Oddball Squadronby Robert Clyde Moore
When Sergeant Bob is tagged for war games, this bad luck
Sergeant Bob Steele catches militaritis. He wants to make retirement, but he is surrounded by crazies at Oddball Squadron and in his personal life. Commander Backtrail wants to get rid of him and the other perverts. Meanwhile, Major Headshrinker, the base psychiatrist, becomes famous by writing papers on them.
When Sergeant Bob is tagged for war games, this bad luck interferes with his womanizing and drinking. War games are hell! But when he returns to work, the real battles start.
- Mundania Press
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.52(d)
Read an Excerpt
The very word sends shivers down my spine. In my seventeenth year in the Air Farce—make that Force—I, Sergeant Bob Steele, catch this horrible disease. At first the symptoms are mild: the almost overwhelming urge to jump up and strangle any officer who comes within reach, a tremendous desire to howl at the moon even when it isn't full, and an urgent need to salute anything that moves or paint anything that stands still.
Symptoms of militaritis get progressively worse. I'm waiting on elective surgery in an Air Force hospital bareass naked with shaved balls. In other words, my militaritis is degenerating to its worst and most frightening stage: that is, the complete inability to use any common sense at all. With any common sense, I will opt for a visit or two to a Christian Science Reading Room. Mind over matter stuff. Any health care alternative is preferable to becoming a guinea pig—I mean patient—in a military hospital.
Dr. Clumsy comes into the operating room, and we're ready to start—at least he is.
"Good morning, Sergeant. Judging from your fallen face, you're my vasectomy patient."
If I had been smiling, my shaved balls would have given me away. Dr. Clumsy gives me some charming information when my back touches the cool operating table.
"Sergeant, we don't want you to experience any unnecessary discomfort, so I'll give you an injection into each testicle."
What a relief. He'll stick a needle in both of my balls so I won't feel any pain.
I can pass over the stinging shots. The real pain comes, however, when the Novocain isn't veryeffective. I've always been brave about pain and blood before, that is, someone else's pain and blood. The pain shows in my face and I'm turning white. Sorry to let you down, Rambo; I'm a tough-as-nails, lean, mean, fighting machine until Dr. Clumsy starts to cut on my balls.
Dr. Clumsy is awkwardly stitching up my right ball when there's a knock on the door.
"Dr. Clumsy, it's me, Airman Thomaseena," a feminine voice says.
Even to this day the Air Force is terribly confused over gender. A low ranking enlisted female is called an airman.
"What do you want, Airman Thomaseena?"
"I've been looking for a pair of scissors, but I can't find any. Can I look in there?"
"Yes, come in. A pair of scissors should be here."
Hell yes, come on in. The only pair of scissors in the hospital—right! And while we're at it, maybe some hospital personnel on their coffee break will like to come in and watch my operation.
After finding the only pair of scissors, Airman Thomaseena passes by the operating table and sneaks a peek. Yes, she does. Now I'm not upset because I'm naked. Other women have seen my pee wee. Besides, she's only looking because of woman's insatiable curiosity. What upsets me is that if there's one place in the military where I should have some privacy from every Thomaseena, Dick, and Harry, it's on an operating table.
Dr. Clumsy is about done with his butchery. As Clumsy stitches up my left ball, he casually remarks that another doctor would have done the operation my way. This is real news to me. I feel like strangling the bastard on the spot. A routine procedure is to cut the vas and then cauterize it. This is plenty good for Sergeant Bob. But Dr. Clumsy won't do the operation this way. After he cuts the vas, he insists on tying it off with a piece of titanium. Now, I'll be walking around with metal in my balls that sounds like something straight out of a Superman comic. This is bad enough, but it gets even worse. I can never again fly by commercial airline. How can I get through the metal detector without my balls setting off the alarm?
My response to the pain during my vasectomy forces me to reevaluate my macho self-image. While I'm no wimp, my conscience will still make me take down my wall pictures of Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood. And saddest of all, I'm not worthy to fight side by side with Rambo anymore. In the future, I'll only be shooting blanks.
Copyright © 2006 Robert Clyde Moore.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews