(Due to numerous requests I present part 2 of the Drackman saga. Names have been changed to protect the stupid, any resemblence to persons living or dead is coincidental)
"Welcome to Alabama, George Wallace, Governor" read the sign, and with the 97% humidity it certainly wasn't Kansas anymore. Pedlars stood along the road selling watermelon and boiled peanuts. Occasionally in the median strip you'd see a real life chain gang tending to the weeds. More churches in one small town than all of Orange county. Despite being named after a dead Confederate general, the highschool wasn't so bad. Surprisingly, chicks dug the surfer hair and fake surfer slang. My Anaheim "C" was A material in Alabamy. I did have a little trouble with the language. "WATS RAWNG WIT YEW? CAINT YEW HEER GOOD" replied one educator when I asked him what the fuck he had just said.
I carefully chose my college by curricula, majors, and placing in Penthouse's rankings of party schools. Having finally realized I wouldn't be a major league shortstop, I turned to my backup plan, F-15 Pilot. Curiously, the ROTC didn't seem too interested, but it didn't matter, as I didn't have the 20/20 vision then required for flight training. Then depression set in. As he signed my physical papers, the doctor mumbled something about "Flight Surgeons" and that maybe I should try that route.
After a few weeks of drowning my sorrows with authentic Alabama Moonshine, the doctors mumblings stuck in my memory. Returning to the Air Force recruiting office I was greeted by a locked door and a sign saying they had left early for the weekend. As luck would have it, the Navy recruiter was still there. "Sure, Navy Doctors get to fly, and we'll pay for medical school to" said the 280 pound Chief Petty Officer. "Come back when you've been accepted to Medical School".
The Professor in charge of the Pre-med program was helpful. "Get all A's, do well on the MCAT, do some token volunteer hospital service, and tell them you want to practice in a small Alabama town delivering babies and reducing dislocated shoulders at friday night football games." After some 20 years my life finally had a purpose. Whenever physics or botany got boring, I'd imagine all the hot chicks I'd be making it with in a few years, as I roared up to the factory they worked at on my Triumph Bonneville, just like Richard Gere in "An Officer and a Gentleman".
One cold January day the mailman handed me another envelope from a school I had applied to. Preparing to add it to my enemies list, I noticed it was heavier than the usual rejection letter. Sure enough, I was in... SUCKERS!!! Scrambling for the $50 deposit to hold my place in the incoming class, I began my journey into medicine and more importantly, a Navy jet.
Thanks for Part 2, Frank. How many parts are there? One for every ex-wife?
ReplyDeleteNice. I'm waiting for the next installment.
ReplyDeleteI grew up in a small town in Louisiana, 3500 people. I talked pretty much like that. 12 years out west has erased my accent enough that they laugh at me when I go home.
No X's Devorrah, although I'm totally p-whipped at this point. My mom reads this blog, but she knows all this stuff already. These are excerpts from "the Drackman Chronicles" a Novel-length saga currently in progress.
ReplyDeleteI'm picturing a combination Joe Dirt, Forrest Gump, and Trapper John. Your story makes me laugh, cry, and appreciate all that is good about humanity. Just kidding. But it is a good read.
ReplyDeleteCAT
WHAT? You left good ol' Orange County? What's wrong with you, boy?
ReplyDeleteIt wasn't my idea, but try to find some decent boiled peanuts in California.
ReplyDeleteboiled peanuts and bourbon and coke and SEC football. heaven. oh, forgot the coeds in fuzzy sweaters when there's a bit of nip in the air (pun intended).
ReplyDeletenaval flight surgeon huh? i was a flight doc too. i was amazed at how many pilots actually admitted to joining after watching 'top gun'... really, they did.
best time i've ever had in medicine. healthy patients, they don't want to be sick, and they do what you tell them. i can do without the whole puking in the O2 mask though... they never GLOC'ed me, but they did make me puke a lot.
Well where is part 1?
ReplyDeleteAnd what does M.D.O.D. stand for, anyway? Mad Doctors on Drugs? I looked, I couldn't find anything in the early days of this blog explaining that.
Teresa, part 1 is "The Horror of Drackman" back in the March posts.
ReplyDeletedear teresa,
ReplyDeleteMDOD was started by me and my idea was to have a bunch of doctors eventually so we are, technically, "Medical Doctor Over Dose" though i like your explanation better.
cheers
Don't listen, Teresa, it's probably one of the following:
ReplyDeleteMessy Drackman Orgies Discovered
Macro Disasters, Oblivious Democrats
More Diatribes on Dilaudid
Medical Doctors Offer Dentistry?
Riding a Triumph,I didn't notice - I try so hard not to be mistaken for Richard Gere - I identified with the Drill Instructor and the task at hand.
ReplyDeleteSo, Frank D - did you make it to Flight Surgeon status or did you get stuck on some God-forsaken carrier out in the Pacific doing short-arm inspections and shooting young sailors up with penicillin after a port call in Subic Bay?
ReplyDeleteH the IH - former Navy
Thats in Chapter 5 Harry, but short-arm inspections and bicillin shots are in the job description of any military doc.
ReplyDeleteFrank, my brother was a Marine F4aviator, he says that Navy guys are all queer (but I think they're just better looking than Marines...who could blame you after months on ship).
ReplyDeleteYour bothers right, all the ugly flight surgeons got sent to Marine bases.
ReplyDelete