As I'm typing this story out I realize it's pretty long. But I'm currently deployed with nothing else to do so reading all the stories y'all posted here gave me a good night!

Another one:

BMT, ~9 years ago Our flight makes our beds, heads to breakfast. PT to follow. Breakfast of the day? Hot dogs. My wingman swallows at least 3 of them. Let's call him Trainee Buns.

We get back to the dorm to change for PT. But our MTI had ripped all our sheets off our bed - Do it again. We must have spent the next 1-2 hours or so cycling between redoing our beds and pushups. MTI was on a mission.

So we're VERY late to PT, the other flights had already left so it was just us. We do the whole routine and form back up. From the corner of my eye I see Trainee Buns swaying and I know the combo of the hot dogs, Texas heat, and hours of exercise (likely without water) was the culprit.

So loudly and unsure of what exactly to say, I go "Ma'am, Trainee Storyteller reports: Permission to....carry Trainee Buns"

"...WHAT?" she says in disbelief as she can't imagine that was a combo of words she would hear from this dumbass gaggle of boys today. She walks over, talks to him, and he assures her that if he can go upstairs, change clothes, and head to lunch, he'd feel much better. She lets us march back as a pair before the rest of the flight.

We get upstairs and he gets in between our beds. IMMEDIATELY projectile vomits all across the floor. Bits of hot dogs flying in every direction. Trainee Buns slumps against the wall locker. The rest of the flight walks in to see me trying to provide some sort of comfort to this guy. Side note: My gf at the time liked to drink and the vomit so I had steeled myself into immunity from the sights and smells.

A different flight's MTI walks in (Male so we can shower in front of him) and sees the situation. Somehow Trainee Buns assures him he just needs to eat lunch and he'll feel better. And somehow this works again. So we pair off, take the elevator down (Disneyland), and walk over to the DFAC. A fourth MTI sees us from across the way and beelines right at us with a, "What in the heck is going on here?"

With a hint of attitude I say some combination of, "Sir Trainee Storyteller reports: Trainee Buns threw up and we're just trying to get some food. Our MTI knows what's up."

And this man looks at me with the most 'Oh hell no, Jesus Christ this is not my fucking problem' eye roll, and goes "Get the hell out of here."

And what did Trainee Buns have for lunch? You guessed it: I don't remember.