Ah, the Holiday season approaches. Whatever politically correct holiday you celebrate, we invite you to sit down by the campfire, pour some whiskey in your coffee, post a gear watch on your rifles (that new guy will do just fine, sucks to suck boot) and listen to our holiday tale.The night stretched from the Euphrates river valley to the Hindu Kush Mountains. Tracers lit up the sky across the Middle Eastern night. The faint glows barely illuminated an outline of an Abrams tank pulled by an entire CAAT Team.The eight humvees bristled with M-2s and Mk19 heavy machine guns and in the cupola stood a drunken bearded figure.Across the middle east, Grunt Claus traveled to and fro dropping down the chimney of terrorists and insurgents alike. Leaving special gifts and the smell of a Chilli Mac MRE, whiskey and Copenhagen, Grunt Claus would go. Grunt Claus would hang grenades with care on trip wires throughout the house, so whenever the terrorists walked about, nothing would be left alive, not even a mouse.After visiting all the bad boys and girls who would do America harm, Grunt Claus would visit the FOBs hanging bandoliers of ammo with care while grunts were gone, taking care of "business" in the Porta-John.After his work was done, Grunt Claus crept out to his crew, the entire CAAT Team, and Abrams, looking like new. As he went condition one on his own M-2 he took flight over the cities exclaiming "Merry Christmas and f*** you!"All across the battlefield the next morning anew, Marines, Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen awoke to a sight, tons of ammo to aid in their fight. The terrorists awoke much the same, but walking around for them was done in vain. As they all hit the trip wires, their houses were lit up with combined fires.In the distance, you could hear the cry of a drunken former enlisted guy, who smells of whiskey, saying "It's Christmas and I'm getting frisky!"