A story sent in by Tom Christensen LTJG (SC) '60 - '62


Willy and me were lollygagging by the scuttlebutt after

being aloft to boy-butter up the antennas and were just

perched on a bollard eyeballing a couple of bilge rats and

flangeheads using crescent hammers to pack monkey shit

around a fitting on a handybilly.

All of a sudden the dicksmith started hard-assing one of

the deck apes for lifting his pogey bait. The pecker-checker

was a sewer pipe sailor and the deckape was a gator. Maybe

being black shoes on a bird farm surrounded by a gaggle of

cans didn't set right with either of those gobs.

The deck ape ran through the nearest hatch and dogged it

tight because he knew the penis machinist was going to lay below,

catch him between decks and punch him in the snot locker. He'd

probably wind up on the binnacle list but Doc would find a way to

gundeck the paper or give it the deep six to keep himself above board.

We heard the skivvywaver announce over the bitch box that the

breadburners had creamed foreskins on toast and SOS ready on

the mess decks, so we cut and run to avoid the clusterscrew when

the twidgets and cannon cockers knew chow was on.

We were balls to the wall for the barn and everyone was preparing

to hit the beach as soon as we doubled-up and threw the brow over.

I had a ditty bag full of fufu juice that I was gonna spread on thick

for the bar hogs with those sweet bosnias. Sure beats the hell out of

brown bagging. Might even hit the Acey-Deucy club and try to hook up

with a WESTPAC widow. They were always leaving snail trails on the

dance floor on amateur night.

If you understand this, you're Regular Navy.