(Some things you need to know: the chow hall here on this post is managed, under contract, by Kellog, Brown and Root (KBR), and staffed by a subcontractor, ESS (I have no idea what that stands for).)

I have long suspected, given some things that I have been told by soldiers that were here for the initial invasion, that Weapons of Mass Destruction would be found in Iraq. I never expected to ge the proof that I have obtained in the last 36 hours, though.

I have come to the belief that the Department of Defense, and it's contractors are actually creating WMD here in Iraq. Let me explain.

I ate at the chow hall last night. Roast beef, potatoes, and succatash. A couple of hours later, odors started emanating from my intestinal tract. They were ...foul is not the word ... the human body should not be capable of manufacturing what I was smelling. To quote George Carlin: "It's not the smell, it's the BURNING OF MY EYES!"

I am not kidding. If I had not known that they were my own farts, I would have started checking the building I work in for some kind of chemical spill.

Anyway, since I went "there", I guess I'll share with you a little episode that happened a few weeks ago. Since I am discussing my stomach with you, might as well go the rest of the way.

To get you up to speed, it's a rather common experience, when going to a new foreign country, to experience "gastrointestinal distress". There are various germs, and bacteria in any given region that are just part of the environment. The locals are used to them, because they have been exposed to them since birth. But, a newcomer gets hit with them full force, because they are totally different than the set of germs and bacteria that he has already built up resistance to.

So, as in any deployment, most soldiers here experienced ... an "adjustment period". That was complicated by the joy of taking pills for malaria, which are infamous for messing up your stomach. This makes living in a place where the majority of the toilet facilities are porta-potties sitting outside in 120+ degree heat an even more enjoyable experience.

So, anyway, my gut had gotten past all of that, finally.

Then it went in the opposite direction. I don't know how. I don't know why.

But, as I explained to a coworker that asked, I didn't need a laxative. I needed a Lamaze coach. You know, someone to hold my hand ... tell me when to breathe and when to push ... wipe my forehead with a cool cloth, and feed me ice chips.

Just thought I'd share some of the joys of my deployment experience.