• Entangled: Book One (The Entangled Series)
    Entangled: Book One (The Entangled Series)
    by D.C. Sargent
  • The Devil's Garden: Book Two (The Entangled Series)
    The Devil's Garden: Book Two (The Entangled Series)
    by D.C. Sargent
  • Mastermind: Book Three (The Entangled Series)
    Mastermind: Book Three (The Entangled Series)
    by D.C. Sargent
  • The Ghost of Portal Island
    The Ghost of Portal Island
    by D.C. Sargent







The Books And The Bees

As any writer can attest, there are far more stories in an author’s ‘oven’, so to speak, than the ones occupying the bookstores. These bundles of joy, in fact, are in various stages of story development. So far, I have provided my faithful readers with five bouncing baby books—three in The Entangled Series—Entangled, The Devil’s Garden, and Mastermind, a paranormal YA romance Ghost of Portal Island, and an opinionated blog-style cookbook The Scratchy Cook.

As you can see, I’m all over the place.

Why is that?

Because, I love to write. I write everything—fiction, nonfiction, how-to books, short stories, story fragments, conversations without characters, character profiles with no associated story or plot, all arranged in lists, notes, outlines, and even text messages to myself.     

I’ve tried penning flowery romance and bombed that, attempted to write horror and grossed out my beta readers, and sampled drama which morphed into humor. I’ve written young adult, cartoons, paranormal—I like the paranormal—and even children’s books (still working on those), high fantasy, which is fun, a bit of sci-fi, and some cozy mysteries bordering on bizarre. Out of those, the humorous action fiction and the young adult paranormal romance reached birth and voila! … happy readers.

And there’s so many more! Hundreds more, spanning umpteen genres, and I want to sample everything. That’s right. Turn off the Wedding March; I don’t want to marry one genre. I want to try them all and sprinkle each with humor. I’m like a kid in a candy store, I can’t seem to commit. Isn’t that shameful of me?

I have found that the more mixed the ‘genre’ becomes the happier I am writing the story. The humor happens by itself. Here is a sample of just two of the hundreds of ‘unborns’ in my vast oven:

 Hamburger—(YA/Humor/Drama) A teenage boy (whose name keeps changing) dies in racing accident and cannot believe he has lost the race. So what if he’s dead! He, with his brand new ghost dog Hamburger, who just wants something to eat, has no intention of acting dead or reorganizing his out-of-whack priorities. Rejected by the living, he fights back. He may be forced to exist as a ghost, but that reality doesn’t necessarily have to be boring.

 La Déesse—(Crime/Mystery/Humor) Kennedy, a rising international performer, is living the life of her dreams until the night her manager is murdered. Suddenly, she is in the crosshairs of a massive kidnapping ring, the number one suspect in a murder investigation, and in the custody of an infuriating spy with an attitude problem and an intolerance for cats. Well, he will just have to deal with the cat. Kennedy doesn’t have time for his silly rules and pointless protocol or his disarming good looks. She has to prove her innocence, and fast, before she ends up in prison, dead, or in love.

 And then there are the stories I haven’t started yet:

Talking animals. What really goes through their heads?

A trip to an alien planet, and how I plan to take over.

A book on reincarnations—mine would be cool.

A blog-style reality show of my life—married with children, dogs, cats, goats, chickens …

A compilation of short stories. The above mentioned fragments?

A parody on something unique. Hmm … this one is a doozy.

A coffee-table book (except that my photo taking skills are vastly subpar and the camera on my cellphone doesn’t zoom well).

And that, of course, doesn’t even touch my current projects and books nearing birth … er, release. Stay tuned. ox,   


Mastermind, Book Three

YAY!! It’s finally here, and my emotions are so mixed. The road was long. Four major military moves in seven years was tough (AK, AR, TN, WY). Throw in my husband’s numerous deployments, KIA death of an extended family member, passing of several loved ones, and my regular job, which includes teaching dance class and public performances, and you’ll have a glimpse of my journey leading up to the release of this book. The Entangled Series, in so many ways, saved me from going bananas. When life got crazy, when I felt lonely for friends and family, or when I needed somewhere to go to escape from reality, I turned to Mandy and Levi and the boys. Part of me now is sorry to see my creation (my happy place) come of age and part of me swells with indescribable satisfaction to see such a complex project reach completion. I cannot express my appreciation enough to my readers who stood by me, waiting (im)patiently for the conclusion to arrive at last and also to those people who offered kind words of encouragement, support, and assistance. I hope you enjoy your journey through The Entangled Series as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you like the series, tell others about it, visit the site where you purchased the book and leave a five-star review, and share with your friends. The louder you like it, the longer the team stays alive. Say hi to Dappo when you see him and check back here often for new releases. Talk to you soon!



Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

Wow! How do I begin? I take it you got my Christmas wish list where I mentioned how much I would appreciate a new home. If I remember correctly, ‘New House—Big One!’ was number 4 on the list right after ‘New Toaster’ and right before ‘Pet Tarantula’. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled! This is a definite improvement over my current 650 square foot apartment. It’s just that 13,000 square feet is a little bigger than I was expecting, as was the $29 million dollar price tag you forgot to remove. I’m certain the new twitch in my right eye won’t be permanent.

The seven car garage is definitely a nice touch. I probably should have put ‘New Car’ somewhere on the list. It appears I’m about six vehicles short, but that’s fine. I can use the empty stalls as a football field until I figure out how I’m going to pay for all the auto insurance.

You thought of everything, didn’t you! My new butler is a terrific fellow. Very friendly. Very attentive! The French chef loves her new toaster. I’m not really used to having a chauffeur, yet, or riding in the back seat of my own car, but that’ll come in time, I guess. The chauffeur didn’t mind the duct tape on the front seat at all, and we were able to successfully retract his foot from a fresh hole that appeared in the rusted floorboard before any real damage occurred. He’s also excellent at jump-starting dead batteries.

Oh, yeah! Thank you for the tarantula. Fast little devils, aren’t they? Unfortunately, the cat was faster. May I suggest, in the future, that you put these particular gifts into cages rather than just dropping them into the stockings along with house deeds and candy canes. They jump and, when one isn’t expecting a six inch, airborne spider, it can be quite scary. Never fear, the emergency room staff was able to get my heart started again.

Do I have to keep the yippy white poodle with purple hairbows? I’m really more of a cat person.

Yours Truly,

D.C. Sargent

P.S. I need to make an addendum to my Christmas list. How does 9 sofas, 12 beds, 20 Home Sweet Home plaques, 3 baby grand pianos, six more cars, and 15 new toilet brushes sound?

P.P.S What is a bidet? Oh—and I may need a riding lawnmower and a better job while you’re at it.


FarmYard Politics!

My animals have decided that they are entirely against a socialistic society, though this is, in fact, the very culture I have provided for them. The vote against my decision is unanimous, yet I am uninterested in popular opinion. It’s all about the gospel according to DC. You see, it all began with a few scraps of veggies tossed out into the yard as I prepared the (human) family’s evening meal. Once I had a plateful of scraps, rather than tossing them into a compost bin or throwing them down the garbage disposal, I put them into circulation by tossing them into the farmyard. Strawberry tops, carrot skins, lettuce cores, squash bottoms—you name it—all were collected and lovingly tossed to the herd. The animals enjoyed this practice nearly as much as I enjoyed watching them gobble up every last morsel. Understandably, this nightly ritual was a DC farm favorite. I would no more step out my porch door and the animals would come running—bleating, quacking, ba-cocking—for the goodies from my kitchen. In a ceremonial dance of sorts, I scattered the loot, the chickens went bottoms up, the ducks goosed the upended chickens, and the goats bulldogged the greedy ducks in effort to score the juiciest strawberry top.

Eventually, my 11-year-old, who takes care of the animals every morning before school, began noticing that the ducks were eating less and less of their duck crumbles, which I’m entirely certain are delicious considering the price of one bag. After a few mornings of noting untouched food, she brought this to my attention and then informed me that Mr. Quackers (female duck) had failed for several days to produce an egg.

My curiosity was peaked, so I observed.

Lo and behold, my littlest darling was correct. No eggs, no nothing. The ducks would sit in their hut, perched quietly all day beside their heaping food bowl, and wait for supper time to arrive before putting a single bite of food into their bills. Every evening, once the duck-hut door was opened, out would pop two VERY loud, very hungry ducks complete with napkins, salt, and silverware.

Before I continue, let me deviate for a moment to tell you about my two four-month-old male goat kids, Uncle Flopsy and Anikan Skywalker. Anyone familiar with goats can attest that the critters will eat just about anything, but seldom, I discovered, with the enthusiasm that they apply to duck crumbles. My daughter no more drops the duck-hut door and in skids two naughty little goat boys, gobbling yummy duck food for all their worth. My alarmed shouts serve no other purpose than to inform them they are literally down to seconds and that they need to hurry. Here’s my line: “No! You bad goats get out of the duck hut! That’s not your food!” What they hear is: “Ten, nine, eight, eat faster, six, five, here she comes, three, two, RUN!”

Back to my tale.

By the time we realized that laying ducks require a certain amount of protein in their diet and that vegetables do not provide the appropriate amount, Mr. Quackers had gone well over a week without laying an egg, which was unacceptable. The goats, on the other hand, were laying plenty of eggs.

A healthy female duck on a protein-rich crumble diet will lay one egg a day, so I decided to back off the table scraps. Not entirely, but at least enough to force the ducks to eat their crumbles again.

Mr. Quackers didn’t appreciate the healthful gesture at all but, after a very short hunger strike, resumed her duckly duties. Waddlesworth (male duck), on the other hand, was PISSED! I informed him as delicately as possible that the DC Farmery was NOT a democracy, but rather a socialistic dictatorship monarchy, and that I was the queen. I felt that what was good for one duck was certainly good for another, especially since there is no feasible way to allow only one duck out of the hut to eat yummy scraps and not the other—omg! I’d have ‘Occupy DC’ protesters in my back yard quacking about my ‘war against female ducks’. So, by ruling of my almighty court, I declared ‘All ducks shall eat healthy duck crumbles regardless of gender.’

My theory proved valid.

Within days, Mr. Quackers was laying her eggs again, much to the delight of my 11-year-old daughter. Of course, Waddlesworth was not so enthusiastic over the matter. He filed an appeal stating that since he is by default unable to lay eggs that he should not be restricted to a crumble-only diet and, as an adult duck, should be permitted to dine as he sees fit. I upheld my original ruling that this arrangement is entirely unfair to Mr. Quackers who cannot help the fact that she must maintain her health by staying fit and by eating a healthy, crumble-rich diet in order to lays eggs.

Anikan Skywalker and Uncle Flopsy aren’t happy about the ruling either as they no longer have access to their delicious duck crumbles. As a result, both goats have officially sided with Waddlesworth on the matter and have signed PETitions. To date, the dispute has yet to be resolved. Even as I type this, Waddlesworth is in his hut beside an uneaten bowl of crumbles angrily penning a letter to his congressduck.

I’ll keep you posted.


The Madness Begins

Approximately Easter 2012, my family decided it would be a terrific idea to raise some more chickens for some farm fresh eggs. They taste so much better than store-bought eggs, and I know the animals are well-treated. We enjoyed our chicken pets in Nashville and knew we would here in Cheyenne, as well. So the family each chose a chick, except for my youngest daughter who couldn’t decide between two. Plop! Plop! Both went into box for a grand total of five. On a whim, we also snapped up two excessively cute Swedish Blue ducks (not sure why!) and off we went. Five noisy chickens. Two frightened ducklings. Two happy children. A pleased wife. A frazzled husband who just wanted to watch football. Introducing:


Mr. Quackers, female Swedish Blue (who was male until she started laying eggs.)

Waddlesworth, male Swedish Blue (definitely male! Does not lay eggs.)


Pepper, female (looks like a hawk with puffy cheeks)

Henny Penny, female Rhode Island Red

Tux, female (solid black)

Chick-Fil-A, female Bantum (with feathers on her feet).

Romeo, very male Silver-Laced Wyandotte Rooster (who pretended to be female until one Saturday morning at about 5 am when he decided to come out of the closet and announce his news to the neighborhood.)

August 10, my family attended a life changing squadron picnic. I do believe God had a hand in this one, because I NEVER in my wildest dreams imagined I’d arrive at the picnic with a pan of baked beans and walk out with a pair of goats … yet here I am—two three month old fainting goats, to be exact. Both kids are boys.


Uncle Flopsy (Brown and white with pretty blue eyes).

Anikan Skywalker (Black and white with shiny Darth Vader eyes).

These little boys live for food and, without a doubt, have to be some of the naughtiest sweetest animals I’ve ever known. For the record, we do not chase the goats or scare them for fun. The ‘fainting’ is funny when it happens naturally, but we do not intentionally frighten the animals in order to laugh at them, nor do we allow others to do so. These adventurous creatures have plenty of noteworthy antics on their own without help from us. For instance, hysterical was the time the mischievous Waddlesworth snuck up from behind and startled Uncle Flopsy with a loud Quack! just as the distracted goat leapt onto his brand new climbing platform for the first time. Uncle Flopsy must have had the impression that he’d somehow landed on the duck, because his eyes went wide, his body stiffened, and he fell right off the platform. He rolled over his back with a stiff-legged glare, waited until his muscles relaxed, then chased the innocent duck around the yard. Trust me, I’ll have plenty to post about. Stay tuned.



Hey, DC! Wherefore Hast Thou Been?

No, no, no … DC Sargent hasn’t fallen off the planet. I’ve merely been incognito of late. For the last few months, I’ve been masquerading around disguised as a (gasp!) … normal person; however, I do have a terrific excuse.  My family moved. Yep. The Air Force packed up our things and moved us yet again—-this time to Cheyenne. It was hard saying goodbye to Nashville, but I am pleasantly surprised with Wyoming. Still, it hasn’t all been painting and hanging pictures—-I’ve been busy. Since I arrived, I have:

*Released my first young adult novel The Ghost of Portal Island

*Tried my hand at a comical theatric screenplay, which is just now reaching completion

*Started an indoor semi-hydroponic microfarm garden

*Reapholstered a recliner—-yes, I’m serious

*Taken acrylic art lessons and painted two pictures (Tome of the Realm (3-D) and C-130 Sandstorm)

*Completed a woodcrafting class and built a table, since my 10 y/o stood on the old one and broke it

*Started performing with bellydance troupe Isis of Cheyenne (Research! There will be a book and someone will be bellydancing!) www.isisofcheyenne.com

*Aaaand … I’ve begun teaching my own beginning bellydance class. How cool is that?

All this while painting, remodeling, and reorganizing our new home. DC is a busy bee! Does that mean I’ve put Book Three of the Entangled Series aside? Nope! Mastermind is with Beta Reader #1 (Peggy), who has given me two enthusiastic thumbs up so far and says she can’t put it down. This is encouraging and implies that it will be the hands of Beta Reader #2 (Celeste) shortly.

Thank you for being so patient while the dust settled around me. I’ll keep you posted.


Tome of the Realm (3-D) 


C-130 Sandstorm


Do You See What I'm Saying?

Actually, yes, I do. Quite clearly, in fact. I am a visual listener. Every word that is spoken to me appears in my mind in real-time either as colorful words (alive, yet Times New Roman—ish) or as a high-definition video. It’s like my own personal youTube except I don’t get to choose the video. Some people find this bizarre, I can’t imagine it any other way.

Recently, I joined a group of volunteers. At the orientation, the leader very eloquently described our duties, behavior expectations, and organization policies. Up until now, I pretty well have a handle on myself, right?, and I’ve kept my snickering down to an undetectable minimum. Then … she begins instructing us on public situation response. Here is where I lose it. She’s talking about crowd control and saying things like: “… so if a guest insists on leaving right in the middle of a tornado, you remind him of the danger and let him leave. You don’t tackle him at the door.”


The other volunteers shrug and shake their heads, wondering what on earth is so funny.

Well … I just watched myself tackle some unsuspecting gentleman with a surprised look on his face.  To be honest, I was a little surprised myself, because I wasn’t expecting to do it.

The speaker then explains how to involve security over the radio—-which can be overheard by guests—-without causing panic. Another example quickly follows: “… so if you encounter a dangerous animal,” she instructs with a straight face, “very calmly inform security over the radio that a butterfly has been spotted …”


There was nothing I could do about that one. She totally broadsided me with the butterfly. The second image that flickered through my mind was of every butterfly within hearing range hesitating in wide-eyed surprise at such a disgusting accusation.

A sample of this type of visual listening appears in Entangled when Mandy tries to telepathically think an image of a hamburger to Levi and, much to his frustration, instead transmits a detailed motion picture about her dining experience. Clearly, they have a conflict of thought processes. Not only do their thoughts collide, their thinking styles clash. Levi is a logical thinker—simple and to the point. Mandy is more like me—a picture thinker. The phenomenon is called synesthetics, and I’m laden with it.

Bizarre, eh? I agree, but there’s more.

Have you ever wondered why some people are born with certain flaws? What is the purpose of our peculiarities? Better yet—why do I have so darn many? A flash back into my childhood would take you to a solitary child, strange and unlike the others.

This strange child had nightmares constantly. Three o’clock in the morning, my mother’s tearing down a dark hall wondering who the devil is trying to kill her shrieking 4 year old. “The dancing tube of toothpaste,” I would scream, “from the toothbrush commercial!” For weeks on end, this same defenseless mother scratched her head, trying desperately to get me back into my absolutely safe bedroom. I folded my arms and refused to budge. I wasn’t going back into that death trap with all the alligators beneath my bed. How on earth would alligators get in there? she reasoned. She couldn’t see any alligators. I could and, personally, I didn’t care how they got there. I wasn’t going back in until they were gone.

To put it simply, I didn’t fit in with other kids and often found myself standing alone in the back of any crowd, watching. Early on, I discovered I had a severe allergy to the status quo.  Like magnetic polar opposites, it repelled me and over time I became … different. If the girls were playing dolls, I was in the mud with the boys. While normal teenagers played frisbee with their dogs, I was feeding gorillas and zoo keeping in the great ape display. Normal people stared at television, I stared at a blank wall … and laughed! They had video games, I wanted a pencil and paper. They cried, I giggled. They listened, I visualized. Basically, I saw things differently.

Why? Why did God wire my mind that way? Did he make a mistake when he programmed me? He couldn’t have done it on purpose—-or could he? What if … what if God knew exactly what he was doing when he put D.C. together? What if, those weren’t flaws, but rather … indicators?


Have you ever wondered why some people are born with certain flaws indicators? What is the purpose of our peculiarities talents? Better yet—why do I have so darn many? A flash back into my childhood would take you to a solitary unique child, observant and imaginative—destined to become a creative writer.

Do you see what i’m saying? ox,


If I Could Spend A Week With ??? I Would Do It In A Heartbeat!

If I could have anything I wanted, it wouldn’t be a bunch of stuff on sale at half-price, shiny toys, or expensive cliche` vacations. The inner workings of my mind operate on a much different level. I want material—-anything that will spark my imagination. My perfect vacation wouldn’t be a luxury cruise, it would be a week with:

A special force unit/black op team.  Not for the classified, political, or shooty bloody stuff, but more for the camaraderie, the bond, the lifestyle, mindset, lingo, and point of view. It would be good exercise, too, and oh! the stories they could tell! Of course, this couldn’t be in some base or other civilized structure. I want the real deal! The field! I’m talking wearing soap on the way in and flies on the way out, training and wargames, stories of reckless insanity around a campfire, tasteless MREs, dune buggies, mosquito repellant, and shovels.

A ghost. I would love to see our world from a totally different perspective as well as view people without their masks on. What better way than to move freely between this dimension and the hereafter wearing nothing but a shimmer? My problem would be the temptations. I can see it now: Some person has no idea i’m standing there and I have to make a choice—-mischievous poltergeist or a guiding light. Hmm!  eenie, meenie, miney, BOO! I will say this, I hope they have books in the hereafter, because I’ll be busy when I get there—with or without the tour.

A warlord. Yuck! Are you serious, D.C.? Yep. Just so I could get into his head, decipher his distorted thinking and try to make sense out of it. What motivates a person to actively defy civilization, absorb power, and turn into a mindless politician criminal. Is there any happiness in that tiny heart, any capacity to love, or true pleasure to be found in drawing forth misery from the innocent? Or does he exist in a cold, dark, lonely void in a desperate search for some nameless thing to fill the chasm? This inquiring mind wants to know.

A spy. How cool would that be? I’ve been told that the life of a spy is NOTHING like we see in the movies and I agree—-James Bond and Mission Impossible do have the slight flavor of Hollywood. I don’t mean gadget watches with scaffolding hooks and emergency laser beams, and I’m also not talking about boring moles who work for years to reach an inner circle just to plant a single bug only to get whacked by the agency because he knew too much and developed a guilty conscious. Not him. I’m talking about the CIA airplane to nowhere with a crew of nobody taking a plane full of nothing to a place that doesn’t exist. THAT spy!

Ninja assassins. OMG! I could so totally use that! Throwing stars and, oh! some insane housewife tries to take the last box of cereal. I’d be like waaaaaaaaaaa yah!  

A comedian. Brian Regan, Bill Engvall, or Jeff Foxworthy—any one of those. What fun!

Violinist David Garrett. I could listen to that all day long. Hell, I could LOOK at that all day long.

My mind is whirring now!

Tibetan monks, or, um … Under the sea with a mermaid (the tail would take some getting used to), or a week in the company of a genie (preferably out of the bottle), on a submarine. ooh! with the gods on Mount Olympus. I could steal Cupid’s arrow …



A Scene Is Born

How do you create a scene? 

Well … that depends on the scene. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of reading the previous draft, bringing the heart rate up, and following a detailed outline. Other times—not so easy. Take the fight scenes, for instance. If you’ve never thrown a punch in your life, writing a detailed fight scene can be a very … inaccurate? … experience. So, I started sniffing around the martial arts world. Mere interviews wouldn’t do. I had to learn it myself. Problem was, there’s more than one style of fighting—self-defense, attack, ground—and I had plenty of characters (all of them) who had to know how to do it. So I signed up for kenpo karate, krav maga, and brazilian ju-jitsu. A few black eyes and some bruises later, I was writing away and Levi looked like a pro!

All those detailed scenes in the cargo plane? Yep! The Air Force calls it Spouse Day. I call it real-time research. I wasn’t fooling around! While the other wives were socializing, sleeping, vomiting, I was busily scrawling intimate details into a pilfered notepad with the general’s pen. I went home and wrote the scene in Entangled with Mandy in the cargo plane before Kiser so rudely throws her out. The scene in The Devil’s Garden with the team on the flight deck wondering what the hell’s wrong with the airplane came from an invitation to my husband’s flight simulator training. To the benefit of my readers, we had a laid-back pilot who didn’t mind if I took the simulator plane for a whirl. The rest of the crew wasn’t in a hurry, sooo … I got the co-pilot seat! I’ve tried to secure a few minutes in the co-pilot seat on a real cargo plane, but to date the Air Force isn’t cooperating. For the record—I never did get airsick. I wear this tidbit like a badge of honor.

The Carson in the tropical pool scene: Ah, yes. Mandy with the eyes of an over-ripe potato. To her embarrassment and to our delight—yes, she did see Carson naked! [Fanning self] You probably noticed, this scene has the distinct flavor of a romance novel. What? you say. D.C.? Writing romance! I know, I know, it sounds crazy. So how did I do it? Easy. I consulted the romance expert—my sister/first-line beta reader. Like a big girl teaching a crying toddler to walk, she babied me through it. That includes kissing scenes, tender moments, and all those powerful looks. When you see love anywhere in The Entangled Series, thank Celeste.

My nephew—an artillery ground pounder visiting family between deployments—made the mistake of reminiscing about boot camp and a horrible drill sergeant in front of me. My brain snapped to Raul in The Devil’s Garden and my ears perked right up. My unsuspecting nephew starts explaining what it means to ‘get smoked’ (punished) in the military. Oh, happy day! Next thing the poor soldier knows, he’s demonstrating in FULL detail each punishment (about six total), which included names like The Monkey F**er and Little Man in the Woods, while I sat on the floor taking notes on a notepad. His pitiful cries of ‘can’t you write any faster?’ and ‘gimme a minute [pant, pant] to catch my breath’ and ‘I shouldn’t have said anything’ fell on deaf ears. By the time he stomped out of my house, I had pages of descriptions. I’m pleased to announce, The Little Man in the Woods made it into the final cut. This is a prime example of our fine military supporting its American authors.  Thanks, John!

Alas, not all my research is pleasant. Some of it TOTALLY sucks! Fender and the spiders: internet resesarch at midnight with me in heeby-jeeby protocol—-hair in a bun, fly swatter, and potent bug spray. Levi and the coconut grubs: the discovery channel research on an empty stomach! Blegh! ox, 


You %$#@ Jody!

Questions from the readers:

Levi calls Kiser a Jody. What the devil is a Jody?

A Jody is every military man’s worst fear. The name refers to a soldier who sleeps with other military men’s wives/girlfriends while they are gone on a mission, deployed, or TDY. He’s good-looking, muscular, has all his hair, drives an awesome car, and is very well endowed—a feature he doesn’t waste. 

How can you spot Jody?

Jody is the one standing laughing on the edge of the runway with the champagne, Kleenex, and a box of chocolate while a unit deploys to Timbuktu. 

Do the soldiers know Jody?

If they have friends, co-workers, live on a base, or have ever laid eyes on another soldier man, they do. 

Does Jody refer only to men?

[Hysterical laughter.] Um, no. 

So being called Jody is a bad thing, right?

That depends. Did your unit just deploy without you? 

What happens when someone is called a Jody?

The typical reaction is back-slapping, hand-smacking appreciation for being labeled so pleasantly by one’s acquaintances. Thanks all around and drinks on the house! 

Wait! Is the label Jody an insult or is it a complement?


Where is Jody now?

If you have to ask, you’re not him. 

So, uh, when exactly do you expect your man to return?

You %$#@ Jody!