Post by Park Sung Jetson on Jun 17, 2023 18:26:00 GMT
We were supposed to go to Australia. As much as I dreaded the 6 month deployment beforehand, I was excited about seeing the Land Down Under.I had a laughable superstition that Australia was populated solely by huge titty'd blondes and Crocodile Dundee tossing a boomerang back and forth like a frisbee with AC/DC. "Just wait til I get my jumbo shrimp up a Sheila's barbie!" I panted.
"The closest this submarine is getting to Australia will be the Outback Steakhouse in Guam," Beamitch said. But Beamitch was a gloomy bastard, and I audaciously clung to optimism.
Something went wrong with the reactor enroute. We wound up desperately needing an ounce of Unobtainium to fix it. The closest Yank- Friendly land mass was South Korea, and to South Korea we therefore went. "Submarine tan!" Beamitch trumpeted as we emerged from the forward hatch, blinking and fish belly white, into the alien sunshine. Two months submerged in a metal cone does your skin no favors.
I'm not going to sugarcoat things. Korea sucked. It was hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk and so humid we begged to be given work in a sympathetic steel foundry, thereby to find a little relief.
There was nothing to do but drink and buy entirely impractical jade chopsticks, and then drink some more.
Hausholser was a particularly hapless sonar tech. He did his job competently enough, but there was an indefinable something about him that repelled. Like all the rest of us, though, his only real entertainment in Korea was drinking, so he attached himself to a few other bubble heads and sallied forth to do it.
I don't know where they went or how much booze they swallowed. But when they returned to the boat, Kang and Tiggner had to tie ropes around Hausholser's waist and under his armpits to lower him down the ladder into crew's mess to prevent him breaking his own neck.
Being hot and sweaty from the truly hellacious humidity of southern South Korea, drunken Hausholser staggered and groped his way to the middle level head, stripped off all his civvies, and stood under a stream of cold water. That's when he let go a gigantic turd, which smeared its way down his upper legs and came to rest on the shower drain, gleaming and stinking.
This kind of thing cannot really be hidden on a submarine where someone or other is on duty every second of every day, and the duty officer was informed of the situation. He ordered the still drunk Hausholser be slapped awake and hauled forth from his rack to clean up his odoriferous prize. He assigned a couple guys from the duty section to oversee that it got done, and they watched Hausholser squatting in the shower, toothbrush and hose in hand as he scrubbed the drain clean.
This earned Hausholser the nickname "Hose Holster' and made him even less popular than before.
If you haven't already joined the Navy, why not do it today? You'll see all the sweaty, itchy corners of the globe and get to tell stories like this one to strangers on the internet.
But if it's big titty'd blondes and AC/ DC you're after, I recommend you just buy a plane ticket to Sydney. Or order a Blooming Onion, that works too.
"The closest this submarine is getting to Australia will be the Outback Steakhouse in Guam," Beamitch said. But Beamitch was a gloomy bastard, and I audaciously clung to optimism.
Something went wrong with the reactor enroute. We wound up desperately needing an ounce of Unobtainium to fix it. The closest Yank- Friendly land mass was South Korea, and to South Korea we therefore went. "Submarine tan!" Beamitch trumpeted as we emerged from the forward hatch, blinking and fish belly white, into the alien sunshine. Two months submerged in a metal cone does your skin no favors.
I'm not going to sugarcoat things. Korea sucked. It was hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk and so humid we begged to be given work in a sympathetic steel foundry, thereby to find a little relief.
There was nothing to do but drink and buy entirely impractical jade chopsticks, and then drink some more.
Hausholser was a particularly hapless sonar tech. He did his job competently enough, but there was an indefinable something about him that repelled. Like all the rest of us, though, his only real entertainment in Korea was drinking, so he attached himself to a few other bubble heads and sallied forth to do it.
I don't know where they went or how much booze they swallowed. But when they returned to the boat, Kang and Tiggner had to tie ropes around Hausholser's waist and under his armpits to lower him down the ladder into crew's mess to prevent him breaking his own neck.
Being hot and sweaty from the truly hellacious humidity of southern South Korea, drunken Hausholser staggered and groped his way to the middle level head, stripped off all his civvies, and stood under a stream of cold water. That's when he let go a gigantic turd, which smeared its way down his upper legs and came to rest on the shower drain, gleaming and stinking.
This kind of thing cannot really be hidden on a submarine where someone or other is on duty every second of every day, and the duty officer was informed of the situation. He ordered the still drunk Hausholser be slapped awake and hauled forth from his rack to clean up his odoriferous prize. He assigned a couple guys from the duty section to oversee that it got done, and they watched Hausholser squatting in the shower, toothbrush and hose in hand as he scrubbed the drain clean.
This earned Hausholser the nickname "Hose Holster' and made him even less popular than before.
If you haven't already joined the Navy, why not do it today? You'll see all the sweaty, itchy corners of the globe and get to tell stories like this one to strangers on the internet.
But if it's big titty'd blondes and AC/ DC you're after, I recommend you just buy a plane ticket to Sydney. Or order a Blooming Onion, that works too.
