Thursday, April 17, 2008
(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.
Posted by Frank Drackman at Thursday, April 17, 2008