Can’t Have You

 

So, here I am on this aircraft carrier in the middle of the Indian Ocean with a job that was both the best and the worst job ever, and scuttlebutt has it our tour just got extended.  I don’t know what the fuck I am going to do.  I don’t have the kind of wife who can fast that long, if you get my drift.  And, she was already in Italy waiting for me.  Those Italians, they move fast.

When you do the laundry for an entire aircraft carrier, your ass is busy.  It is my job to do the officers laundry, and I do that shit like my life depended on it.  I have five sailors under me, and they stroke the stove just like I do.  We work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week every day we are onboard.  We do this because we go really slow, drink a lot on duty, take all kinds of drugs and run a casino for a select group of your less enthusiastic officer types.  Because we do this, we pretty much got full run of the boat except for where the nuclear stuff is.  But, right now, all I can think about is Lola.

So right this instant I am standing on the fantail, smoking a Doobie with Ensign Rutledge, and shooting sharks with an M16.  I am pretending the sharks are Italian dudes.  Rutledge pretends they are incoming torpedoes.  I am telling Rutledge about my Lola woes, and he’s complaining that he’ll never get off kitchen detail and the Clap.  You can just imagine how this conversation is going along.  “That was a dolphin,” declares Rutledge.  “You just shot Flipper.”

“So what,” I reply.  “Fuck Flipper in his ass.”

Just about then a whole flock of airplanes came into land and we decided to return to our respective jobs as gun shooting was not allowed during landing procedures.  The captain was there when I arrived, and he was standing in his boxers.  They had anchors and dolphins printed on them.  There was a light brown stain in the crotch.  I came to attention and the captain saluted and told me I could ease on up.  Gomer had already started to launder the captain’s pants, so there wasn’t much I could do, but one thing.

“Captain, Sir, might I make a small request, Sir?  I wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency, Sir.”

The captain thought this over and said, “Affirmative.”

“Sir, it’s about my wife, Lola.  She’s in Italy waiting for me right this minute, and you know how those Italian men are, and Lola, she’s downright beautiful so I need to get there pronto.”

With that, the captain marched over to my desk phone and placed a call to my immediately superior and told him to get me on the next thing packing for Italy.  He said to make it so, and then he hung up that phone and saluted me.  “Well done, Sailor,” he said, and left out the room in his boxers.

Turns out no airplane from that aircraft carrier ever flew to Italy.  Lola ran off with some Benito motherfucker and I got extended three more times. That captain made the Joint Chiefs of Staff.   I ended up marrying a Filipino whore, having nine kids and got dishonorably discharged for all kinds of shit.  I live in Ypsilanti, Michigan right now.   I suck poop out of Porta-Johns for a living.  I ain’t in the mood to write no more story.