SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR - #1

TWO DAYS AGO I AWOKE WITH A 
HANGOVER THAT COULD KILL A HORSE 

The late Caribbean sun was incinerating my 
naked carcass. I tried to open my eyes but they felt 
like they were sealed shut with sand and grit. If I 
kept laying here there was a Goddamn good chance that 
I would die of dehydration and heat stroke or get a 
hell of a case of sunburn on my johnson. The only 
reason I had awoken from my marijuana and booze 
induced narcotic-like feeling sleep was the gentle 
touch of the ocean on the bottoms of my feet as the 
tide came in. I moaned and forced myself up into a 
sitting position. If there was a chart to rate 
hangovers by, say on a scale of one to five, five 
being the kind that would knock a gorilla on his ass, 
and one being the kind that a strong cup of coffee 
would take care of, the hangover I have right now is 
off the charts at a seven. I threw up some Blackjack 
gum earlier this morning and I don't think they even 
make that crap anymore. To make matters worse, I 
could take a shit through a screen door, if you know 
what I mean. 
I'm normally a six pack a day kind of guy. 
Two beers with my breakfast, two with supper, and 
two in the evening as the day winds down. That 
may have the folks at AA classifying me as a lush 
but I beg to differ. I very rarely tie one on and I 
function in my day to day activities just fine, thank 
you, and I even get a kickass workout in every 
morning. I run two miles down the beach, swim a 
mile, and run the two miles back. Seven days a 
week. Just give a skid row rummy five bucks and a 
short dog of MD 20-20 for incentive to even 
attempt that workout and watch the results. But 
man, did I tie one on last night. I hooked up with 
these two tourist chicks down here on spring break 
who thought I was some fuckin' Jimmy Buffett 
throwback - even though with my out of control 
hair and beard I more than resembled a member of a 
ZZ Top tribute band - because I live in an old 
Airstream trailer on the beach. They must have 
bought me close to a half a case of Corona and I 
don't know how many shots of that tequila that the 
old lead singer from Van Halen - the shitty one - is 
always pimping. I threw in a half ounce of weed 
and a little blow for the party and we wound up 
having a threesome right there on the beach. As I 
looked over my shoulder I could see them still 
passed out together on a beach blanket about twenty 
yards away. I don't think either of those girls 
couldn't even buy liquor legally if they were back in the states. 
The sudden thought of that forced me to my 
feet which almost made me pass out. I was just a 
couple years short of fifty with a very questionable 
history and background so I definitely didn't want 
the local law to discover me laying naked on the 
beach much less in the vicinity of two possibly 
underage naked girls. I slipped on my shorts and 
hurriedly walked the quarter mile to my old battered 
GEO Metro. Over three hundred thousand miles and 
still running like a top. There was still a few cold 
beers floating around in my cooler in the backseat. I popped the cap off of one and drained it in one long 
gulp. Yes! Hair of the dog. Breakfast of champions. 
I turned the key and listened as the engine sputtered, 
caught, and then purred just like a kitten. I opened 
up the last beer and took another refreshing pull. 
Life was going to be OK. 
I put her in gear and took off for home. 
Passing by a burned down cantina I gave it a quick 
eyeballing. The only thing left standing after the 
blaze were the cinder block walls. The owner had 
nodded off after shooting up a spoon of brown 
heroin, failing to extinguish the candle used to heat 
his spoon, and that wound up torching both himself 
and his place of business. Against the north wall, 
buried four feet down in a airtight, watertight, 
plastic Pelican case normally used by rock and roll 
roadies to keep electronic gear in, was a thick file in a briefcase that I had placed there years ago. Day by day it's contents increased in value. When I finally realized just how valuable it was and how 
dangerous it was becoming to own is when I had 
hired Javier to place a little safeguard surprise 
above it. It had been expensive but worth it in the 
long run. Really cut down on the worry and stress 
factor. 
When I turned into the grove of palm trees 
that partially obscured the view of my trailer from 
the road I felt something in me stir. And not just my ravaged guts. The door of my trailer was wide open 
and I could hear my stereo - a Bose, which was the 
most valuable item in the trailer - blasting. Good old Mr. Earle, the Texas troubadour, was busy cursing 
out the government: 

"So fuck the FCC 
Fuck the FBI 
Fuck the CIA 
Livin' in the motherfuckin' USA"

What the fuck is going on here? If I was 
being robbed they were sure going about it in a 
dumb ass fashion. My rifle was inside the trailer so I reached under the front seat of the Metro and picked 
up the German switchblade I had traded even up for 
a bag of quality Mexican weed with a European 
tourist steroid freak who had sported an eye patch 
and some unusual gang-like tattoos on his biceps. 
I snapped the blade open and held it close to 
my side as I walked up to the trailer.

To be continued...

SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR - INTRO

THIS WAS THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT THAT EVENTUALLY MORPHED INTO SNORTING THE DEVIL'S DANDRUFF - SLA The call was collect and the caller was hammered on tequila and Mexican Gold. I hadn't heard from Anonymous in almost thirty years but he babbled on like we had just spoken last week. Now he wanted to write a book about his wild and insane life. How he had joined the Navy because he had been running dope on some dude's turf and had been forced to take the guy out after things went sour. That he had been witness to the murder of a federal agent while stationed in Hawaii and had wound up seducing the sexy female agent in charge of the investigation. That he had been locked up in a maximum security mental hospital, escaped, and had been forced to flee the country because a vicious prison gang had a contract out on him. And finally, that he was in the government's witness protection program because he was in possession of incriminating photographs of some really big federal honchos. By the way, when my phone bill came, the collect call was from some cantina in Tijuana. Anonymous still hasn't paid me back. SLA SALT ON THE NUTS  ***  THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH  SAILOR  BY  ANONYMOUS  AS TOLD TO  SCOTT L. ANDERSON  Copyright@Scott L. Anderson  All Rights Reserved  2006  ”Don't piss in my ear and tell me that it's raining!” I'd like to dedicate this book to the all the breweries,  bars, and liquor distributors of this fine country of  ours. You provide a invaluable service to our  nation's fighting men. And also a big thanks to all of  the prostitutes and other employees of the sex  industry for keeping a big smile on the faces of our  freckle faced boys and women of the United States  military.  Acknowledgements  I want to thank Big Ernie who is the owner  of Big Ernie's Diner. (The joint's name has been  changed at the owner's request in order to keep  certain riff raff out). Big Ernie's is a legendary Long  Beach dive located down on the docks of Long  Beach harbor. It's long been a hangout for  longshoreman, drunks coming off an all night  bender, crooked cops, hookers, drug dealers, and  other great folks too many to list here. Big Ernie's  coffee tastes like hot piss and his eggs have the  flavor of turpentine, but you don't come to Ernie's  for the food or the java anyway. It's purely for the  ambiance. You see all the waitresses at Big Ernie's  all wear see-through negligees. Some wear g-strings  or thongs and others wear full panties, but you get a  full tit shot from every goddamn one of them and  some even wear see-through panties, but it's the  ones who have a thick bush that drive me crazy. I  just love the sight of a full muff peeking around the  edges of a pair of hot pink panties, the seventies  porn star look. I'm just not a fan of the shaved  beaver. The landing strip or the Hitler look is OK,  but I just can't stand the sight of a clean snapper.  Don't get me wrong, the babes at Big E's aren't  going to be starring in any Hollywood features or  strutting down some fashion runway and a few are  getting a little long in the tooth but who gives a  shit? Poontang is poontang where I come from. I'm  getting off the track here but I wrote damn near all  of this book sitting in a corner booth - which even  had a phone jack so that I could access the Internet  and my e-mail - at Big Ernie's. I'd start at six in the  morning with my French Legionnaires breakfast - a  cup of Big Ernie's rotgut urine-like tasting coffee  and a unfiltered Camel - and wind up the day  around 1600 with a cheeseburger and a six pack of  Miller High Life.  So many thanks to Big Ernie and his  wonderful staff. To Big Ernie's Diner! The only  diner that I've ever waxed my cane in.  And I before I forget. Many thanks to  Jerome, who got me this very nice and very hot  laptop computer that this book was written/typed  on, and at such a bargain at that. It's not often that  you can get a brand new Dell for an ounce of  Columbian and a hundred bucks. Thanks, buddy,  you're the tops!  Of course, a round of brews and a slap on  the ass to Scott Anderson, the co-author of Salt On  The Nuts. Scott and I went to boot camp together  and were crew members onboard the USS Dixie -  where needless to say we often got boiled as owls  together - and were able to get back in touch with  each other after I survived those hellacious years. I  saw some of Scott's perverted and twisted writings  on the Web, contacted him, and convinced him that  he was the only one who could help me out on Salt.  Finally, to Javier and Felicia. You both  know why.  -Anonymous  Somewhere in the Pacific - 2006  WHY I FELT I HAD TO WRITE THIS  FUCKER!  Boredom is the number one reason I wrote  this book. Do you know that about one out of every  three swinging dicks stuck in the witness protection  program kills themselves? Jesus Christ! That's  fucking scary! Not that I want to kill myself, at least  not on purpose. To tell you the truth I've probably  been committing slow suicide my whole goddamn  adult (and teenage) life with all the booze - both  fine and rotgut - that I've swilled down, cigarettes  and Cuban cigars inhaled into my tar stained lungs,  bottles of speed gobbled, lines of coke snorted,  horse shot into my veins, whores screwed from  countries where penicillin probably has never been  heard of, high speed drunken driving, nights spent  in jails so fucking tough you wanted to shove your  socks up your ass to prevent some big motherfucker  from cornholing you.... Shit, I could go on forever  here. My point being that after I was placed in the  "Program" all I did was sit around on my lazy ass  drinking Jim Beam out of the bottle and screaming  at George Bush on the goddamn television and  that's probably what most of the program members  do until they get so damn sick of it they eat a bottle  of sleeping pills or blow their brains out with their  pistols. They paint the ceiling with their brains  because they are bored shitless. And that's a fact!  Then one day as I was scratching my ass and  watching these hot chicks on MTV shake their  plastic enhanced tits on my some spring break show  - fuck, is it spring break year around on that  horseshit channel? - thinking about flogging the  mule, when my wife Gladys, who had I met at a  gentleman's club downtown, charged into the living  room and started screeching at me.  "Get your ass up and find something to do  you lazy bastard!" she screamed in pigeon English.  "Like what, honey?" I whined.  "I don't give a shit, just get the hell out my  living room. I'm sick of you getting drunk and  jacking off in here all day long." She picked up an  empty bottle of Old Milwaukee and hurled it at me,  just barely missing my head. She sure didn't behave  like that when I used to have to pay for her services.  "I don't what to do. I'm bored," I whimpered  as I tried to curl up on the couch in the fetal  position.  "Oh no you don't, mister! You get your  skinny ass up off the couch, get your stinkin' ass in  the shower and go out and find something to do or  I'll cut your cock off with my butterfly knife." She  strolled over and put her Marlboro Light out on my  right cheek (ass). "I'm going to get my nails done.  You better be out of here when I get back or there  will be big trouble, white boy!"  "Fuck!" I screamed in pain. "I'll kill you,  you dirty slope bitch!" I jumped off the couch and  limped after her - I moved from side to side since  my knees are ruined and the fresh burn on my ass  didn't help matters much either - but she was  already out the door and jumping into her Honda.  As she burned rubber down our quiet residential  street I saw that she had gotten a new bumper  sticker opposite of the "W FOR PRESIDENT" that  had been on there since the last election. The new  one read "FUCK OFF RETARD". My wife was  such a delicate flower, but that's why I had married  her. Plus, I loved her little heart shaped ass, that she  could suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch, and got  half of her ex-husband's military retirement check. I  knew that she was a hooker when I married her but  I sure wish she had told me that she had been in a  Bangkok mental hospital for three years before that.  But what the fuck could I do now?  I rubbed my burned ass and headed back  into our rental love nest. I popped the new version  of Apocalypse Now in the DVD player, sparked up a  reefer, popped a cold brew and settled in for the  afternoon. I was halfway through the movie and  halfway into the bag when it came to me. Of  course! Of course, goddamn it! How could I have  been so stupid? The answer was right there on the  screen - this wouldn't be the first time that  something on the idiot box or the movie screen had  inspired me as you'll see in future chapters - and I  had seen that fucking movie at least a dozen times. I  could write a book about all of my adventures! That  would get both myself and Gladys off my ass.  The military is getting a bad reputation now  with Bush getting us into that pissing contest with  those camel fuckers over in the mid-east over  WMDs or oil or whatever his line of the week is,  but it doesn't have to be that way and Apocalypse  Now showed me that. The military used to be a fun  life filled with drugs, booze, hookers, and unsavory  behavior. It was goddamn fun! Not this politically  correct bullshit that goes on now. Those sailors on  that river patrol boat (PBR) who ferried Captain  Willard up the river had a helluva fun time until  they all got killed or went insane. They were  drinking cold beer, smoking good weed, killing  gooks, and in the new enhanced version of the film  they even got to fuck a Playboy bunny. That's what  the military, the Navy mind you, was all about.  Having a good time!  By the time Gladys was back from getting  her nails done or blowing the fleet down at the  docks or whatever the fuck she was doing, I was  already down at Big Ernie's banging out the first  three chapters of this book. By the time I was done,  months later, and this baby had gone to press she  had moved out, drained my bank account, and  stolen most of the my personal property. But it was  all worth it because not only did I get my own  adventures down on paper, but also through  telephone calls, the wonders of e-mail, and the good  old fashioned postal service I was able to re-capture  both the good and bad times of my adventure filled  life.  So let's quit fucking around and let's get  started...... To be continued