From: sixtyminman@hotmail.com
Subject: [ASSC] [AFTSD] Operation G-String

Operation G-String

We were sitting in the bunker when Operation G-String
was announced. As the wail of sirens scorched the air,
each man threw down his soy sauce and scrambled. In private,
we each knew this was no time for stage
fright.  Silently we polished the tips
of our hysteroscopes and strapped on our bandolier of ones.

How did we get to be the lucky ones
who managed to survive the stripper wars and pull out a string
of combat victories?  Here’s a tip
for you green-hornies out there: mileage in the air
is a myth; it’s superior intelligence on the ground what sets the stage
for pulling your unit through.  Lock and load, Private.

Desiree was a prisoner I had captured in a private
moment.  My interrogation of her yielded the following. One:
Blackout conditions are optimal for us to stage
our sorties.  Two: Jamming the enemy’s frequency with a string
of obscure ASSC code words will keep the air-
waves ours.  And three: always tip

off the friendly locals to the approach (on tip-
toe) of gorillas wearing headsets, so that Pvt.
Happy knows it’s ill advised to get some air.
For this and more, I rewarded Desiree with all the ones
I had, which she let me tie up with her tampon string.
Imprisonment had reached a new stage.

Maneuvers in Operation G-String had now reached stage
II: reconnaissance.  We received a tip
from a downed pilot with a stained parachute that a string
of hooches in a nearby village were hotbeds of private
operations as part of the resistance movement.  Once
again, we felt duty-bound to assist.  Air

superiority was ours, so, shouldering our guns with an air
of seasoned bravado, we humped with full packs and staged
our offensive. For this, each of us -– and all the ones
who went and came before us -- will be decorated on the tip
of his nose with a blueball cluster, in a suitably private
Congressional ceremony.  This is freedom fighting on a shoestring.

If I make it to the next stage (civilian life as private dick),
I’ll hold my unused ones as memories and never tip my hand; but no air
will taste as sweet as the perfume of Operation G-String.

  - SixtyMinute Man

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