When I find my knight in shining armor, he won't be riding a tank

Every girl is looking for the right guy. Right? Well, here’s a little piece of advice, girls. Don’t look for him in the military.

Don’t get me wrong, our guys in uniform are great. They’re heroes. They kill bad guys and sacrifice life and limb on the battlefield for our safety. I’m proud to know them. I just wouldn’t want to date any of them.

You see I’ve known quite a few of them and trust me, what they lack in chivalry they make up for in genuine stupidity.

In the barracks I live in now, there are about 20 men and one woman, my roommate, who understandably spends most of her time in the room.

I spend my time with a select five to seven of them. By “select,” I mean, whichever ones happen to be in the TV room at the same time as I am.

But there are only five seats in the TV room. When I walked in the other night, all five were occupied, so one of the more courteous males said, “Oh Kate. Did you want to sit down?” and tossed a throw pillow on the floor. This produced an inordinate amount of laughter from the rest. Come on, guys, it wasn’t that funny.

Another night I was helping another young lady move out of the barracks at about 10 p.m. She had no car and she was nine months pregnant. I called one of the guys – let’s call him “Clay” (because that’s his name) – and told him the situation.

“Uh …really?” Clay asked, sounding like he wished he hadn’t answered the phone. I asked to borrow his truck. “Oh sure! Nooo problem.” Relief. Thank God she didn’t ask me to help!

While we were loading up the truck I was surprised to see two of the other guys headed down to our end of the hall. Were they actually going to help?

No, they were just there to sneak chalk blocks behind my wheels so I wouldn’t be able to drive away. That is funny.

My weekend job includes dropping Clay and Stuart and sometimes a few others off at the bar at about 10 p.m., then going to pick them up at 2 a.m., plus one or two giggling blonde friends who need a ride home. I don’t mind doing this at all. I’d rather pick them up than have them drive.

They generally thank me by telling me I’m the wind beneath their wings and offering to beat me senseless. Then they dump their curly fries on the floor for good measure.

One night, since it was already late, I decided to just stay out with them. Note to self: Don’t do that again.

Since I was going, they asked me to act as both designated driver and “fake girlfriend” in the event either of them started talking to ugly girls. Fine, just this once.

While standing there feeling immensely uncomfortable, the fifteenth skeezy Army guy of the night came up and asked me to dance. I guess Clay could see the pained grimace on my face because he headed our direction immediately.

Rescue? No such luck. “She’s the best dancer I know,” Clay told the potential suitor. “What’s wrong with you Kate? Get out there and dance.” Wow, thanks buddy.

But nothing brings them more joy than making fun of my faith in God.

The funny thing is I don’t have to say a word about it. My mere presence and the fact that I have a belief system they don’t share irks them so badly they can’t let it go. Are we perhaps feeling a little guilty boys? And once one of them gets started, it would take a mortar attack to distract them from the subject.

“Wow, Kate, whoever made this movie must hate God,” Jamie will say, while Dane giggles uncontrollably. And it goes downhill from there.

By the end of the night, Dane is usually convulsing in a way that has me worried for his health.

Sadly, these guys are kind of a good trade, considering the group of cretins I was stationed with before.

These were sophisticated gentlemen whose favorite thing to do in Kuwait was hold a cigarette lighter under each others’ butts to see how long they could do it before being noticed.

The moral of this story?

I may find the right man out there someday, but I can pretty much guarantee he won’t be wearing combat boots.