Being an Asshole
By Garland Davis
A certain shipmate of mine who once waved flags for a living whom I OCCASIONALLY cyber bully will tell you that I am an asshole. He pretty much has me pegged. I have always been something of a clown since I learned to talk. That happened when I was in the sixth grade. In my early childhood, I stammered. It was embarrassing so I just wouldn’t talk. My sixth-grade teacher kept me after school for a half hour every day and worked on drills that helped me overcome the stammer. No one has been able to shut me up since.
People often ask why, after thirty years in the Navy, I never advanced to Senior or Master Chief. The only thing I can say is that I often opened my mouth when I should have remained silent. I’ll tell you, one of the worst things you can do as a Chief is tell a senior Captain that he is wrong in an Officer and Chiefs meeting and have subsequent events prove that you are right. I’m sure some Captains would forgive you, but this one didn’t. He made a comment in my evaluations that I was rated number seventeen in a CPO Mess of fourteen Chiefs. My Foodservice Division had been runner up for the Ney Award which he completely failed to mention. Revenge is a bitch.
After I retired, I worked as a mid-level executive for Burger King for a while. I really wanted to work for McDonald’s but they refused to offer me a job. Their reasoning; they already had one fucking clown, they didn’t need another!
Clowning around almost caused me physical injury or possibly even death. It went something like this:
I went into a shit-kicking bar on Magsaysay in Olongapo and bumped into a group of snipes from my ship. I sat down with them and started sucking the nectar from an icy cold San Miguel when this young lovely pulled a chair next to mine, took me by the arm and said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” I replied and then ignored her.
Finally, she pulled my arm and asked, “You don’t like me?”
“I like you fine. You’re pretty girl.” And then I ignored her some more.
“Whassa matter with you? You don’t want to talk to me.”
“Oh, yeah, I want to ask you a question, but I am shy.”
“You can ask me.” She said
Me, “Are you wearing panties?’
She slapped my arm and said, “Why you ask me that?”
“Because I am interested in you and would like to know you and about you.”
She started smiling, took my arm and pulled herself closer to me. She whispered to me, “Yes I am wearing panties,” with a smile.
“What color are they?
She slaps my arm and pulls her chair away. By this time the others at the table were watching and listening to our interchange. So, I went back to ignoring her.
She slid her chair back beside me and took my arm again and said, “They are pink.”
“Got any holes in them?”
“Whassa matter with you? Why all you want to talk about is panties? No there no holes in my panties.”
“Then if they don’t have holes, how did you get your fucking legs in them?” At that, everyone around the table cracked up. The laughter was loud and long. The girl left the table and went to the bar.
She returned with a knife in her hand. I don’t know what she was saying in Tagalog but I am pretty sure she wasn’t extolling my better qualities. A couple of waiters were wrestling her for the knife as I unassed that joint.
The night before I left Reeves and Subic for the last time, my cooks planned a little party for me at a bar on Magsaysay. I arrived a little late. I had been detained at the CPO club by a bunch of San Miguels. I went to their table and sat in the chair they had for me. As the waiter delivered a frosty cold one, this woman, who was over the hill ugly sat down by me and took my arm.
I started looking under the table and under the chairs. Finally, someone asked, “Did you lose something Chief, what are you looking for?”
“The shovel they dug this bitch up with!”
And of course, everyone laughed.
There was a metal tray sitting on the table that was used to deliver drinks. That old broad hit me on the head with it. You know, sometimes my ears still ring.
I’ve never had to work at being an asshole, it somehow came naturally.