Drill Sergeant

By Austin B. Hahn

I went to basic combat training from May until August of 2016. Basic combat training proved to be a tough experience, and humor was something that got me through it. To my surprise, I found the drill sergeants to be quite humorous. In fact, they inspired me to write these pieces, hence the title, “Drill Sergeant,” which parodies and pays tribute to the role of a drill sergeant. If you’re a drill sergeant or a former drill instructor, I hope you appreciate and enjoy these.

Please note: This parody is intended for comedic purposes only and does not reflect the actual U.S. military.

Scene I

(The year is 2055 in Fort Tumbleweed, Oklahoma. Seventy-five-year-old Drill Sergeant Mullberry, who has been a drill sergeant for fifty years and will be retiring after this cycle, makes an announcement on the intercom. Today is the first official day of basic combat training for the soldiers.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!!! Soldiers, you have exactly thirty minutes to be downstairs on the drill pad. Time now. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!!!

(The soldiers wake up at 4:30 in the morning. They conduct personal hygiene and put on their uniforms for physical training. Before making their way downstairs to the drill pad, Drill Sergeant Mullberry gets on the intercom again.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: Soldiers! You have less than ten minutes to get downstairs and be in formation on the drill pad in PT uniform. Time now. Let’s go! If you don’t get down on time, I will hand out lyric sheets and make you all sing “Barbie Girl” during PT. It was popular back in my day. Let’s get movin’!!!

(The soldiers rush downstairs. All of them are standing in formation at the position of attention. Meanwhile, Drill Sergeant Mullberry makes her way out to the drill pad with the assistance of her walker.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: Hurry up you sons of bitches! Hurry up!

(Drill Sergeant Mullberry slowly edges her way to the platoon.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: I swear some of you guys are so slow! Come on soldiers! Come on! You don’t need to take all day now!

(Minutes later, Drill Sergeant Mullberry stops in front of the platoon and reaches down her cargo pocket. She pulls out a piece of paper with her reading glasses and puts them on.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: Hey soldiers! We have so much to cover in such little time. First of all, there is a new hygienic regulation in place. Last cycle, 1st Sergeant was deployed to China. When he came back, he told everyone that he could still smell their stinky asses while he was over there, so he recommended to the TRADOC Commander that a new regulation should be implemented. This year we are going to start douching!

(She opens the piece of paper up and quickly glances down at it.)

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: TRADOC regulation 3-56 says that you will all douche first thing in the morning. You can thank the last cycle of soldiers who were here for this one.

(The soldiers begin to talk amongst themselves.)

Soldiers: What!? No! Gross! Hell no … I don’t want to–

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: –Listen up soldiers!!! The Army doesn’t have a lot of money, which means we did not have the financial resources to buy you all a douche, so you will have to share the turkey baster that I left up in your bay. You will be briefed after PT by Drill Sergeant Hughes on how to douche. Soldiers, if you come back down tomorrow morning on the drill pad, and I can smell you, I will make you go back upstairs and do it again, and I will watch you to ensure you are utilizing the proper douching technique that Drill Sergeant Hughes showed you. Do you have any questions?

Soldiers: No Drill Sergeant!

Drill Sergeant Mullberry: Good. Do not forget your military bearing, and use courtesy when speaking to an NCO. You want to make a good impression on Drill Sergeant Hughes. That means no talking when he is talking, and when you speak, you stand at parade rest! Remember, he will be showing you how to douche, not how to be one!

Scene II

For those who have no military experience:

During basic combat training, as soldiers, we were expected to keep our personal space, which included our lockers, beds, and shoe displays, clean and ready for inspection at any given moment. Failure to meet this standard would result in disciplinary action.

(Drill Sergeant Fernandez walks into the male bay. The soldiers are standing at the position of attention next to their bunks aligned with one another.)

Drill Sergeant Fernandez: Soldiers!!! How come your lockers look like shit!!!???

(No one answers.)

Drill Sergeant Fernandez: Oh, so now no one wants to answer. Okay. I see how it is soldiers … You don’t want to clean your lockers? Hey! I got you. I got you. Some of you went ahead and just said, “Fuck you, Drill Sergeant! You’re not my real dad! You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Well guess what soldiers? Guess what!!!??? Since you want to leave your lockers looking like shit, I decided to take a shit in one of your lockers! That’s right soldiers. I took a SHIT in one of your lockers!!!

(The soldiers panic and start talking to each other.)

Soldiers: You secured your locker, right? I hope I didn’t …

Drill Sergeant Fernandez: Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers. I’m giving you a simple task, but treat it like a mission: you must locate the shit, and if you don’t start looking for it right now, I’m going to take a shit in another one! You have thirty seconds to find it. GO!!!

Harold and Martha: A Phone Conversation

By Austin B. Hahn

(Harold as the narrator.)

I was on the phone with my wife telling her about the new mattress our grandson had bought.

“It’s a futon,” I said.

“A what?” she asked.

“A futon, dear.”

“Spell it.”




“What the hell is wrong with you? I ask you to spell it, and all you can tell me is F me!? Don’t F me. Go F yourself!”

I said, “Martha, I’m not telling you to go F yourself. I’m telling you how to spell it. I’ve been married to you for thirty-nine years now. If I wanted to tell you ‘F you,’ I would’ve done it a long time ago. It’s a little too late for that now.” She tells me to go on, and I say “F-U-T-O-N,” and then she tells me to slow down, so then I say, “F … U … T …” and then she calls me a jackass for treating her like a moron. I said, “Well, whaattt? Here I am tryin’ to fuckin’ spell it for you, and you’re over here bitchin’ that I’m goin’ too fast, so then I slow down, and now you’re saying that I’m treating you like you’re stupid.” I can’t win with my wife. She’s exhausting!

I finally spell it for her, and then she asks, “Who has a futon???”

Meet Harold and Martha

By Austin B. Hahn

Harold and Martha are an elderly married couple who often bicker and fight with each other over trivial matters. They’re hilarious and have been a God-given gift sent to my imagination. I am ecstatic to be introducing you to them; I’m sure we all know a couple like this. Here’s a scene from a typical day with them.

(Harold as the narrator.)

So one time, my grandson left his phone at our house. I figured, “Oh! Well he must’ve forgot it.” I picked it up and accidentally opened up a text message. I said, “Oh what’s this?” and the next thing I know, I see some girl messaging my grandson something about a butt plug.

I went to my wife, and I asked, “Martha, what’s a butt plug?”

She goes, “Harold, why do you want to know what a butt plug is?” and so I told her, “Because some girl is texting our grandson something about a butt plug.” She started to nag and lecture me.

“Harold, you shouldn’t even be prying into our grandson’s personal life anyway. Why do you have his phone?”

I explained to her that he forgot it, and when I went to pick it up I accidentally opened up a text message, so then she finally turns to me, annoyed as usual, and says, “Fine. You wanna know what it is, Harold? It’s what I would put in your mouth to shut you up so I could forget that I even married you. Ugh!”

December 25th, 2015

By Austin B. Hahn

Dear Journal:

I have been a good ho, ho, ho this year, and the only thing I’m getting from Santa is the same thing I got last year: his big candy cane. I told him, “I don’t have an oral fixation. Do I look like Shakira to you?”

He said, “No but you’ve been a naughty boy!” which he tells me every year. What the fuck else is new though? I mean, I let him come down my chimney while he’s dressed like a fat ass hot tamale, but all he can do is just look down at me the same way the Pope looks down at an altar boy and say, “You’re on the naughty list, Austin.” Gee, really? No shit. Even my friends know how much of a ho I am. I was telling them one of my favorite holiday jokes:

“What’s the difference between Santa and Tiger Woods? Santa stops after three hos.”

They asked me, “Austin, how do you know?”

I replied, “I was the third one.”

I expect more from St. Nicholas this year since gay marriage is legal now, which means I can be a gold digger. Let me tell ya, the gold digging ideas have been flowing through my mind faster than the Ebola virus has been spreading through Africa. I know what I’ll do! Maybe I’ll take Santa’s credit card. It should be easy since his wife won’t be around.

Anyway, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

January 23rd, 2015

By Austin B. Hahn

Dear Journal:

Material things create clutter and take up space. I understand that they can be beautiful and comforting, but what’s one person doing in a 22,000 sq. foot home with a grand piano they don’t play and a chandelier of dildos that they are never going to touch? I went to Good Will the other day to donate some of my clothes that I hardly ever wore, (they were too small anyway), and it felt so GOOD to get rid of crap that I won’t need. I felt lighter, freer, and happier. I have gotten rid of a lot over the past six months. I have more space in my room to fuck someone now. (Proud ho!) Whenever I get stuck trying to decide whether I should keep something or not, I ask myself: what’s the purpose of this and is it going to bring me joy? If I can’t stick my dick in it or shove it up my ass, then it’s useless to me.

January 14th, 2015

By Austin B. Hahn

Dear Journal:

Recently, I deleted my Grindr app on my smartphone which means that I won’t be getting laid. I did it so I can focus on school . . . and avoid herpes for the time being. I don’t miss it that much. I got tired of hearing the same old line.

Mediocre-looking-gay-guy-on-Grindr: “Hey what’s up?”

Me: “My dick,” (as usual.)

Why do men think that’s an actual conversation starter? There are lots of things that are up: the sky, the number of ISIS recruits, Mariah Carey’s skirt, but NOT Obama’s approval rating. Come on guys. Be more specific.

I don’t think I have been more bored in my life. I get up, go to school, come home, and then I go to bed. Repeat. I currently live with my grandparents while I’m going to school, who have been so gracious to take me in, and I love them, but I get BORED after hearing the same dialogue over and over. I am not complaining, but how great it would be to hear something new from my grandmother every once in a while.

(As I walk in coming home from school.)

Grandma: “Hi, Austin. How was your day at school?”

Me: “Oh hey, Grandma. I had a ‘good’ day. How about yours?”

Grandma: “Well it was going good, but then it got INTERESTING.”

Me: “What happened?”

Grandma: “I just found out that my good friend, Sheryl, has syphilis. She’s 65. Looks like you’re never too old to be a slut after all.”

Now who wouldn’t want to hear such words of inspiration? It’s not every day that you hear your grandmother basically say that you’re never too old to kick up your heels and have fun . . . unless you start farting, then that’s when it’s time to put the lube away. I am a firm believer that with all the plastic surgery and technology in this day and age, anyone can be a slut no matter how old. It’s great! Maybe one day I’ll even get to be in a Preparation H commercial when I reach senior ho status.

(In black and white film. I am sitting on a stool. The camera zooms in.)

“Hi. I’m Austin Hahn. I have had more men inside me than a strip club, and I’m proud to say, at 62 years old, I’m still going at it which is why I use Preparation H . . . the #1 hemorrhoid cream. It comes in handy for old whores like me!”

If Betty White is still around when I’m 70, then she better look out. With my ass in town, it’ll be so hot in Cleveland, the heat radiating from the city will give the old people in Pennsylvania hot flashes.

January 5th, 2015

By Austin B. Hahn

Dear Journal:

I had a long, boring day, but it was alright. The only complaint I have was that I didn’t get any sleep due to an illness. I was altering back and forth from hot to cold faster than Jennifer Lopez changes with her boyfriends. I was trying to pinpoint the source of my illness, but I couldn’t find anything, so I blamed North Korea.

I don’t like math. The first-year college algebra textbook is huge! I told my mother, (we have a good relationship, and we talk), that I just took one look at it and went, “Well, if I was ever lost in a forest with this book and didn’t have toilet paper, I would know what to do.”

I LOVE my Pilates class. I could tell the instructor was great. She seems very sociable. Everyone wrote down what their fitness goals were, so I said, “To get sexy!” At the end of class we all sat down, and she was trying to figure out what to do. I thought, “I know! We could all share our goals with each other,” but then I realized that I didn’t want to explain myself saying, “I would love to feel confident enough about my body to walk in a fishnet at night on the streets of Portland and feel sexy by the end of the term. If any of you ever see me getting stopped by the police just tell them, ‘Hey! I know that guy. Leave him alone. He has worked hard and earned the right to show off that body. Besides, it’s casual Friday for him.’”

I was so depressed last night. I deleted my two previous journal entries, but then I ended up I rewriting them tonight. I was plagued by the thought of someone famous reading what I wrote about them, and then receiving an e-mail from their lawyer notifying me that I’m being sued. People just don’t have a sense of humor, especially celebrities, and we all know how much time they have on their hands. Even though I imagine that they would have something better to be doing with their time, such as paying the mortgage on their seventh house, they have a greater desire to litigate, apparently.

Joan Rivers had once made a comment about Adele, calling her “heavy”, and Adele’s lawyer contacted her asking for a written apology which is bullshit. Why are people so damn sensitive? Gee, Adele, what would you like people to say?

“Adele you’re not heavy . . . you’re just thinnly challenged”?

If you don’t like what a comedian says about you, then I’m sorry you can’t laugh at yourself. You’re in the wrong business if you think no one is going to say anything about you as a famous person.

Learn to laugh at yourself, as Joan Rivers once put it, because you might just be the biggest joke in the room.

If I can make jokes about myself, and laugh with people in moments when I look like a fool, then so can you.

Being politically correct has become part of our cultural paradigm, and it’s setting the stage for a litigious society, consequently. We must teach our children to relish in their flaws, idiosyncrasies, and to laugh at themselves, others, and at life or else everything will become grounds for a legal dispute.

DO WE WANT THAT KIND OF A FUTURE? I don’t think so . . .