Bulge battle

I'm in the office early. We have the slowest coffee maker in the world. Drip. Drip. Drip. Thank god some folks have sent some decent coffee; one of my anticipations about taking a job at the Embassy was that at least the coffee would be better. I was wrong. Just bigger vats of the same old army coffee. With that weird industrial aftertaste. Which is strangely like the aftertaste of McDonald's orange juice. The little plastic cups with the peel-back foil lid. An hour later on that road trip to Philly and the chemicals from the hash browns and the OJ have created a tasty little Superfund site in my esophagus. Like that. The food situation here is strange. They say an army runs on its stomach. Alexander the Great was tied to re-supplying his troops about every ten days at waterside ports; beyond that the amount of fodder needed for the mules would exceed the amount that they could carry. We have contractors. It’s like eating every meal at the Golden Corral buffet. This army runs on its paunchy gut. Sometimes there’s nothing better than BBQ fried chicken, candied yams, corn bread and a dish of soft-serve frozen yogurt. Twelve days in a row, however and you start to feel as though you might as well be shooting a polemical masochistic documentary. Yes, there are ‘healthy alternatives.’ They don’t call this the most advanced military in the world for nothing. But during a 14-18 hour day involving either dodging car bombs or creating endless PowerPoint presentations on Sunni political participation (not sure which is more dangerous), I generally find myself deserving ‘comfort food’. Which is at least somewhat better than my experiences with local cuisine. You might call that ‘discomfort food’. I met with my ex-governor friend again yesterday. Every time I see him he suggests we have lunch together. I always forget to not eat before I visit, so I’ve politely declined a number of times before. So as the meeting began the sergeant that works with me suggested we order lunch. I had just treated myself to an Angus Burger Meal Combo at the little Burger King here in the Green Zone, a rare indulgence. Ali says that he has just eaten, but he’d be happy to order lunch for us. We’re trapped. We try to back-track, but now we’re tiptoeing on the lines of etiquette. So I have to diplomatically stuff half a chicken and some spaghetti and three sheets of pita down onto my swollen Angus-filled abdomen. I stop halfway and Ali, who I believe is a master of this diplomatic game, asks me if I do not like the meal he has offered to me, commenting that many hosts would take it as a minor insult if the guest does not fully enjoy the serving. He offers to leave the room for several minutes to allow me to finish. Presumably, he’s in the next room laughing. I consider the bulge that might be created with a chicken carcass under the sofa cushion. I suppose there are etiquette rules against that as well. We continue our discussion as I am gnawing on the last piece of pita. His assistant comes in with another round of soft drinks, and Ali grabs the only diet soda on the tray. When I leave, the Velcro on my body armor strains to stay together. I have difficulty climbing into the armored Suburban. I think of how inconvenient it would be to be attacked on the ride back to base, as I have the agility of a Weeble. Such are the hazards of this job.