Sergeant Bob Steele catches militaritis. He wants to make retirement, but he is surrounded by crazies at Oddball Squadron and in his personal life. Commander Backtrail wants to get rid of him and the other perverts. Meanwhile, Major Headshrinker, the base psychiatrist, becomes famous by writing papers on them. When Sergeant Bob is tagged for war games, this bad luck interferes with his womanizing and drinking. War games are hell! But when he returns to work, the real battles start. Several characters are delightful! Sergeant Sweet tells the Air Force that he is gay and fights to stay in the service. He won't take it lying down anymore except for special friends. "This is Jim" has never seen Sergeant Bob but wants to kill him. Soon he becomes Brother James to give hell to all of the unrighteous including liberals. Since Airman Hand works for him, Sergeant Bob can't escape his looney theories. When Hand carries an urn that holds his mother's ashes, Oddball Squadron is in a steeper dive. Sergeant Bob tries to win the beautiful Bambi at a Halloween party where Ms. Chipshoulder, an old foe and radical feminist, challenges him to a strip-off This wild come-as-your-real-self costume party is the uproarious climax. Most of the crazies have invitations and clash badly. And Sergeant Bob won't let a biker gang crash the party--so he thinks. The reader's enjoyment comes from the outrageously funny dialogue throughout this offbeat comic masterpiece.
A Hard Shell Word Factory Release
Bio: ABOUT THE ODD-DUCK A UTHOR (facts in italics)<p>Robert Clyde Moore, aka Bob, was born and raised in Kansas. "Let go of my ankle, Toto." As a teenager, Bob made a state freshman high school shot put record, became the first Kansas Intercollegiate Chess Champion, and was a runner-up to Mr. Teen (sponsored by Teen Magazine).<p>Bob came from a long line of old buzzards. His great, great, great grandmother, born in 1764, made Ripley's Believe It or Don't! She was out walking at 115, got run over by a train, and was no Moore. "Moral: drink another beer, the end may be sooner that you think."<p>Bob is listed in Jeremy Gaige's Chess Personalia, a biobibliography ("what a mouthful") of "the great and near great of chess. " He is the author of Two-Move Chess Problems and holds several related world records in chess composition, the main record of I S half-pins is a "staggering achievement" (Sir Jeremy Morse). "But perhaps my greatest achievement was working in the Air Force for 20 years without getting kicked out." Actually Bob received numerous awards and decorations including the Meritorious Service Medal and the Joint Service Commendation Medal. Besides chess, his other hobbies include reading, writing, thinking ("I'm drowning in my think tank."), and becoming a dirty old man.<p>Bob lives in the wastelands of Oklahoma in a trailer with shot guns and attack dogs. His wife Ginny informs him that he is happily married. They have children to the third power. Bob reflects that the dogs have not disappointed him.
"This book takes a jaundiced look at the Air Force and military. As an old military man myself, I have to say that a lot of it is not far off the mark. All 33 chapters are funny as hell and just about anyone should enjoy reading it."Darrell Bain -- author of Medics Wild
The very word sends shivers down my spine. In my seventeenth year in the Air Farce—make that Force—I, Sergeant Bob Steele, catch this horrible disease. At first the symptoms are mild: the almost overwhelming urge to jump up and strangle any officer who comes within reach, a tremendous desire to howl at the moon even when it isn't full, and an urgent need to salute anything that moves or paint anything that stands still.
Symptoms of militaritis get progressively worse. I'm waiting on elective surgery in an Air Force hospital bareass naked with shaved balls. In other words, my militaritis is degenerating to its worst and most frightening stage: that is, the complete inability to use any common sense at all. With any common sense, I will opt for a visit or two to a Christian Science Reading Room. Mind over matter stuff. Any health care alternative is preferable to becoming a guinea pig—I mean patient—in a military hospital.
Dr. Clumsy comes into the operating room, and we're ready to start—at least he is.
"Good morning, Sergeant. Judging from your fallen face, you're my vasectomy patient."
If I had been smiling, my shaved balls would have given me away. Dr. Clumsy gives me some charming information when my back touches the cool operating table.
"Sergeant, we don't want you to experience any unnecessary discomfort, so I'll give you an injection into each testicle."
What a relief. He'll stick a needle in both of my balls so I won't feel any pain.
I can pass over the stinging shots. The real pain comes, however, when the Novocain isn't very effective. I've always been brave about pain and blood before, that is, someone else's pain and blood. The pain shows in my face and I'm turning white. Sorry to let you down, Rambo; I'm a tough-as-nails, lean, mean, fighting machine until Dr. Clumsy starts to cut on my balls.
Dr. Clumsy is awkwardly stitching up my right ball when there's a knock on the door.
"Dr. Clumsy, it's me, Airman Thomaseena," a feminine voice says.
Even to this day the Air Force is terribly confused over gender. A low ranking enlisted female is called an airman.
"What do you want, Airman Thomaseena?"
"I've been looking for a pair of scissors, but I can't find any. Can I look in there?"
"Yes, come in. A pair of scissors should be here."
Hell yes, come on in. The only pair of scissors in the hospital—right! And while we're at it, maybe some hospital personnel on their coffee break will like to come in and watch my operation.
After finding the only pair of scissors, Airman Thomaseena passes by the operating table and sneaks a peek. Yes, she does. Now I'm not upset because I'm naked. Other women have seen my pee wee. Besides, she's only looking because of woman's insatiable curiosity. What upsets me is that if there's one place in the military where I should have some privacy from every Thomaseena, Dick, and Harry, it's on an operating table.
Dr. Clumsy is about done with his butchery. As Clumsy stitches up my left ball, he casually remarks that another doctor would have done the operation my way. This is real news to me. I feel like strangling the bastard on the spot. A routine procedure is to cut the vas and then cauterize it. This is plenty good for Sergeant Bob. But Dr. Clumsy won't do the operation this way. After he cuts the vas, he insists on tying it off with a piece of titanium. Now, I'll be walking around with metal in my balls that sounds like something straight out of a Superman comic. This is bad enough, but it gets even worse. I can never again fly by commercial airline. How can I get through the metal detector without my balls setting off the alarm?
My response to the pain during my vasectomy forces me to reevaluate my macho self-image. While I'm no wimp, my conscience will still make me take down my wall pictures of Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood. And saddest of all, I'm not worthy to fight side by side with Rambo anymore. In the future, I'll only be shooting blanks.