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......