I’ve been one of the higher-ranking Sailors at a Command and I’ve been one of the lower-ranking. And currently, I am the latter and it is nothing but pure joy. For example, I could not get away with this piece o’ Thomas Foolery if we had junior folks around:
My boss (a retired Navy Captain): So NavyOne, what do you think of that luggage that I gave you? (He sold me, at a very nominal price, a piece of luggage that was too small for him.)
Me: I love it, sir! Although, one of the wheels is a little squeaky. Other than that, perfect.
A Commander sitting next to me: You know what they say about the squeaky wheel?
Me: It gets the grease?
The Commander: Yes. . .
Me: Well, Commander. (I don’t use “Commander.” I call him by his first name, even though I shouldn’t as an LT. In my strident defense, I knew him before the silver oak leaf.) I had plans to take it over to Jiffy Lube and get it up on the racks. It’ll give those guys over there a chance to really get to the heart of the problem.

A British Officer, who vastly outranks me, half chokes on his beer (we’re in a hotel lobby) and stares at me as if I am nuts. Then he grins ear-to-ear and tips his glass my way.
Me: Could cost me a little bit though.
(I never learnt how to leave a punchline good and alone. I do refrain from asking the group how they pronounce Jiffy Lube in Mexico. Yiffy Lube, if you must know. . .)