Fight Club (iraq)

Ah, Iraq. Nothing makes my day more special than waking up to the sound of a recorded Imam's singing, the sand blowing in the wind, the smell of unwashed livestock and human bodies ever present.

Driving through the third-world villages, reminecent of the Flintstones, except the huts are made of mud and hay, it's amazing that these people live in the 21st century. Fecal-infested water, compounded with trash, urine, animal waste, and run-off, make intersting gutters right through the living areas and roads of the villages. A people in which plumbing and garbage disposal aren't a concept, and the word "conservation" only gets you a blank stare and a confused look.

Children litter the area. Plithoras of them. They come from every door, every recess, giving us the 'thumbs-up!' and asking "Miss-ta! Cho-ko-lot!' constantly. It seems that these kids are starving, but instead, they've learned that it is so much easier to take hand-outs from the Americans than to actually do the work themselves.

An interesting game has come from this. Often children will flock to any US Soldier, asking for candy. Often candy is given out, yet who brings enough for a mob of little brats? A fight will ensue as a bigger kid punchs and kicks a little kid for something as simple as a tootsie roll. No kid is too young, too weak, or too unprepared to be jumped by two or three others for some candy, in which usually neither of the combatants will end up getting.

The first rule of Iraqi Fight Club is to get the candy.