public response to the new law has been limited, there has been an unfavorable reaction among Democrats, who are calling for restrictions on Bush's power to allow himself to grant the president more powers that would restrict the powers of Congress.
"This is a clear case of President Bush having carte blanche to grant himself complete discretion to enact laws to increase his power," Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid (D-NV) said. "The only thing we can do now is withhold our ability to grant him more authority to grant himself more power."
"Unless he authorizes himself to strip us of that power," Reid added.
Despite criticism, Bush took his first official action under the new law Tuesday, signing an executive order ordering that the chief executive be able to order more executive orders.
In addition, Republicans fearful that the president's new power undermines their ability to grant him power have proposed a new law that would allow senators to permit him to grant himself power, with or without presidential approval.
From today's issue:
Bush Grants Self Permission To Grant More Power To Self
August 2, 2006
WASHINGTON, DC—In a decisive 1–0 decision Monday, President Bush voted to grant the president the constitutional power to grant himself additional powers.
"As president, I strongly believe that my first duty as president is to support and serve the president," Bush said during a televised address from the East Room of the White House shortly after signing his executive order. "I promise the American people that I will not abuse this new power, unless it becomes necessary to grant myself the power to do so at a later time."
The Presidential Empowerment Act, which the president hand-drafted on his own Oval Office stationery and promptly signed into law, provides Bush with full authority to permit himself to authorize increased jurisdiction over the three branches of the federal government, provided that the president considers it in his best interest to do so.
"In a time of war, the president must have the power he needs to make the tough decisions, including, if need be, the decision to grant himself even more power," Bush said. "To do otherwise would be playing into the hands of our enemies."
Added Bush: "And it's all under due process of the law as I see it."
"The president can grant himself the power to interpret new laws however he sees fit, then use that power to interpret a law in such a manner that in turn grants him increased power," said Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez.
In addition, the president reserves the right to overturn any decision to allow himself to increase his power by using a line-item veto, which in turn may only be overruled by the president.
Senior administration officials lauded Bush's decision, saying that current presidential powers over presidential power were "far too limited."
"Previously, the president only had the power to petition Congress to allow him to grant himself the power to grant more power to himself," Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez said shortly after the ceremony. "Now, the president can grant himself the power to interpret new laws however he sees fit, then use that power to interpret a law in such a manner that in turn grants him increased power."
In addition, a proviso in the 12th provision of the new law permits Bush the authority to waive the need for any presidential authorization of power in a case concerning national security, although legal experts suggest it would be little exercised.
Despite the president's new powers, the role of Congress and the Supreme Court has not been overlooked. Under the new law, both enjoy the newly broadened ability to grant the president the authority to increase his presidential powers.
"This gives the president the tools he needs to ensure that the president has all the necessary tools to expedite what needs to be done, unfettered by presidential restrictions on himself," said Rep. John Cornyn (R-TX). "It's long overdue."
Though public response to the new law has been limited, there has been an unfavorable reaction among Democrats, who are calling for restrictions on Bush's power to allow himself to grant the president more powers that would restrict the powers of Congress.
"This is a clear case of President Bush having carte blanche to grant himself complete discretion to enact laws to increase his power," Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid (D-NV) said. "The only thing we can do now is withhold our ability to grant him more authority to grant himself more power."
"Unless he authorizes himself to strip us of that power," Reid added.
Despite criticism, Bush took his first official action under the new law Tuesday, signing an executive order ordering that the chief executive be able to order more executive orders.
In addition, Republicans fearful that the president's new power undermines their ability to grant him power have proposed a new law that would allow senators to permit him to grant himself power, with or without presidential approval.