Profane Profanity!–I Employ Far Too Much… King Lear–It’s All About Madness–A Subject I Know Far Too Well. (With Special Guest Star: Cordelia) “Mend Your Speech a Little”

Cred for Share: proffarrior

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I use a lot.

A lot of

Profanity

What can I say?

I am a Texan / Sailor

Or a Sailor / Texan

‘Tis my nature.

Never mean to offend.

Perhaps I should mend

My speech a little.

Naw!

Fuck that!

***

From ‘Lear’:

CORDELIA:

“Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty

According to my bond, no more nor less.”

LEAR:

“How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,

Lest you may mar your fortunes.”

The Thane of Cawdor Sleeps No More. Or… Which Witch? “She Turned Me Into A Newt”– “A Newt?!” “I got Better”

I Got Better

***

For all you Shakespeare fans Out There In Radio-Land:
This is worth your time investment.

Regicide

As An Honorably Served Military Man:

This Pains Me

***

Graham Nash & Stephen Stills – Military Madness (Live)

***

I Kinda LOVE This Post–Not Sure Why—Memories, I Suppose—Happier Times. Up-Dated (Can’t Take ‘The Nav’ Outta The Boy) “Don’t RUST On My Parade”

“In the Navy”–Village PPL:

“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”

M2 .50 Caliber Machine Gun | Military.com

50 Cal NavyA

U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Third Class Daniel J. Mark. Cleared for release by ALBG PAO, LCDR Jeff Bender.

Lance Sailor

Marco The Sailor man

I had to  admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.

Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.

Yes, always mounted and underway:

Haze-Graying, even then

And rusty

My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…

And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea

Rust.

My Moby Dick-lessness!

How could I not keep Rust off my guns?

Freud certainly would have had fun with me

(Sadly, now I know why)

************

My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.

And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.

The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.

But rust is relentless and timeless.

While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:

Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime

(I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud,  My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.

And functional.

And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander…

He kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I  did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)

The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.   

And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.

Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius. 

And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!

 I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn,  congratulating me.

(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal.

If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep!  I was the shit!  I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my  pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)

And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)

And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:

“Oh God, Please Don’t Let Me Fuck UP!”

That kind of fear.

Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.

Along with my reverie.

Yep.

Master Chief Anderson!

MY MASTER CHIEF

“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”

Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,

“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”

(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)

“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.

I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick,  “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.

41XgCzuhSdL._AC_UL320_SR214,320_

I had broken the rule.

In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “Back when Moses was a pup, and this is a no-shitter” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.

Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of  The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.

‘Shitting bricks’ is too trite.

I was nervous.

I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…

“Enter!”

“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”

“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”

(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)

Mouth agape I sat down, speechless

“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”

“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.

“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”

“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR,  cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”

“How much did you pay?!”

“250 Dollars Sir.”

Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.

American

I sat there, dumb founded,  a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…

“Petty Officer Marcom! “

“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”

“You’re dismissed!”

Jumping up, knocking my chair over,  some tears welling in my eyes,

“Yessir!”

As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.

And thus I had survived yet another day in MY  Beloved Navy.

And Just As a Reminder Kids:

Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All

 

*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas. 

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

This is Just Too Good: If You Love Shakespeare, As Do I, That Is. If Not, Fry Your Mind Exploring Dostoevsky. And Good Luck In That Endeavor. (Helpful Hint: Vodka is Requisite)

This too (not so much about women)

Not my painful, plainful verbiage,

but …

Derek

What a modern science actor!

(And a really swell guy)

“Lance, there you go again…”

“Sorry! On with the show!”

“Oh for a muse…of fire!”

****************

I love Shakespeare. I love words. I love the simple fact that the only good advice my father once gave to me were the words out of his mouth:

“Son, words have meaning and their coinage, spend them well…”

Now… I am not that too heady.

In fact, I am simple.

Yet I do still love the coinage of a good phrase.

Indeed I do.

Therefore, I leave you this:

As all good Bloggers do, I desire a Stage! My Kingdom for a Stage!

Read… and… well…stay tuned.

And Kenneth Branagh At his Best

(Uh Oh! King Harry is pissed off!)

And Even Better

(and here, find the subtle wrath: you don’t wanna be these guys)

And Even More Better: “Once More Unto The Breach!”

And You Gotta Love This Guy: “In Thunder and in Earthquake”

 In my opinion this is Branagh’s finest movie

Henry The Fifth

“We Few”

“We Happy Few”

“We Band of Brothers”

HANK SANK (Cinq)

But… Emma….

Rocks My World!

I generally write only about women.

This time I made (half) an exception.

One more silly Facefuk post:

“The below ‘Independence Day’ speech was lifted right out of ‘Henry V’

(Or ‘Hank Cinq’—as I like to call it)

Saint Crispin’s Day: The Battle of Agincourt

Watch Le Both (If you are a film buff)

But do it quickly, because FaceFuck will most likely delete this for ‘copyright violation.’

This is a stupid, silly, mindless film, but I am gonna watch it once more anyway.

(It is a guilty pleasure)”

Battle of Agincourt

Below: Some added value from Henry V (VERY Charming Emma Thompson)

(I just threw this in because I love this scene and I love Emma Thompson–She is beautiful and wonderfully talented)

The best line in this scene is when the maid is trying to say the English word for “foot” but it came out something approaching ‘foutre’. Which is Française for ‘fuck’.

I know this because my Moroccan girlfriend (who was fluent in French) often said to me “Va te faire foutre!” Which means “Go fuck yourself.”

(She could be so charmingly delightful at times. I did love her and her passionate spirit.)

Emma Delights Me:

Did I Re-Re-Reely Repost This Already?–Screw It! I’mma Bored!—“Last I heard You were a drunkard’s drunkard”—-“Never When I’m Working”–Shakespeare In Love: Nurse

“Pygmalion-Like I Created Her & Then Fell In Love With Her”

And it has occurred at me: I never ‘gave’ her a Proper Name.

I am gonna go with ‘Katherine.’

Works for me (And Hopefully, Her)

I was at my computer, banging out my latest travesty of prose.

As Was instructed/demanded by MS Muse.

Finished it and hit The ‘Publish’ Button.

(I NEVER allow Anyone, not even MS Muse, to proof-read or comment on my so-called ‘work’ before I cast it out into the endless sea that is the Internet.)

Muse will certainly be the first to read it and then as she is reading it, I’ll stand by for heavy rolls and unhappy critique.

But this post is not about that.

I leaned back in my chair, cracked open another beer, and glanced over my shoulder at MS Muse.

She had not yet gotten the “Moron-Writer-Just-Posted Alert.”

She was preoccupied with working her NYT Crossword

(Using an INK PEN! Vice a PENCIL like all the rest of us Mortals. Who has confidence enough to do that? She does.)

As I was staring at her, she apparently became aware.

She put down her New York Times, stared right back at me and said,

“Now what?”

I cleared my throat, mustered all the courage and moxie I had remaining, and said,

“Will You Marry Me?”

MS Muse started laughing her ass Off

“I guess that’s a ‘No’ then?”

Screw it.

I’d Rather Marry Carly

It didn’t exactly go like this, but this here/below, is

MY FANTASY.

I can concoct it as however is my wont.

Or ‘want.’

Call it ‘Creative License.’

If you must.

“I Cannot Speak Your England”

To be continued…

P.S., I am in love with Carly Simon

(As if Regular Readers Did Not Already Know This)

She was / is a bit of a slut,

But ain’t we all?

(I warmly embrace my ‘slutiness.’ It defines me)

Carly’s Slutiness Makes Me Love Her Even That Much More!

She is for reals!

******

Sorry Carly!

I should not have called you a slut–I live in a Glass House—

Casting Stones is Not Wise on My Part.

Vid Cred: The Dramatics