Ladies, with the recent ballistic unpleasantness in Mesopotamia, I am noting a sharp increase in what I refer to as SquEALs.
Other folks call them Rexall Rangers, Ice Cream Commandos, Wannabees, Special Farces, Secret Squirrels, or the infamous Chairborne Rangers, among other (usually unprintable) names.
The above-mentioned are examples of a certain sub-species lurking amongst the male half of the population who apparently lack several important things, among which are a sense of honor, testicular fortitude, lack of hugs during childhood, a 'Truth' gene, or enough ass-whippings for fibbing.
These are the -- I can't call them guys -- things? ... who decide that it is a Good Idea to whiperingly tell folks of their Special Operations history, when the truth is that the closest they ever came to Special Operations was when they rented 'Navy Seals' from Blockbuster.
Amusing, yes. Pathetic, yes. Deserving of a sound ass-kicking, hell yes.
Unfortunately, the same lack of moral fibre that convinces them that lying through their teeth is a good way to feel like a man, also tends to allow them to pull off other stunts to feed their egos.
This is where I want to talk to the ladies.
Ladies, in my experience, hooking up with one of these critters never ends well. Most of the stories I run across wind up with the critter stealing property from the lady (both in minor and felony quantities), destroying her credit rating, wrecking her reputation, emptying her bank account, all the way up to physical, mental and emotional abuse, and even murder.
Some of the stories I hear would be laughable, if it wasn't for the fact that the person telling me of these stories has had her life destroyed, been beaten, or it becomes necessary for me or someone like me to have to discover the story at second paw, because the lady is dead.
Listen to me. If you take nothing else from this blog, listen to this one thing: if someone you may be interested in starts telling you about his Super-Secret Special Operations Stuff -- Check. It. Out.
Trust, but verify.
If anything he tells you about his military career can't be verified, then a real operator wouldn't have told you anyway. Period. Full stop. End of discussion.
This is a link to the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.
The thing you need to bear in mind is: Standard Form 180.
The NPRC website shows three different ways to get a Standard Form 180.
If your potential schmoopie starts telling you about his special operations days, or the testosterone-soaked, manly missions in-which-he-was-the-only-survivor-but-he's-going-to-be-strong-for-his-dead-buddies, or how a Hollywood movie (or book) was actually based upon his exploits, or any bushwa which sounds like it came out of a dimestore novel with parachutes, explosions and half-nekkid women on the cover, get your paws on a Standard Form 180, fill it out as completely as possible and mail it to the address given a the NPRC website.
Once you get a copy of his military records, take the copy to someone who can translate it for you. That person should NOT be your possible huggums or his best friend in the whole world.
Take the form to your nearest military recruiting station of the Armed Services branch that your pookie claims and have someone with a lot of fruit salad on their chest translate the results for you.
If lambie-toes claims to have been a SeAL, but his documentation says he was anything else: DROP HIM -- PRONTO.
Someone who will lie about this sort of thing to make himself feel like a man will, I say again my last -- WILL -- do other things to make himself feel like a man.
Including smacking you around.
Do this thing for me, okay? And do it for any female friends or relatives you care about that run across someone who matches the description.
I don't want to deal with the after effects of a bullshit artist anymore, and I'm relatively sure that no other cop wants to, either.
And they wind up as cops, too. Just because he made it through an Academy, doesn't mean that his stories of his SEAL days are true.
Trust, but verify.