The Magic Newspaper Exercise

I am in the Air Force Reserves. I “work” one weekend a month. This past weekend, I participated in a workshop for enlisted members of the Air Force. The purpose of the workshop was to inform reservists of the many benefits of being a reservist, and other basic material. It was mostly information that I already know, but I attended anyways because I heard that they offered breakfast muffins, and I heard that they tasted good.

Halfway through the first day of the workshop, they split us into small groups and forced us to participate in a team building exercise with people we did not know. When this happened, I felt resentment towards the breakfast muffin. The team building exercise consisted of bendy straws, a stick of gum, a roll of tape, and “magic” newspaper. Yes, that’s right, “magic” newspaper. Apparently, we had been trapped in front of a 70 foot long body of water, and the only way we could escape is by using these materials. I imagined being deployed in a war time situation.

Man down. Shot in the chest. Blood everywhere. Apply newspaper.

Exercises like these make me wonder why I joined the military. I tried to think positive thoughts about the Air Force. I remembered the time when I was in my first week of basic military training. I was in line at the cafeteria, when a training instructor (drill sergeant) whispered spit laced words in my ear, “You aint neva gonna make it son. You gonna rot away here. The rats gonna eat you when you sleep. They gonna chomp on yo ass.” I was tickled with excitement. The rats were going to chomp on my ass.

“Now, please remember, the magic newspaper cannot touch the body of water!” said the enthusiastic class instructor. I’m guessing that he had to be the one who came up with the ideas for the team exercise. Why do I guess this? I can’t really explain it, but when you look at his shiny face, and then glance up at his stupid haircut, you just think to yourself, “Yeah, it was that guy.”

The people at my table seemed to be taking the exercise relatively seriously, so I quickly adjusted myself and spoke in my serious voice. “How about we drink the entire body of water using the straws? Then we can use the magic newspaper to wipe our urinary tracts clean,” I suggested. Everyone at the table ignored me, with the exception of the guy to my left, who gave me a slight grin. It was one of those grins that says “How about you just shut the $%$^# up.”

I immediately realized that I was surrounded by people who were older and more mature than I am. Either that or they had a sense of humor that approached respectable. I remembered a time when I was put in a situation similar to this. It was my Great Grandma’s one hundredth birthday party. What an achievement that was. “Hi Grandma, this is your Great Grandson, Ben. Congratulations on turning one hundred” I yelled in her ear. “Where’s George?” she asked. “Who the hell is George?” I thought to myself.

Who the hell was George.

The rest of the table began shooting off their ideas.

“Let’s make a boat,” said one guy.

“Clever,” I thought to myself.

“I got it…we’ll make a ferry boat!” said another guy.

“Double clever” I thought.

“Yeah, there we go!” said everybody.

I wanted to fight the conformity, but I felt pressured. “Yeah, there we go” my voice cracked quietly.

“What are we going to do with the gum?” they asked.

“We could chew it up and use it to stick the straws to the bottom of the magic newspaper!” said another.

“But why can’t we just use the tape?” I said.

Again, no response. Why couldn’t we just use the tape? The first one to grab the gum and start chewing was a guy with caramel colored teeth. Throughout his entire life, he had been a smoker. For years, his teeth had battled to maintain a color that could distantly resemble white. However, after a tough fight, his teeth had finally given in. They had been smoked into a stupor. As he chewed in slow motion, I could only think of each piece of gum as helpless lab mice that had been thrown into the cage of a python. Each time he chomped down on a piece of gum, I could hear squealing.

The squealing caused me to have a pleasant flashback. The year was 92. The place was the county fair. There was a goat. I think it was retarded. We kicked the goat in the stomach. No one else was laughing. We were so immature back then.

The flashbacks ended and it was time for our group to present our ferry boat to the rest of the class. The person presenting our project was the same guy who gave me the shut your mouth grin. He presented well despite two other groups before us having the same ferry boat idea. He cracked a couple of jokes and the class laughed. I became slightly jealous towards the man. I heard him talking about his divorce earlier, so I wanted to use that as an angle to get revenge.

“She’s not coming back, you know,” I said.

“Who?” he replied.

“Your wife.”

I didn’t really say that, but it would have been fun. He might have cried and I would have to console him. I’d rest his head in my soft bosom and whisper, “Daddy’s here.” However, this is the reality that I live in, a reality where you can’t treat people the way you treat retarded goats. No matter how much you want to tell people that you hate them, or that their ideas are stupid, you can’t. You have to respect them despite their stupid haircuts. His name is Reality, and he’d like to meet you. Oh, and Reality would also like you to meet one of his dearest friends. His name is Magic Newspaper.