People hate me, redux

Ah, it’s amazing how one insight leads to an avalanche of other thoughts.

I think people are afraid of what they don’t understand. And people, generally, think I’m weird, which is, of course, a euphemism for “I don’t understand you.”

People also generally don’t like what’s strange and different. People don’t like (aka “fear”) what they don’t understand. Ref: the Large Hadron Collider, evolution, atheists, other cultures, or “anything that doesn’t fit my worldview.”


So there we were, it had been many months out to sea, and we were in the midst of, oh, I don’t know, or 45th-ish day straight out to sea. One tends to go insane. Or one tends to do things to relieve bottled-up tension.

Wouldn’t you know it, General Fucking Quarters was called. There I was, off watch, enjoying my game of Freecell on the computer in the office. “Goddamn it,” I yelled, and probably a few other choice words. At the time, my GQ station was up in the hangar bay. Probably a hose team leader or some other fire fighting leader. Shit. It’s fucking HOT in the god-forsaken Persian Gulf and I’d have to wear a full Fire Fighting Ensemble. Shit!

Joining me was Terry, a spry little guy that people also thought was weird. Probably why I liked him.

Anyway, were were standing up in the hangar bay. We had gained, through escalation of the issue to senior management, the right to wear our coveralls throughout the ship. Fucking topsiders.

Terry and I were chatting and I made some sort of joke about the flashlight in his pocket.

In the Navy, you have these monster flashlights. They’re grey and they have this slider and a little button on it. They’re pretty indestructible. And they’re pretty good sized. Possibly porn-sized.

(I’m building to a crescendo, bear with me.)

So there we were, bored and making “or are you happy to see me” jokes up in the hangar bay. Keep in mind that women were fully aboard the carrier by then. Did I mention that I hated the Navy? Yeah, I hated it. I particularly hated this ass-sucking fucktard by the name of Master Chief Lore. This guy was only a Master Chief by way of doing his time. He was sincerely one of the worst managers I ever had the displeasure of working for, mostly because I couldn’t respect him because he was SO GODDAMNED RETARDED. He just didn’t get it, and didn’t have to because of his rank. So we all suffered under him. And we all looked as retarded as him, by proxy.

Master Chief Lore was put in charge of herding the cats, as it were, on the hangar bay. What else do you do with a useless Master Chief? Give him real responsibility? Ha!

Meanwhile, the joking between Terry and I had escalated. I thought it would be SUBLIME if I reached over and stroked his flashlight, which was deep in his pocket. More like down the front of his pant leg, towards the center. Like a ginormous, erect cock in his jumper, if I must spell it out.

So I did.

I reached down and stroked that thing like it was going out of style. I stroked it and stroked it and furrowed my brow and bit my lip and Terry played along and threw his head back and was letting out moans of pleasure.

(oh, shit, I’m laughing so hard that I’m crying right now!)

In movies, there’s a scene where the record scratches and the music stops, and everyone suddenly goes silent. Sometimes a glass shatters. That happened right there with 1000 people in the hangar bay on the ship. I thought Master Chief was going to crap his pants right there. And maybe he did, a little. Eyes were bulging and jaws were on the deck.

“Oh my god, is he really – ”

I couldn’t take it any more and I busted out laughing and Terry, with his perma-grin, slowly pulled out the flashlight. He joined me in my hysterics.

There was a collective sigh of relief and a return to the general static as people turned away, possibly in a futile attempt to purge from their brains the scene to which they had just bore witness.

I think Master Chief Lore hated me just a little bit more that day. Jealousy? Disgust? You decide.