Sea stories are tales that may or may not have happened. Usually, they are embellished somewhat for a dramatic, tactical effect.
That said, this yarn is not a sea story. I am sanitizing only one crucial fact, where the event happened. Otherwise, it occurred exactly as written, as told to me today by an old Sailor, known to be truthful.
Late last week, a Navy civilian walked across a parking lot where several Secret Service cars were parked. The vehicles were specifically for the Vice President.
The civvie is in the twilight of his career and was described as “crazy” by the old salt who told me this story.
So our brave hero strode passed the Cadillacs and, perhaps without thinking, knocked on the black glass. Either the door opened or the window rolled down. (Maybe I was told which? And I’ve forgotten or did not hear it properly. I was too busy fouling my weather gear to remember.)
“Yes,” the annoyed Secret Service man growled.
“Say, you guys got any Columbian hookers in there?” our stalwart hotshot asked.
No word on whether he got any reply. Navy Civilians: there are many civvies out there, but these are ours. Git your own.
PS For proof that Navy Sailors can tell a good tale, go read my shipmate Coffeypot’s knee-slapper about his mother-in law. Want a snippet? Enjoy:
We also have chickens in the yard. And we have two chicks in a homemade coop in the tub in the spare bathroom. The bathroom door has to be kept closed, mostly to keep the cats from having a chicken dinner. But the cats love human contact and love to be petted and rubbed.
- Coffeypot’s Mother-in-Law, Dot
So we have to keep them in the office while Dot is here because she claims they scratch her when they jump in her lap. Well, they are cats, and I can’t help but wish they would drag her under the bed and eat her. But they aren’t very big cats and she is like a beach ball on toothpicks. They would have to eat her in her chair, and I don’t want to clean up that mess.
Sorry Shipmate, I don’t mean to revel in your nightmare. But your mother-in-law brings out the writer in you. And I can’t help it. . .
