Code Brown: The Flight Line Chronicles of a Master Sergeant and His Betrayal by Cheese Sticks
Let me paint you a picture. You’re deployed to Al Udeid Air Base. Stress is high. Morale is medium. And the fried food? Endless. It’s like a Golden Corral married a soda fountain and moved into the DFAC (The acronym DFAC most commonly stands for Dining Facility in a military context.) You’ve got nuggets, cheese sticks, fries, and enough Mtn. Dew to the power of a small drone. For someone like me—who treats snack time like a competitive sport—it’s heaven. Until it’s not.
Because here’s the thing, they don’t put in the deployment welcome packet: greasy food turns your guts into a ticking time bomb. And mine? Was counting down.
The Setup: Fried Food and False Confidence
After consuming what I now refer to as “The Combo of Doom”—two Mtn. Dews, a fistful of cheese sticks, and enough fries to insulate a trailer—I get the call. “We need you on the flight line.” No problem. Just another day in the glamorous world of aircraft maintenance.
They toss me and two teammates into a truck and drive us to the furthest parking spot known to man. I’m talking five minutes by vehicle, which in flight line terms is basically Siberia. They hand us a radio, a wrench, and a vague sense of abandonment. “Good luck,” they say. Translation: “We’re not coming back.”
The Crisis: When Your Colon Declares War
Ten minutes in, my stomach starts whispering threats. Then it starts shouting. I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon in a sauna. Every step feels like a betrayal. My sphincter is holding the line like a lone defender in a medieval siege. I scan the area. No power unit—so the airplane toilet is a no-go. Also, the golden rule: never use the aircraft toilet on the ground unless you want to be the subject of a maintenance meme.
I consider my options. There’s a female teammate doing refueling checks upstairs, so sneaking in a stealth poop is off the table. I look out across the horizon and—hallelujah—two port-a-potties glisten in the distance like plastic beacons of hope.
The Journey: A March of Desperation
I inform my team: “Code Brown. I’m going mobile.” They nod solemnly. They know. I begin the walk of shame. Actually, it’s more like the waddle of doom. I’m holding my butt like it’s a fragile package. Every step is a gamble. Every breath is a risk. It’s 2000 hours, 84 degrees, and I’m sweating like I just lied on my PT test.
The porta-potty is farther than I thought. I walk for what feels like ten minutes through the desert of despair. I reach the first plastic throne, fling open the door, and execute the fastest belt unbuckling in recorded history. I sit. I explode. I give birth to a 4-pound regret. It’s violent. It’s emotional. It’s oddly spiritual.
The Twist: The Toilet Paper Betrayal
As I sit in post-poop reflection, I glance at the toilet paper holder. Empty. Not even a courtesy square. Just a hollow ring of betrayal.
I channel my inner Master Sergeant. I half-hike my pants, clench like my career depends on it, and shuffle to the second port-a-potty. If there’s no TP here, a sock—or two—is going to die a hero. But lo and behold: toilet paper—glorious, abundant, single-ply salvation. I clean up, question my life choices, and vow never to eat cheese sticks before a shift again.
The Aftermath: A Stain on My Record
I return to the aircraft, finish the checks, and call for pickup. We pile into the back of the box truck like greasy, exhausted warriors. That’s when it hits me. A smell. A presence. I glance down and see it: a Jackson Pollock of shame smeared across the back of my pants.
Apparently, the explosion was... more external than I realized. I had been walking around with a poop badge of dishonor. I did what any seasoned NCO would do—I got back to the maintenance shack, cleaned up like a ninja, and pretended nothing happened. Denial is a powerful tool.
The Moral: Fried Food Is a Liar
So what did we learn?
Never trust cheese sticks.
Always check the porta-potty before committing.
Socks are brave, disposable heroes.
And if you’ve ever power-walked across the flight line at night, holding your cheeks like you’re protecting the last egg in a high-stakes Easter hunt—just know, we’ve all been there.
What “Jackson Pollock” Means: Jackson Pollock was a famous abstract expressionist painter known for his chaotic, splattered, drip-style paintings. So when you say “a Jackson Pollock of shame,” you’re comparing the mess on your pants to one of his wild, paint-splattered canvases—except instead of paint, it’s... well... regret.
Stay greasy, stay vigilant, and remember: “If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.”
