A boy named Mule

A boy named Mule.

“What the fuck were you THINKING?!?!” Ed yelled at the top of his lungs. Like a genie granting wishes with unfortunate specificity, he’d gotten exactly what he asked for.

Schmuhl was from North Dakota – and was the second person I’d ever met from North Dakota.

I wasn’t impressed.

He was the sort of guy that was on the very, very low end of the IQ spread. In the nuclear field, you’re used to, oh, 120 being “stupid.” When you encounter an IQ of 100, you stand up and take notice. When you encounter an IQ just barely over mentally retarded, you react with disgust, disdain, and probably some other $10 D word.

Jason Romfo, AKA “Cornfed,” was from Boring, Oregon. Stress on the Boring. He did. He went fishing every year up in Alaska on his uncle’s commercial fishing boat, made a pretty penny, and banked it all. He had about $30k sitting in the bank when he got out of the Navy after 6 years. That’s a lot more than I can say – I had the shirt on my back and a job offer. Nothing more. He used to get what he called “greasy ass,” which is where his ass would leak or something and he’d have to wipe shit out of his buttcrack periodically, even when he hadn’t pooped recently.

Cornfed coined the term “mule,” which was actually more like, “shmmmmmmmyuuuuuuuuuuuuule.”

Nobody liked Schmuhl. He went on a 6 month deployment to the Persian Gulf, the Armpit of the Seven Seas, with ONE PAIR OF UNDERWEAR (“skivvies” for you douche-vinegar loving Navy fuckers). He stank. MAN, did he stink! Holy ream my arse with the Pope’s mitre! He had thick, dorky glasses and walked like he had a corn cob up his ass. The kind of walk where you land on your toes and rock to your heel, instead of the other way around. You know, you’ve seen the retards at McDonald’s walk that way.

Aww, c’mon. You know you know.

The Mule actually was a strange boy. He was a conventional E2, which is to say he wasn’t part of the nuclear field. He was “given” to us by a sadistic fuck of a Senior Chief by the name of Halverson, who was an Engineman by trade and ran the ship’s emergency diesel generators with his squad of knuckle draggers. The EN rate was later merged with the Machinist’s Mate rate, along with several other jobs (Hull Tech and Boiler Tech, to name two).

Halverson wanted his dead weight gone, so he fucked us square in the balloon knot with this cottage cheese-for-brains fucktard we called Mule (“myoooooool!!!!”). We really harrassed the hell out of him. He deserved it.

The Mule was an E2 – in case you don’t know, you can get that by simply having a pulse for about 3 months – and not doing very well. He spent all his money on Pop Tarts and, appropriately enough, Cabbage bestowed upon him the moniker “Pop Tart Ass.”

Chris Graves, AKA Cabbage, was a no-shit, real-life Cabbage Patch Doll. A Cabbage Patch Doll without the signature on his ass and a doll that drank a 12-pack of cheap beer for lunch most days. One time, in San Diego, Cabbage and Cornfed were walking down a back alley, headed back to the ship. Some mental midget decided he was going to mug Cabbage and Cornfed.

Back up a step, all the way to Wally Lien.

Wally was a big, big dude. He was a lifer but a cool sort of lifer that wasn’t a dick. This sort of guy is the fucking LIFEBLOOD of the Navy. Most people that stay in are tongue-in-ass kinds of people that make me sick to know we breathe the same air. Really. Wally was cool, though. Had his head on straight. BIG dude. Hair was always too long and tucked under his ballcap.

Hang on now, I have a point. We’ll get back to ‘ol Pop Tart Ass in a minute.

This one time, Phil (sorry, Phil, I’m tellin’ the story) was playing poker in berthing. Not sure who all was there, but Wally was playing. Larry was the bookie so of course he was playing. There was a fourth guy but he doesn’t matter. A bunch of people were in berthing, fucking around, probably watching fucking Tombstone for the umpteenth time.

“Knock it off, Phil.” Wally was in no mood. The poker game was for money and Phil was being a smartass and probably coming close to cheating. Either way, he was pissing everyone off. A couple more warnings and Phil wasn’t stopping the shenanigans.

“Dude, Phil, you’d better knock that shit the fuck off,” came the voice of reason. Again, Phil continued to ignore the warnings.

The details are sketchy, but from what I’m told, Phil mouthed off again and Wally stood up, knocked Phil back, Phil’s head cracked with a sickening noise against the floor, and Wally was standing with 2 guys on EACH arm, ready to knock Phil’s skull the rest of the way in. One guy was Cornfed and one guy was Cabbage. They weren’t small guys. They managed to back Wally off and then Phil had the audacity to threaten to kick Wally’s ass.

Um, yeah, Phil, good thing you didn’t try because, wow, you’d have gotten beaten like Paul Reubens’ cock at a XXX feature show.

Cabbage, easily one of the larger, stronger guys I knew, except Wally (and Tiny, but that’s another story, fanboys), was knocked upside the head from behind by some fucktard Mexicali piece of shit trying to mug some squids in downtown San Diego.

Cabbage stopped, furrowed his brow, turned his head, and just looked at the guy. Stupified by this big dude brushing off a full-force blow to the head, the would-be assailant high-tailed it the fuck outta there.

So one day, after Cabbage made history with the “Pop Tart Ass” comment, Mule tried to take a return shot with the childish “apple core; tell me more; who’s your friend; <name>; throw apple at friend” routine. Only we weren’t buying it. We all hated this stinky son of a cum dumpster and we wished he would die. Literally. So Mule says, “Apple core!” and had a really scary, child molester grin on his face. Makes me shudder just picturing it (and I think I need some Lysol all of a sudden). Cabbage is sitting on the nasty, dingy couch in berthing, watching TV, doesn’t even turn his head, and says, “I will KILL you.”

The Mule, in what was probably the best move in his life, backed off and headed out to the ship’s store for more Pop Tarts. Cabbage wasn’t kidding.

The Mule was quite possibly the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever worked with. He had a storied past and he had quite a few adventures on the Stinkin’ Lincoln, including:
-got busted for harassing a chapel worker
-got busted for unwanted advanced towards an air traffic controller
-stood watch in our head (bathroom) because he was THAT STUPID and couldn’t do anything else – really

The Mule finally got kicked out of the Navy after many, many tries at reforming him. You can’t say we didn’t try to fix him, but, fuck Jebus’ ass, the guy was dumb. DUMB.

I’m not sure exactly which offense finally got him booted out, but when he was gone, we literally had to sterilize his rack, his locker, and decided to throw his mattress and pillow overboard – they REEKED to high holy cock-in-my-throat hell. There was no savin’ ’em. Unless you’ve worked with cadavers, you didn’t know that humans could stink so much.

We found some really strange shit in his locker, too, like train schedules from places he’d never been. He didn’t memorize them in any sort of savant-ish way, he just copied them. Over and again. And though Ed made Schmyooooolll buy a new pack of skivvies, there was still just one nasty, nasty pair in his locker <shudder>.

‘Ol Pop Tart Ass. What a waste of fuck. There’s one guy that really would have better better off as a stain on the sheets.