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Gave a Porsche, Got Back An Edsel
By Marc E.Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025
Back in the pre-Corps days, I was basically a walking recruiting poster, minus the cheesy grin. Bruce Lee flicks had me throwing roundhouse kicks at the furniture, and once I saw Arnold flexing on Pumping Iron, I figured I’d try to turn my pipe-cleaner arms into something resembling biceps. I never smoked, unlike my siblings, who could’ve kept Marlboro in business single-handedly. Booze? Gave that up too, since my family tree is basically a vineyard with a drinking problem. My skeleton was pure ectomorph, think scarecrow with delusions of grandeur, so unless I started juicing like a Soviet weightlifter, I wasn’t getting any bigger. But hey, I did get my body in decent shape and in fighting form, or at least as close as my DNA would allow.

So naturally, I signed up for the Marine Corps, because why not see if I could survive the world’s most creative group punishment? Boot camp was a breeze, or at least as breezy as getting screamed at by a guy with a knife hand can be. I cranked out 100 situps, 20 pullups, and ran like a DI was chasing me with a grudge. Down at PI, I’d spot the pilots out for a jog and tag along to see if they could keep up with the ground-pounders.

Most of my time in the Corps was smooth sailing, if you ignore the occasional existential crisis, until a few months before I punched out. Suddenly, my guts started staging a mutiny. Got home, and the pain dialed itself up to DEFCON 1. Doc ran some tests, shrugged, and blamed it on stress. Next thing I know, I’m getting a midnight ambulance ride because my appendix decided to go full kamikaze. They yanked it out just before it could redecorate my insides. Thought that was the end of it, but nope, my digestive tract had other plans and kept throwing curveballs every year or so.

Fast-forward to 1990, seven years out, and thinking civilian life was supposed to be easy. I’m halfway through chow when my esophagus decides to play traffic cop and block all lanes. Tests? Negative, as usual. For years, eating was a full-contact sport, food would get stuck halfway, and I’d have to hack it back up like a cat with a hairball. Had more close calls than a boot on his first liberty. Then in 2000, my stomach joined the rebellion. Halfway through a meal, I’d get sick and have to wave the white flag. Docs still couldn’t find anything, and after two years, the symptoms just ghosted me.

Eventually, I got my first computer, probably powered by hamsters, and started digging into MCAS El Toro for a website. That’s when I stumbled on the fun fact that the base wells were basically toxic soup. Suddenly, my mystery symptoms started to make sense. I remembered El Toro’s signature brown sky, eyes burning as I’d faceplanted into a CS gas chamber, and all those times we stood behind the bird, huffing exhaust like it was oxygen. Then there was the USS Midway, where the water tasted suspiciously like JP-5 with a hint of rust.

Just when I thought my guts had finally called a truce, they staged another coup at 2 AM. I drove myself to the ER, got admitted for a blockage, and woke up minus a chunk of colon. Two weeks on life support, talk about a forced vacation. Fast-forward two years, and the issues are back, now with bonus medication. No clue how much longer I’ve got on this rock, but it’s funny how the brass will admit Camp Lejeune’s water was toxic, but El Toro? Crickets.

I’m not chasing a fat VA check, just looking for a few answers and maybe a shot at feeling less like a radioactive science experiment. I knew what I was signing up for; the Corps is basically rugby with more yelling and worse food, even when nobody’s shooting at you. Plenty of Marines punched out early, and not always because of enemy action. All I want is for someone to admit the water at El Toro might’ve been sketchier than the chow hall’s Tuesday Surprise. Right now, I’m out here talking to myself like a lost pvt. on Firewatch. Any other El Toro Marines sprouting extra limbs or glowing in the dark? Sound off, devil dogs. Misery loves a formation.

Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me.
80svmfp3@gmail.com

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