Wednesday, February 21, 2018



"You'll get all the slant eyed pussy you can 
shake a stick at," leered my recruiter with a tobacco 
juiced grin as he groped himself through his 
polyester trousers and mimed what I imagined by 
the grease on his pumpkin shaped head was a 
Vitalis lubed hand job. Fuck the good training and 
travel! Obviously sex with hot, young Asian women 
was this recruiter's top recruiting tool.

"Fuck yes!" I had screamed out as I got 
caught up in the moment. 

My recruiter, Don, was oily and unpleasant, 
with beady little pig-like eyes, an alcohol flush to 
his face, gin blossomed nose, and seriously 
overweight - like a hundred fucking pounds. He 
leaned back into his chair which groaned under the 
pressure and lit up an unfiltered KOOL while letting 
out a thundering fart at the same time. The entire 
room immediately stunk of rotten eggs.

"Just wait until you get to the P. I., that's the 
Philippine Islands to you landlubbers," he coughed 
out, "the whores down there will jack you off and 
use Brylcreem for lubricant. Much better than 

Brylcreem and not Vitalis for lubricant! 
Well, some sort of old man hair tonic, so I had been 

The recruiter lifted his hands and looked up 
to the nicotine stained tile ceiling as if he was 
welcoming little baby Jesus down from Heaven. 
"Nothing finer than a Brylcreem hand-job. And you 
won't catch the black clap going that way either."

That would be the first of countless times 
that I would hear about the dreaded "Black Clap." 
Usually you would hear it after you bragged or lied 
to one of your shipmates about some broad you had 
banged the night before. The shipmate would be 
jealous that you had gotten some pussy and he 
hadn't so he would throw this fairy tale your way. 
The story was almost always the same. Some sailor 
in Thailand or San Francisco, the location doesn't 
matter, picks himself up a whore and catches a case 
of the dose. Only when the corpsman diagnoses it, 
he gives the sailor the bad news, but not before he 
calls the Shore Patrol who slap the cuffs on him 
because of what he's about to hear. They have to 
handcuff him you see because they news he is about 
to hear is going to drive him apeshit and he'll try to 
kill everybody in his general vicinity. He has the 
Black Clap and it can't be cured. All the penicillin 
and tetracycline in the world won't help him so he's 
like fucking Typhoid Mary but more like Gonorrhea 
Gary. He's contagious as a son of a bitch so they 
ship him off to some mysterious island never to be 
heard from again - I would imagine that there's a lot 
of cornholing going down on that island with all 
those infected horny sailors running around - no 
women to hump and they're all gonna die anyway. 

He would be reported to be lost at sea, killed in 
action, or some other line of crap to his parents and 
they would get paid off with his military life 
insurance (SGLI) so they wouldn't ask any nosy 
questions. Before I had walked into the recruiter's 
office the only thing I knew about the Navy came 
from two things: I had seen the movie The Last 
Detail with Jack Nicholson last winter. Jack is a 
sailor's sailor in that flick. Boozing, brawling, 
banging chicks, smoking reefer, and Jack even tells 
a jarhead officer who runs the brig to go fuck 
himself. So that was cool. 

And the second thing was this comic fuck book that my brother got from an uncle of ours who had been on a trip down to 
Juarez, Mexico. My brother had kept it hidden 
under his socks in his dresser drawer but I found it 
when I was looking for some loose change and 
cigarettes. The comic book had these drawings of 
Popeye the sailor man and his slut Olive Oyl 
fucking in all these wild positions. Popeye had this 
huge crank and Olive's beaver was real hairy, not 
like that shaved shit that's all the rage in the porno 
industry these days. I know it was just a comic book 
but goddamn! If that's what sailors get to do - bring 
it the hell on!

Don had been so excited that I wanted to 
sign and ship out that day that he had blown off the 
standard police check with a conspiring wink. Three 
hours and a ass-load of signed papers later I was on 
a bus headed for Minneapolis and the armed forces 
enlistment center. Unfortunately for me the first 
stop on the bus route (I had dumped the Vega in the 
parking lot of a roller rink) was just where I had run 
from. As the Greyhound pulled into the station I slid 
down low in my seat.

Albert Lea, Minnesota. My hometown and 
scene of the crime. At that time home to the 
Wilson's meat packing plant, the town of 20,000 
had a constant funk about it, courtesy of Wilson's, 
that smelled like a bathroom right after someone 
had taken a huge crap while smoking a White Owl 
cigar. You literally could not open the bedroom 
windows on many summer evenings because of the 

Eddie Cochran, the fifties rock and roll star, 
had grown up in Albert Lea and I can goddamn 
guarantee you that he was not thinking about the 
city when he wrote Summertime Blues. Marion 
Ross, of Happy Days fame, had also spent some 
time there. But they were the far and few between 
of the town. 

The majority of the population were 
employed by the packing plant until they would 
eventually be run out of their jobs by vicious labor 
strikes, carpal tunnel syndrome, the red meat high 
cholesterol hysteria, and cheap Mexican labor. It 
didn't help that only twenty miles away was the 
town of Austin, the home of Hormel which is the 
birthplace of Spam - the all time leading seller in 
the canned crap food aisle of your local grocer. It's 
the meal made up of pig and cattle intestines, lips, 
assholes, and scrap meat the janitor shovels up off 
the floor, all packed in a tidy little brick and shoved 
in a tin can with a glob of gelatin to preserve it. 
Traitors in Albert Lea bought the shit up and fried it 
in the pan for Sunday morning breakfast adding to 
the overall stench of the town.

Humid and as hot as the gates of Hell in the 
summer with mosquitoes buzzing in your face 
constantly, it then got down to freeze your nuts off 
cold in the winter, the place was no picnic to live in. 
With weather conditions like that, the main source 
of entertainment was alcohol, and lots of it (along 
with suicide since Nordic blooded people just seem 
to love to shove a shotgun in their mouth in the 
winter - Finland has nothing on Minnesota in that 
department). Beer for hot summer days, vodka and 
whiskey for the cold and dark winter nights. The 
folks of Minnesota are known for their hardy stock 
and love of liquor. A relative of mine had been 
known to crawl under Model-T Fords back in the 
day and drink the alcohol used for anti-freeze 
straight out of the radiator.

Savvy Minnesotans who didn't relish the 
taste of gun oil in their mouths to hasten their quest 
for the big sleep had many other fun options. 
Snowmobiles became popular and along with the 
booze came high speed accidents involving barbed 
wire fences and decapitations, a sort of polar Jayne 
Mansfield accident if you will. Drunks drove their 
cars on to the frozen lakes to ice fish and wound up 
falling through open holes in the ice, some not seen 
again until spring found their bodies bobbing to the 
surface. A lunatic decided to blow a car through the 
ice with dynamite when the local country club put 
the junked auto out there for a lottery - a Minnesota 
tradition, the person who picks the day and time 
wins a prize! The dumb shit didn't know how to 
handle explosives and blew his ass all over Fountain 
Lake. The owner of the ambulance service, a four 
hundred pound mouth breather, uttered the quote - 
most likely bullshit - retold around the town for 
years when he scooped the man's brains up off the 
ice and asked "Does anybody want a set of brains? 
Never been used." 

It was then and still is, a dead end town. The 
typical southern Minnesota town half full of 
churches, the other half bars and strip joints. Sneak 
in to the Aragon Bar or The Name of the Game - a 
filthy beyond belief bar with the biggest 
cockroaches I had ever seen until I got to Hawaii - 
on a Saturday night to watch sad eyed and coked up 
strippers wearing g-strings and pasties as they 
humped the fire-pole and then you could 
conveniently go listen to the reverend the next 
morning and forget all about how your old lady 
screamed so fucking loud the glass in the windows 
almost busted out in the trailer and you had to sleep 
on the Sears not paid for couch when she 
discovered you had shot your wad in your pants 
after you had gotten so worked up and had blown 
half or all of your paycheck that you earned 
slaughtering hogs and calves on some cheap sluts 
from Minneapolis shaking their asses. Sins 
absolved! Just like that.

You know that kind of town if you're from 
that godforsaken part of the country. The kind of 
town freezes its ass for eight months of the 
years just waiting for (hopefully) four months of 
spring and summer. Summer brings on fishing, long 
walks, movies at the drive in, root beer at the A & 
W, and the county fair with it's dangerously unsafe 
rides, rip-off games, demolition derbies, and 
suicidal sprint car drivers racing on the old beat up 
old horse track while the fans bombed on 3.2 beer 
watch intently just hoping that tonight might be 
their night to witness a fatal crash. 

Afterwards they stagger out to the midway, pausing only to barf their beer and foot longs behind the Tilt a Whirl (built 
locally just down the road over in Faribault), to 
catch the "exotic" Chez Paree strip show imported to the 
town by the tattooed covered carnies. Just like the 
burned out whores uptown in the bars only these 
gals is different. They come from Iowa or 
Arkansas! Foreign gals. Ten bucks for a blow job 
after the show. If you don't get your head bashed in 
for your wallet first by her carnie pimp. 

Goddamn! I was sure going to miss the 

To be continued....