Featured image: Well’s Fargo safe placed at Ground Zero of an above-ground nuclear blast effects experiment. Photo courtesy of Center for Land Use Interpretation

Some vets say that transition from military to civilian life is like stepping from one war zone to another. I don’t think that at all. It only bids me pray tell what kind of wars were y’all fighting out there? Struggling to make sure the generals shrimp platter was chilled to the proper 58 degrees Fahrenheit? I tremble at the very notion. Why I couldn’t possibly ever walk along the beach again.

My greatest struggle was a self-inflicted wound you see, as most certainly self-induced it was. “I can kick myself in the balls with the best of them” I prided, and kick away I did! My plight was such that I deemed life in a subcontract to the Department of Defense to be truly a peerless morass of self-loathing stupor, a quagmire of deceit, and a hater’s paradise as work atmospherics gage.

geo: “Frank, I could have submitted the quarterly report yesterday, but you said you would do it, but then you didn’t do it, and now it’s late and I’m in trouble.”

Frank: “Woah, woah, woah, sports fan; cool those jets a little, Scooter. Yesterday was the potluck lunch–remember? Duh?”

Frank: “Hey Al, better keep your eye on geo over there. He’s a real hot-head and not much of a team player.”

What then, could be the slogan of the workforce there on the Nevada Test Site? What would be the all-encompassing Battle Cry that could dovetail into this oddity of a workplace? I knew there had to be one out there somewhere, yet I could not even venture the content. I just knew that I would surely recognize if ever I heard it. Such a long jump of faith, and yet I embraced it.

And then it happened.