This Guy, Patstone, is Very Representative of Your
Typical BUD/s Instructor
I Think Somewhere In-A-Hidden, Very Top-Secret So Cal Location There is A ‘Clone Lab’ Where The Navy Manufacturers These Guys:
***
Best of Instructor Patstone:
******
One day, one morning, my class mustered and went to retrieve our assigned IBS’s. Someone in another boat crew was laughing manically.
WTF? I pondered.
I walked over to the boat crew.
“What is so goddamn funny?” I asked.
“Lookit this shit” one said.
I looked at their IBS.
One of the SEAL instructors had spray-painted on all the IBS’s
“Don’t worry; Be Happy.”
I had to laugh.’
I did still manage to maintain my sense of humor, even though I knew I was probably gonna die that day…. Damn! I miss those days. And all the ‘good’ times! Yeah. Believe what you’ve heard/read: SEAL training is BRUTAL. But ya gotta keep a sense of humor about you. Or at least in your pocket.
****
I love Barb in Her Sailor Suit!!
(Judy, You know I LOVE You Too!)
“Happy Days Are Here Again!”
Video Credit: George John
***
Bonus Round:
“Keep The Drinks Comin’ Girl ‘Til I Can’t Feel Anything”
***
No One Hates War More Than A Military Veteran. Trust Me; I Know
Cred: Joni
The astute observer will realize that the ‘soldier’ in the vid is Joni
“There’s A War-Zone Inside Me:
I Cain’t Even Hear The Fuckin’ Music No More, For The Beat Of Black Wings”
P.S. This Post Has Become A Long-Ass-Long-Winded–Verbosity-Laden–Monstrosity– –If You Manage To Slog Through It, Send Me A Bill. I Promise To Reimburse Your Purse For Lost Time.
Hahaha!
“The Line Forms To The Right”
Credit: Bobby Darin
Just Take A Number & Have A Seat.
I’ll Get To You. By And Bye
*****
Aussie Wu-Flu Photo Below:
Really Upsets Me, Because Last Time I Visited There,
Back in ’89 halfway into my last WestPAC (Western Pacific Deployment) bobbing about in the Pacific, onboard the USS Frederick LST 1184, we had already spent much time in Subic Bay, Hong Kong, Guam, Korea, Fuk-Ya-Mama Japan, and possible some other ‘Ornamental’ ports I do not recall.
USS Fred: LST 1184:
Well, we were steaming along in the South Pacific one day when word came down the pike that we had new orders to sail to Sydney.
What?
What?!
Hell Yes!
“But why?” I asked the first ‘Old-Salty-Squiddy’ I could find.
“Some idiots from a tin can (destroyer) dropped a pallet of high explosives on top of the Great Barrier Reef. We have to go retrieve it before shit jumps off. That reef is some kind of fuckin’ national park or something.”
“Why us?”
“Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? We get to go to Australia! Australia! In Australia, they still LOVE us. There is this thing they do. It’s called ‘Rent-A-Sailor’ and you’ll see.”
“Hell you talking about? ‘Rent-A-Sailor’?”
“When we dock, there will be tons of women on the pier to greet us. They will all have paid real money to ‘host’ us while we are there. They love us. Maybe ‘cause we saved them from the Japs back in doubya doubya two.”
Hostesses for the Most of Us
“I see your point. Sounds great!”
“Just wait. You’ll see,” he said againbreathlessly. I must admit, his excitement was contagious.
***
Now, do not get me wong (wrong). I love Southern Pacific Eastern ‘Ornamental’ Women and this is well-documented, but I, we, all of us, were in the mood for a female change of scenery. We wanted to see some ‘Round-Eyes.’ And before anyone accuses me of being ‘racist’ you may want to do some research on my blog—this one—and then get back to me.
Back in ’89 halfway into my last WestPAC (Western Pacific Deployment) bobbing about in the Pacific, onboard the USS Frederick LST 1184, we had already spent much time in Subic Bay, Hong Kong, Guam, Korea, Fuk-Ya-Mama Japan, and possible some other ‘Ornamental’ ports I do not recall.
Well, we were steaming along in the South Pacific one day when word came down the pike that we had new orders to sail to Sydney.
What?
What?!
Hell Yes!
“But why?” I asked the first ‘Old-Salty-Squiddy’ I could find.
“Some idiots from a tin can (destroyer) dropped a pallet of high explosives on top of the Great Barrier Reef. We have to go retrieve it before shit jumps off. That reef is some kind of fuckin’ national park or something.”
“Why us?”
“Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares? We get to go to Australia! Australia! In Australia, they still LOVE us. There is this thing they do. It’s called ‘Rent-A-Sailor’ and you’ll see.”
“Hell you talking about? ‘Rent-A-Sailor’?”
“When we dock, there will be tons of women on the pier to greet us. They will all have paid real money to ‘host’ us while we are there. They love us. Maybe ‘cause we saved them from the Japs back in doubya doubya two.”
Hostesses for the Most of Us
“I see your point. Sounds great!”
“Just wait. You’ll see,” he said againbreathlessly. I must admit, his excitement was contagious.
***
Now, do not get me wong (wrong). I love Southern Pacific Eastern ‘Ornamental’ Women and this is well-documented, but I, we, all of us, were in the mood for a female change of scenery. We wanted to see some ‘Round-Eyes.’ And before anyone accuses me of being ‘racist’ you may want to do some research on my blog—this one—and then get back to me.
The night before, we were subjected to a ‘briefing.’ (and a pecker check–you don’t wanna know)
Briefly this briefing consisted of a shit-load of ‘don’ts’:
Don’t do this; don’t do that. “This is a working port, and don’t get excited about liberty here.”
We had been at-sea for (seemed to us) longer than Odysseus, and we really did not wanna hear this shit but, being ‘good sailors’ and desperate to get ‘on the beach’, we just nodded.
The main thing was this: “You cannot, under any circumstance, go to the British side of this Island.”
No worries, I thought, (for at that time the only Brits I had known had come across as rather ‘stuffy’.
Our captor went further:
“This, as I did say, is a working port: Three day duty.”
“Ah shit.”
Yep, fully two thirds of the Ship’s company had to be on-board at any given time. Not to mention, as this was a working port, we could not leave the ship until the Work Day was done: i.e., sixteen hundred hours.
Nevertheless…
Diego Garcia was beautiful! Right out of ‘South Pacific’ the movie. I was jazzed by all of it. I hit the beach! Went to explore the Naval Base there. Found it wanting (Not my idea of Hemingway). I then swerved onto the Merchant Marine obscure dock and here is where I found my home for the next thirty days.
It was untouched by modern anything.
There was a small bar/restaurant and A beach. Some serving wenches, and palm trees.
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young, Olongapo City. I had been struck by The Thunderbolt. Rog was buying the beer for the next ten years. Matt was drawing a charcoal portrait on a cocktail napkin of a sweet, young lovely Filipina with a glass eye. Mama-San was not happy.
My Primary Problem:
Mama-San
SNAFU (‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’)
My Secondary Problem:
‘Thunderbolt Smitten Status’
Breaks down like this:
The ‘Smite-he’—Me—couldn’t get close enough to the ‘Smite-er—Her—she proved elusive, un-approachable, un-attainable, closely watched overby Mama-the Big-She-San.
Yes. It was all very confounding, convoluted, and complicated.
***
Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money—He hoping for good conversation, free billiard lessons, and some Lance Good-Natured Wolf-Ticket Talk.
(Rog had declined my offer of a double-or-nothing eight-ball re-match)
But Matt was willing and ‘free’, as the Filipina ‘model’ for his napkin art had been compelled (by Mama-San) to taxi onto the runway.
He also knew I would take it easy on him and his wallet. I only truly enjoyed taking Rog’s money, no one else’s. Well, except for the occasional Jar-Head’s, even though the fleecing of ‘Marine-Sheeps’ could, and often did prove somewhat problematical, health-wise—my health-wise.
Matt and I both were getting what we wanted until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140, 1986.
Pain was a pain in the ass.
He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about one-hundred and fifty. One-hundred-fifty pounds of attitude. Bad attitude.
Peanut sans the good to outweigh the bad. I did not appreciate his style.
Nor his presence.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy jus’ walk in, he Naa-bee-steeel.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor pren?”
(Filipinas have some difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘F’)
“Nope. He’s trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it been hangin’?”
“Whaaa?? Hey. Uh…Oh, don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah. Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class One-Forty. You were my roommate for about a week until I got you kicked out of the room for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah, you were a little snitch-bitch. An’ your other roommate was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… Clark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Got ‘hurt’ eh? Whatever. Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“Wanna beer?”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors—only. This is Our bar, and we don’t really want any prima-donnas hangin’ out here swillin’ beer and breathin’ air. This bar—MY Bar—is a private bar, so… mosey on The Fuck On.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This joint’s not big e’nuff to house your inflated Navy Spec-War ego; I suggest you SEAL-Flop your fishy-smellin’ ass on down to The California Club. It’s close to Shit River on Magsaysay—can’t miss it—look for the neon that says, ‘Morons Welcome’. The ceilings have high enough clearance for your big head, and there’s lots of girls. You and your ego and your attitude and your money will be welcome there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had unconsciously reversed my grip on the pool cue, turning it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Uh… Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool cue-turned-seal-smasher.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you need sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna pix the purniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
Apparently a light suddenly lit and he, making good use of his ‘situational awareness’ said, “Maybe I’ll check out that California Club after all.” And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said with a belly-laugh,
“Hoo-Ah Squiddy! That guy’s an asshole! Seen him around town.”
“Thanks,” I said, pitching my cue-stick to Matt, who clumsily failed to catch it, spilling his beer in the attempt as he watched the cue bounce off the deck.
I laughed at Matt then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Send me an’ Matt ah coupla beers! I just saw my life flash!”
(Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
