Friday, March 16, 2018

“Bang away Lulu”

Bang away Lulu bang it good and strong,

What in the Hell will the Navy do when good old Lulu's gone?

Some girls work in factories, some girls work in stores,

But Lulu works in a dockside house, with forty other whores.

Lulu had a baby, It was her pride and joy

Would have named it Lulu but the bastard was a boy....

She took me to the picture show, we sat down in the stalls,

And every time the lights went out, she grabbed me in the ... nose.

She took me to the mountaintop and made me on the hill,

`Cause every time I said, "I won't" my echo said, "I will."

I wish I was a diamond ring, on my Lulu's hand,

And every time she scratched her butt, I'd see the Promised Land.

Well, I asked her for to marry me, she said, "That's very nice,

But I'll give you a better deal, I'll let you ride half price."

(Recorded by Oscar Brand on Bawdy Sea Songs)

“Reflections Of An Ol’ Salt”

It warms an old Salt’s heart … I remember when, as God intended, Salty Ol’ Chiefly Bastards were downright mean and profane drunks with no respect for the deviant Sailors working for them! This theoretical end-point was expected for men steeped daily in the lying, thieving, corruption, bribes, charlatanism, misery, and the unrelenting stupidity they had to deal with on a daily basis!! Ashen-souled, cynical, with a wonderfully caustic sense of humor that could dissolve a meat clever, they lacked illusions, about anything, I remember a Chief once telling me …

“I can never trust you scurvy bastards! You’re all just waiting on the chance to Fuck me Royal!”

… If a young shipmate thought he saw glimmerings of human decency in his Chief, he’d have to have his eyes checked!!!

First Classes weren’t far behind … rough edged, often talented lifers who were usually ugly as hell with a penchant for black tarred coffee! Built like a fire plug with leprosy, they were the archetype blue shirt, combing themselves to one day be the next Divisional Chief!! Not to make fun, because by and large they were usually men of robust character, sort of associated with pit bulls, and sometimes were more combative than the gentlemanly officers would like!! You can’t be diplomatic, hands off, contemplative or anything of the sort and get the job done from someone who doesn’t want to be blunt and quite frankly in your face!! After all, they were in competition with a pack of malevolent malcontents trying to earn their anchors first!! When assembled in their First Class Meetings, they resembled Mongolian Hordes!!!

Now the Second Classes were the odd ones … too senior to get the ‘Shit Work’ and too junior for too much responsibility! They were also the most deviant … as legend has it, one Second Class headed into Olongapo to a missionary for volunteer work, only to disappear on a motor trike over the horizon with a bottle of booze and ended up in some whore house stark naked with a dozen honey-khoes supposedly teaching them English!! This is usually the time in a young Salt’s career he learns to get real good at distinguishing the difference between fairy tales and swapping lies!!!

The Third Class Petty Officer was nothing more than a glorified Seaman accomplished at cleaning shitters, sinks & pissers and not giving two shits about anything because he was getting out in a year or two… or three! Hey, I resembled that remark!! They knew enough to stay out of trouble by blaming it on the other guy in that division, department… or ship over there across the pier!!!

The Seaman, Airman & Fireman down below?!? Shit cans, Shitters and ninety day stays of crank’n in the world’s finest floating diners! That’s all I got … Oh, and a Skippy’s Mast or two under the belt!! I was pretty fluent in that area as a bottom-feeder!!!

What brought these reflections on in an ol’ Salts past you ask?!? They are the musings of my previous life of Twenty-Three years in the Ol’ Canoe Club Cabaret!! Think of it like the cave drawings of a Neanderthal era long gone by!!!

So cheers to the shipmate who ran butt nekkit over a corrugated tin roof from Shore Patrol in Puson, or that Third Class Ordie found drunk face down in a binjo somewhere near the Honch in Japan! It was a different time with good whiskey, beautiful women and not enough cameras for a “Polaroid Moment” to capture!! It sure was fun as hell wasn’t it?!?

Sunday, March 11, 2018

"Anyone Remember the California Bar?"

Here’s one from a sea story tell’ n, bullshit artist of the bubblehead variety! And I do remember a California Bar in Olongapo once upon a time!!  I hope you all enjoy the story …

European port… Place called "The California Bar"… Cantina downstairs… Lukewarm cerveza… Cross between beer and llama urine… Well-worn barmaids and heavy wooden tables with the names of five thousand ships and their hull numbers whittled in the tops. Ceiling fans and flower pots were suspended from the overhead. Probably a lot of you remember the place… After all, SOMEBODY had to have carved the names and numbers of every East Coast boat in those tabletops.

Upstairs, ladies in T-shirts and white cotton panties marketed true love, undying affection and intimate personal relations in increments of 30 minutes at 200 pesetas… Or, as we used to say, "200 potatoes…" A little slice of 'Mediterranean Wedding Night' with the meter running.

Boat sailors seem to gravitate to a particular establishment. No matter where you go, someone in the crew has "Been there before and knows this great place… Not that far from the Fleet Landing."

'Great Places' are great places to lose your money, drink stuff you have no idea what it was before fermentation set in and to pick up exotic forms of athlete's foot… Imported stuff… The kind that laughs at Desenex.

There is a little known fact about the Cold War diesel boat Navy… One of our humanitarian missions was to collect various strains of potent toe fungus and carry them to various remote continents to colonize and go forth among men. Athlete's foot… That equal opportunity, gender blind, nonreligious bias, respecter of no ideology, present that tells those you love, you brought home something that will remind them of you when you are far away answering bells on the snorkel.

Ah yes, the California Bar… Palma… On some nights, Big Mama ran a 3 girl special… This is the Iberian lust equivalent of an Eckerd Drug Store marketing ploy… Buy two, get one free.
This nameless smoke boat bluejacket off this nameless fleet boat, forks over the requisite 500 pesetas representing the compensation for what was known in SUBRON SIX parlance as the "Whitman Sampler." In other squadrons, this package deal was also known as "Trips with hips" or an "Eeny-meenie-moe."

Mr. Nameless E-3 qualified man has completed door number one and is tip-toeing down the hall, his whites, skivvy shirt and neckerchief over one arm, his shoes and socks in the other. The only uniform, if you would call it that, was skivvy shorts, dog tags and chain, and white hat perched on his head.

In the corridor, he runs into the gun boss, a two-striper who is also on a 'Trips with hips' excursion. The lieutenant is wearing dog tags, skivvies and socks… And he too, has his hat on his head sideways.

After E-3 nameless completes his mission and comes down to where his mates are tossing down a few brews, he says,

"Holy jumpin' jeezus… You'll never guess who I ran into topside!"


"Mr. So n' so."

"No shit!"

"Yea idiot child, no shit."

"What did 'ya do?"

"I saluted…"

"You WHAT!?"

"I saluted the sonuvabitch."

"Why in th' hell would you salute going down a whorehouse hall?"

"We were both covered… Somthin' they said at the Lakes… If you're both covered, you exchange salutes."

"Did Mr. So n' so exchange salutes?"

"No, he just walked past and said 'I see the fleet idiot is getting laid.'"

If the fleet idiot reads this and recognizes himself, he will notice how tactfully and delicately the subject was handled. No reference to name, no reference to rate, and not a damn thing mentioned about the mechanized dandruff the girls loaded you with to hitchhike back to the boat and liven up the Alley.

Friday, March 9, 2018

"Bottoms Up"

(Click Picture)

After a year at sea, a sailor headed for the nearest bar!  He pointed at a customer who was lying on the floor feeling no pain and said…

“Give me a shot of that!”


During a Naval Exercise in the Mediterranean, a Signalman rushed down to the bridge and said …

“Captain, this message just came in.”

“Read it out!”

… Said the Captain …

“Well, sir, I….”

… The signalman stammered …

“Just read the damned thing … now!”

… Snapped the Captain …

“Right, sir… It reads … ‘What the hell do you think you are doing, you stupid, blundering idiot? You’re not fit to be in command!”

“Yes, well…”

… Said the Captain …

“Have that decoded at once.”

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

“Promises Of Asian Sex In The US Navy”

Here’s another from Smokey Dafino on his encouragement to join the Navy!!!

"You'll get all the slant eyed pussy you can shake a stick at!" … Leared my recruiter with a tobacco juiced grin as he groped himself through his polyester trousers and mimed what I imagined by the grease on his pumpkin shaped head was a Vitalis lubed hand job. Fuck the good training and travel! Obviously sex with hot, young Asian women was this recruiter's top recruiting tool.

"Fuck yes!"

I had screamed out as I got caught up in the moment!!!

My recruiter, Don, was oily and unpleasant, with beady little pig-like eyes, an alcohol flush to his face, gin blossomed nose, and seriously overweight, like a hundred fucking pounds. He leaned back into his chair which groaned under the pressure and lit up an unfiltered KOOL while letting out a thundering fart at the same time. The entire room immediately stunk of rotten eggs.

"Just wait until you get to the P. I., that's the Philippine Islands to you landlubbers!"

… He coughed …

"The whores down there will jack you off and use Brylcreem for lubricant, much better than Vaseline!”

Brylcreem and not Vitalis for lubricant?!? Well, some sort of old man hair tonic, so I had been close…!!! The recruiter lifted his hands and looked up to the nicotine stained tile ceiling as if he was welcoming little baby Jesus down from Heaven.

"Nothing finer than a Brylcreem hand-job. And you won't catch the black clap going that way either!"

That would be the first of countless times that I would hear about the dreaded "Black Clap." Usually you would hear it after you bragged or lied to one of your shipmates about some broad you banged the night before. Your shipmate would be jealous you had gotten some pussy and he hadn't so he’d throw this fairy tale your way. The story was almost always the same. Some sailor in Thailand or San Fran … location doesn't matter, picks up a whore and catches a case of the dose. Only when the corpsman diagnoses it, he gives the sailor the bad news, but not before he calls the Shore Patrol who slap on the cuffs because of what he's about to hear. The news he’s about to hear is gonna drive him ape shit and he'll try to kill everybody in his general vicinity. He has the Black Clap and it can't be cured.

All the penicillin and tetracycline in the world won't save his soul and like fucking Typhoid Mary but more like Gonorrhea Gary. He's contagious as a son-of-a-bitch so they ship him off to some mysterious island never to be heard from again - I would imagine that there's a lot of corn-holing going down on that island with all those infected horny sailors running around - no women to hump and they're all gonna die anyway.

He would be reported to be lost at sea, killed in action, or some other line of crap to his parents and they’d get paid off with his military life insurance (SGLI) so they wouldn't ask any nosy questions. Before I had walked into the recruiter's office the only thing I knew about the Navy came from two things: I had seen the movie The Last Detail with Jack Nicholson last winter. Jack is a sailor's sailor in that flick. Boozing, brawling, banging chicks, smoking reefer, and Jack even tells a jarhead officer who runs the brig to go fuck himself. So that was cool.

And the second thing was this comic fuck book that my brother got from an uncle of ours who had been on a trip down to Juarez, Mexico. My brother had kept it hidden under his socks in his dresser drawer but I found it when I was looking for some loose change and cigarettes. The comic book had these drawings of Popeye the sailor man and his slut Olive Oyl fucking in all these wild positions. Popeye had this huge crank and Olive's beaver was real hairy, not like that shaved shit that's all the rage in the porno industry these days. I know it was just a comic book but gauddamn! If that's what sailors get to do - bring it the hell on!

Don had been so excited that I wanted to sign and ship out that day that he had blown off the standard police check with a conspiring wink. Three hours and a ass-load of signed papers later I was on a bus headed for Minneapolis and the Armed Forces Enlistment Center!!!

Friday, February 23, 2018

"The Chief Navigating The Ensign"

I got this excerpt from a book a while back, and I’d like to give props for it, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what book it was!?! Anyhow, I thought this was rather an entertaining bit, so I hope you all enjoy!!!

Chief Benson unfolds the paper and reads it out loud,

“To Ensign Bill Baker. We the willing, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much, for so long, with so little, that we are now qualified to do anything, with nothing at all.”


“First Division”

“Why Mr. Baker, I think they like you!”

… Chief Benson replied with a laugh …

“Hey Mr. ‘B’, have you seen the other two notes going around the ship?”

“Well, I’ve seen the poem on sweepers, Chief. Is there another one?”

“Yes Sir!”

… Chief acknowledges as he hands Ensign Baker another piece of paper…

“I think the crew has been getting a little bit red-assed lately.  When these things start circulating, it usually means trouble is really a brewing!”

… Ensign Baker now takes his turn at reading aloud …

“Think you have troubles? Here I am, just a stupid regular Navy bastard, stoned and drunk, pissed off, just waited in line for liberty for forty-five minutes, got the last seat in the last launch, was bumped for the Shore Patrol Chief and missed the boat! I puked on my new shoes; tore my shirt and my wrist watch got smashed. I’m getting a hangover, I’m damn flat broke, lost the key to my locker, and can’t find my identification card! I missed muster this morning, no pass, I’m now a liberty risk, no pussy, no cigarettes, no mail, no friends and damn few relatives who will claim me!  I’m homesick and tired, and the Chief is giving me grief because I need a haircut! I’m higher tenure in pay grade, my rate is frozen, I have an insufficient credit rating, my pay record is fucked up, and my leave has been disapproved! No clean clothes, laundry sent down too late and rejected, I missed chow, the ship’s store is closed and the ship’s Legal Officer wants to see me about the fight I was in at the base club!  I’ve got a hard-on, maybe V.D., I’m about to shit my pants and the ship’s head is secured for inspection!  Then some wise ass ‘lifer’ son-of-a-bitch walks up to me and says … “Ship over for six years, look at all the benefits!” 

“Not bad is it, Sir? I have no idea who thinks these things up, but some of these things are pretty funny! Keep in mind that when these things are going around the ship, it generally means that trouble is a brewing!”

… Ensign Baker nods … “Yes” … to the Chief’s advice, then replies …

“Hey listen, I’ve got a meeting with the XO, Mr. Graziotti, so I guess I’d better be going!”

… As he walks away, Chief Benson calls after him …

“Remember the first three things the XO is going to ask you! ‘Got a cigarette? What time is it? What’s going on?” 

Just goes to prove … It’s always best when a boot Ensign listens to his Chief!