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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

------
Scott L. Anderson


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