This is the story of Putty, Spectacles, & RimJob

The story began innocently enough. Several years ago, three young U.S. Marines attached to a Marine Expeditionary Unit set to sail to South East Asia. These three Marines were quite disappointed to be sailing to Asia, as the idea of participating in a RIMPAC wasn’t their cup of tea. You see, these young Marines had never seen combat, and being young Marines who had never seen combat, they really, really wanted to see combat.

At the time, Iraq and Afghanistan were still kicking hard, and these three young Marines were desperate to lose the derogatory moniker of being the last three “boots” in their platoon. Since the only combat found while floating on a boat was man-to-hand combat, these three Marines took to other ways to express their inner Marineness, and they tried their hardest to prove that they could out-Marine just about any other Marine.

Putty, a huge black guy from Alabama, took to lifting weights incessantly. He seemed to have two loves in life: eating protein, and using that consumed protein to gum-up the ship’s toilets. It brought him great joy to learn some squid had to go un-clog one of his messes.

Spectacles, a true motard, loved wearing his BCG’s and constantly reminding the other two young Marines that he was technically senior to them. He came from some farm somewhere and never saw the ocean until he joined the U.S. Marines. After he joined the U.S. Marines, he got to see the ocean every-damn-day as he lived on that floating prison called an amphib. Not only did he get to see the ocean every day, he also got to feel it. During large swells, which occurred quite regularly, he puked in the berthing’s garbage pail. He shared a rack with RimJob. RimJob was a sex addict. Nobody wanted to rack with RimJob.

The deployment was boring. The three worked-out a lot, ate a lot, clogged toilets a lot, and they bonded over the fact that they all liked Ramen and Skittles. They enjoyed laughing at those Navy guys who always had some shit to do like sweeping the halls, dusting the halls, or waxing the halls. The three friends agreed that jogging on deck and shooting the ocean was a much better deal.

After a particularly long stretch of 40 days at sea, the LCpl mafia spread word that the flotilla was pulling into Thailand. That got everyone excited, especially the sailors. On the chowline, the sailors shared all sorts of crazy tales from Thailand—ping-pong shows, cobra whiskey, ping-pong cobra shows. The three friends agreed that they needed to try cobra whiskey with the scorpion. It was the Marine thing to do.

Once ashore, the three friends decided to drink many beers, and they consumed more Singha than a thirsty Eskimo lost in the desert. A mustached Petty Officer, surrounded by a mystical throng of hookers, shared word that a bathhouse was nearby and that the massages were quite excellent. “Soapies are an excellent Thai tradition,” he explained. The three Marines agreed that they needed to experience an excellent Thai tradition. So, they finished their 10^th round of beers and crammed into a tuk-tuk.

The bathhouse was two-steps better than a dilapidated shack. There were rumors of a much nicer, high-end massage parlor nearby, but it was decided that the shack would do as it was in front of them. Inside, they were hit with the smell of sweaty armpits and intense humidity. Spectacles glasses fogged. He removed them and combed his hair as the hostess led them around the corner to a living room filled with scantily clad women.

Spectacles declared that since he was the most senior, he should choose first. He walked up and down the line, inspecting everyone closely through squinted eyes, and chose a fairly skinny, very tall woman with large hands and breasts too huge to be natural. She wore a tight orange tank-top that exposed most of her tan side-boobs. She was very sweaty and the sweat rolled down her cleavage wetting her nipples. She took hold of Spectacles, her over-sized hand grasping his dainty wrist, and walked him to a large washing room with several showers.

Once Spectacles was stripped down and lathered up, she began to rub him out as he relaxed on a comfortable table with leather pads. She worked her magic, fixing all sorts of wrongs. And as those big strong hands grasped, rubbed, and stroked Spectacles’ privates, his “Private Tough-guy” façade melted away.

Intoxicated, naked, and covered in massage oil, extra-large breasts slapped Spectacles face as he confessed his love to the woman massaging his balls. He promised her that he would make a good husband, that she could come live with him in America, and that he loved her. The woman flicked her wrist and Spectacle’s lip quivered. He ejaculated all over her clenched knuckles and tipped her an extra 5 Baht.

Refreshed and limber, the three Marines stood in a dirty street pondering where they should go next. Spectacles kicked a rock and reminisced about his lost love. “Man, you need to adjust your spectacles,” Putty said. “That chick had testicles.”

And so Spectacles was named. Henceforth and forever known as Spectacles.

Naturally, the next place the Marines ended up was a bar with Van Damme vibes and a boxing ring placed amongst the crowd. The three Marines drank cobra scorpion whiskey, and it made them feel tough, until it made them feel weird. After the third round, Putty swore his teeth were itchy and that his throat was closing. Spectacle’s chest warmed and sweat formed under his eyes as his extremities numbed. RimJob knocked back another shot, turned green, and ran to the bathroom. Cheers erupted around them.

A ripped Thai boxer, no taller than 5’2, had stepped into the ring. He pointed at the bar filled with American servicemen and challenged someone to fight. The mustached Petty Officer emerged from the mist, surrounded by his mythical throng of whores, and nominated Putty. Putty demurred, but the LCpl mafia joined the chorus, and the sound of the cheers rose. The platoon’s LCpl stepped forward and explained that this was the truest way for Putty to prove that he was a real Marine.

Putty, not one to refuse other Marines, stood tall and flexed to raucous applause. He entered the ring. The bell rung. He dropped to the ground.

If you had blinked, you would have missed it. The 5’2 Thai boxer’s Go-Go Gadget leg shot up and connected to Putty’s 6’2 temple. Putty crumpled immediately. Worst of all, being totally relaxed and empty of semen but full of protein and beer, he shit his pants.

This brought immeasurable delight to the crowd. It did not, however, amuse the bar’s proprietor. The proprietor began yelling at Spectacles, who attempted to calm the owner by pointing out that most of the pooh had been contained in Putty’s shorts. This did not assuage the owner, but he quickly remembered that he had a bar full of drunk, rowdy American servicemen. He bit his lip, adjusted his gold-rimmed aviators, and called to an underling. The underling arrived with a totally sanitary rusted bucket and brown water mop, and smeared the pooh into the blood stained canvas. This hygienic act satisfied everyone and the fights continued as Spectacles helped Putty to the bathroom.

Unable to find RimJob, Spectacles shouldered the full weight of Putty as Putty limped across the bar. Putty’s knees buckled outside the sole bathroom and Spectacles had to steady himself before kicking open the bathroom’s door. He found RimJob.

RimJob gripped the stall with relish as the hooker beneath him performed a rusty trombone. Now, between you and I, to say that this woman was giving him a rusty trombone is a bit of an understatement. She was working it. Earning every cent. Fully committed to her art. She thrusted and tugged. Yanked and blowed. And moved as if she were at the Rose Bowl blasting her horn for the halftime show.

“What? It only cost 50 extra Baht,” RimJob smiled. “Now close the door. I can’t finish.”

And that, my friends, is how three Marines earned their names—their noms de BarWarrior. And of course, as we know, this is completely and entirely fictional, because no such thing could ever happen in the United States Marine Corps. If it were the Army, it would be science fiction. If it were the Navy, it would be Saturday. And if it were the AF, it would be an instructional video with the roles reversed.

Stay salty, my friends.