In Officer Candidate School we had an inspection coming up. Which, being OCS, meant it was going to happen in about 30 seconds and you had 30 dudes all smash simultaneously into the walk-in storage closet where our Class B uniforms were kept, all in a frenzy to polish shoes and brass while basically playing Twister inside the tiny space.
If anybody was less than perfect, we'd all be low-crawling in formation before getting another impossible task. We were stressed.
So, in my wisdom, I was polishing my collar brass on my collar instead of taking them off to do it. I had an open can of Brasso and a rag. Inevitably, another candidate jostled me, and half the can of toxic chemicals dumped down my chest. No time to worry-- outside at a sprint for formation.
One of my own guys gasped as he did a pre-inspection-- where the Brasso had hit my shirt, it left a black oil-slick stain that covered half my chest. And here come the officers. I threw out my mighty pectoral muscles and, to coin a phrase, brassed it out.
First officer came by, looked at my polished shoes and shaved chin, stepped down the line. Second one did the same. Third one, classic high-functioning alcoholic Colonel, goggled at my chest and said "What the HELL happened to your shirt?"
"SIR I Dumped Brasso On It SIR."
"Brasso? Are you an IDIOT, Canecutter?"
"SIR Apparently So SIR."
He shook his head and walked on by. I got away with it. If I'd had a smudge on my shoe, I'd have been punished, but a chest full of Brasso was so egregious, so humiliating, so damn stupid, it brought me the protection that primitive societies accord to the insane.