Once upon a time in London, England, a group of US military men went to a steak house to get a little break from the food on board ship.
We were greeted at the door by a well dressed man that asked us what our business was. We replied that we wanted to have a nice meal. He summoned his boss who took a quick look at us, made a small "sweeping away" motion with one hand, and told his hired man to "Tell them we have no burgers."
Needless to say, we weren't able to get any supper. I doubt anyone was able to eat there for a month or so, after we completed the "renovations".
Don't recall what happened to Mr Snob and his assistant. I believe I did see them swimming hard for the far shore of the Thames...
But I'm not sure.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Truth
Back in the time of World War II, some German prisoners of war were brought to Mason County, Kentucky and placed in a work camp. They were sort of at the disposal of the citizens. If you needed work done, you simply "checked out" a few prisoners and they worked for you for the day. You just provided them with food and water and they were at your disposal.
Well, Russell "Fatty" Galbreath was never too big a fan of working himself, so this sounded like a good plan to get his farming done. He went down and got a group of the German prisoners to work on his farm. All morning they worked hard, each one doing far more work than Fatty could do. He was very pleased. At dinner time he brought them up to his back yard and served them a big meal of fried chicken and potatoes. They hadn't had a meal that good in a long time and they were very appreciative. When they finished eating, they were ready to get back to the afternoon work, but Fatty needed a little time to relax and let his huge lunch digest, so they all lounged around under a shade tree for a while.
Fatty's normal work clothes consisted a a pair of bib overhauls, usually with no shirt, and the cheapest shoes he could find. This particular day he had a pair of really cheap leather shoes on. He didn't have any laces in them because he couldn't get in position to tie them anyhow. As he lay relaxing he noticed a fine pair of boots one of the Germans was wearing. The German saw him looking and hiked up his pant leg to show the well worn, but still good looking military issue hobnails they referred to as "jack boots". The soldier looked over at Fatty's shoes and with sort of a half grin he pointed to them and said "Jewey", then he pointed to his own boots and said "No Jewey". Even though he was just a simple Wehrmacht soldier, he knew the Truth.
Well, Russell "Fatty" Galbreath was never too big a fan of working himself, so this sounded like a good plan to get his farming done. He went down and got a group of the German prisoners to work on his farm. All morning they worked hard, each one doing far more work than Fatty could do. He was very pleased. At dinner time he brought them up to his back yard and served them a big meal of fried chicken and potatoes. They hadn't had a meal that good in a long time and they were very appreciative. When they finished eating, they were ready to get back to the afternoon work, but Fatty needed a little time to relax and let his huge lunch digest, so they all lounged around under a shade tree for a while.
Fatty's normal work clothes consisted a a pair of bib overhauls, usually with no shirt, and the cheapest shoes he could find. This particular day he had a pair of really cheap leather shoes on. He didn't have any laces in them because he couldn't get in position to tie them anyhow. As he lay relaxing he noticed a fine pair of boots one of the Germans was wearing. The German saw him looking and hiked up his pant leg to show the well worn, but still good looking military issue hobnails they referred to as "jack boots". The soldier looked over at Fatty's shoes and with sort of a half grin he pointed to them and said "Jewey", then he pointed to his own boots and said "No Jewey". Even though he was just a simple Wehrmacht soldier, he knew the Truth.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Language Barrier
Mike Devine and I sat in a bar in Copenhagen one night, enjoying a few bottles of Tuborg and our hard earned liberty. We sat and drank and smoked and shot the bull for a couple of hours and both of us started feeling some hunger pangs.
We had noticed a couple of the waitresses serving some sort of a meatball on a stick. Hadn't seen any other food being consumed in the joint, so we were both craving some of those "meatball things".
I went up to the bar to get a couple more beers and asked the bartender about the "meatball things". He made a puzzled face and said he spoke no English. We drank another couple of beers and I told Devine we were going to have to leave and find someplace to eat, because I was starving. He laughed and said he would order us some of the "meatball things". Said he had been paying attention to the Danish language our entire time in port and that I should have too, so I wouldn't, once again, appear to be the Ugly American.
He flagged down the nearest waitress and made a lot of gestures with his hands and then shouted "meatball things" at the top of his lungs. She jumped back and started to run, but a passerby laughed and spoke to her in her native tongue and she quickly went to the kitchen and brought us our snack.
Devine was very pleased with his mastery of the foreign language. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor of the "meatball thing".
Another liberty stop was in Oslo. Mike Devine and I were once again out on the town and got hungry. We had tried a couple of restaurants over the past few days and usually met with disdain from the proprietors. They immediately figured us for ruffians and were very rude. So we were just mainly drinking beer in town and eating back aboard the ship. Well, anyhow, we came across a little mobile kitchen. Like the Roach Coach you see around industrial areas at lunchtime. We walked up and saw the menu board was in English. Cheeseburgers and fries! We were in hog heaven. We each ordered some good old American style food and proceeded to a little side bar that held the condiments. There was red and yellow. Not anything like ketchup or mustard, but they looked the part. Whatever, we were chowing down when Devine saw a little picture someone had scratched into the paint on the end of the food truck. Rather an obscene little drawing of a stick man and woman and underneath the words "do pic" were scratched.
Of course, old multi-lingual Devine decided "do pic" would be a good opening line when and if we met any girls. I had my doubts, but I was along for the ride, good or bad.
That evening, in a beer joint, Mike tried out his new opening line on one of the local lovelies. He may very well still have the red outline of that girl's hand on his face (and it happened 40 years ago). We may never know what "do pic" means, but I think it is better off left out of conversation with Norwegian women.
We had noticed a couple of the waitresses serving some sort of a meatball on a stick. Hadn't seen any other food being consumed in the joint, so we were both craving some of those "meatball things".
I went up to the bar to get a couple more beers and asked the bartender about the "meatball things". He made a puzzled face and said he spoke no English. We drank another couple of beers and I told Devine we were going to have to leave and find someplace to eat, because I was starving. He laughed and said he would order us some of the "meatball things". Said he had been paying attention to the Danish language our entire time in port and that I should have too, so I wouldn't, once again, appear to be the Ugly American.
He flagged down the nearest waitress and made a lot of gestures with his hands and then shouted "meatball things" at the top of his lungs. She jumped back and started to run, but a passerby laughed and spoke to her in her native tongue and she quickly went to the kitchen and brought us our snack.
Devine was very pleased with his mastery of the foreign language. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor of the "meatball thing".
Another liberty stop was in Oslo. Mike Devine and I were once again out on the town and got hungry. We had tried a couple of restaurants over the past few days and usually met with disdain from the proprietors. They immediately figured us for ruffians and were very rude. So we were just mainly drinking beer in town and eating back aboard the ship. Well, anyhow, we came across a little mobile kitchen. Like the Roach Coach you see around industrial areas at lunchtime. We walked up and saw the menu board was in English. Cheeseburgers and fries! We were in hog heaven. We each ordered some good old American style food and proceeded to a little side bar that held the condiments. There was red and yellow. Not anything like ketchup or mustard, but they looked the part. Whatever, we were chowing down when Devine saw a little picture someone had scratched into the paint on the end of the food truck. Rather an obscene little drawing of a stick man and woman and underneath the words "do pic" were scratched.
Of course, old multi-lingual Devine decided "do pic" would be a good opening line when and if we met any girls. I had my doubts, but I was along for the ride, good or bad.
That evening, in a beer joint, Mike tried out his new opening line on one of the local lovelies. He may very well still have the red outline of that girl's hand on his face (and it happened 40 years ago). We may never know what "do pic" means, but I think it is better off left out of conversation with Norwegian women.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Fiddler
Back around the turn of the last century, the Brannen's frequently attended the local county Fairs. Many times they entered the competitions, showing their horses and mules and cattle. Sometimes they raced their horses. It was often the biggest event of the year. Carried on for a couple generations.
One year Bob Horde, a close family friend, had bought a prize horse and was ready to race him in every event that he was eligible. Even bought his wife some expensive ladies riding attire so she could compete in the ladies' events.
Before the final night's big event, the Ladies Fine Harness Category, Bob Horde took Puzzler out to warm him up. Well, Bob was drunk and when the crowd saw him they cheered and went crazy. That excited Bob and Puzzler and they really put on a show, until Bob passed out and fell forward on Puzzlers hips. That scared the horse and he crashed through the side rail of the track and ran back to the stable area.
My Grandad ran back there to help out and when he ran into the stable, there stood Puzzler fighting the gag reign, Bob still slumped forward on the horses hips, and two older black men who worked the stables. They too were drunk, one sitting on a bale of hay pretending to play the fiddle with two stalks of fodder while the other one danced.
I think my Grandad saw it all in his life.
One year Bob Horde, a close family friend, had bought a prize horse and was ready to race him in every event that he was eligible. Even bought his wife some expensive ladies riding attire so she could compete in the ladies' events.
Before the final night's big event, the Ladies Fine Harness Category, Bob Horde took Puzzler out to warm him up. Well, Bob was drunk and when the crowd saw him they cheered and went crazy. That excited Bob and Puzzler and they really put on a show, until Bob passed out and fell forward on Puzzlers hips. That scared the horse and he crashed through the side rail of the track and ran back to the stable area.
My Grandad ran back there to help out and when he ran into the stable, there stood Puzzler fighting the gag reign, Bob still slumped forward on the horses hips, and two older black men who worked the stables. They too were drunk, one sitting on a bale of hay pretending to play the fiddle with two stalks of fodder while the other one danced.
I think my Grandad saw it all in his life.
Can't you drive her?
About a hundred years ago, my Grandfather and his brother Jack hitched up a brand new, fancy buggy and headed for church on a Sunday morning. They had on their best suits and were looking sharp in their Father's fancy, expensive buggy.
Down the pike came their Uncle Jimmy. He was a hardbitten old Irishman. His wife and children had all died from tuberculosis and he hadn't much left to live for. Just his whisky and his prize horse, a trotter named Spokane. They say that Jimmy used to spend the weekend on the road, racing with anyone who came by. So when he pulled up alongside my Grandad and his brother, the race was on.
Jimmy and Spokane had already raced a few other buggies and old Spokane was worn out, or he would have won easily. But it turned into a very close race. With Grandad and his brother Jack (who had the reins) ready to turn into the churchyard and win the race, Uncle Jimmy cut them off. They wrecked the buggy, tore it all up, skidded through the crushed stone, shredding their clothes and bloodying their knees and elbows. They came up fighting mad.
Uncle Jimmy circled around and drove right up to them. "What's the matter, buddy, can't you drive her?" he said to Jack. Put the bud to Spokane and away they went.
Down the pike came their Uncle Jimmy. He was a hardbitten old Irishman. His wife and children had all died from tuberculosis and he hadn't much left to live for. Just his whisky and his prize horse, a trotter named Spokane. They say that Jimmy used to spend the weekend on the road, racing with anyone who came by. So when he pulled up alongside my Grandad and his brother, the race was on.
Jimmy and Spokane had already raced a few other buggies and old Spokane was worn out, or he would have won easily. But it turned into a very close race. With Grandad and his brother Jack (who had the reins) ready to turn into the churchyard and win the race, Uncle Jimmy cut them off. They wrecked the buggy, tore it all up, skidded through the crushed stone, shredding their clothes and bloodying their knees and elbows. They came up fighting mad.
Uncle Jimmy circled around and drove right up to them. "What's the matter, buddy, can't you drive her?" he said to Jack. Put the bud to Spokane and away they went.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Tough Teddy Tenesco
Biggest personnel inspection I ever stood, or ever heard of while I was in the Marines was in about 1977. Right after Force Troops was redesignated Force Service Support Group they held an Inspector General's Inspection. What a sight.
The troops (myself included) stood the inspection in Summer Service "A" with web gear and rifles. Something is slightly warped there. But if the IG wanted to see it, then we would be there. Trying to properly wear an H-harness and cartridge belt over a blouse made for a mess. Add the canteens, magazine pouches and 1st aid kit and you really had something straight out of "Plan 9 From Outer Space".
But we did it. Almost all of us.
There was a rather small Corporal in the Battalion Supply Platoon who only had a couple weeks until his EAS. Normally, short-timers are excused from large scale inspections; but not this time. So Corporal Tenesco (AKA Tough Teddy) was highly outraged by having to buy a bunch of new uniform parts to stand the inspection. He was so mad that he didn't ever take the time to clean up his deuce gear or rifle.
Sure enough his Company was selected to be inspected by the IG himself. The rest of us immediately started sweating. This was the first big inspection for a lot of the young troops and they were nervous. Some of us older troops were nervous as well. Not so much about ourselves, but about our junior troops.
So the IG marched over to start his inspection, preceded by about 3-4 ne'er-do-wells, he started down the first rank. The second man to be inspected was Tough Teddy Tenesco. Not necessarily in this order, but he had a few discrepancies. Unshined shoes, worn out shoes, trow too short, blouse too tight, chevrons not properly located on the sleeves, dirty cover, sloppy tie, filthy deuce gear, dirty/rusty rifle. About the time the recorder was half way through the list of discrepancies, Tough Teddy broke ranks and ran about 5 yards out in front of the platoon. He threw his rifle down on the blacktop, hard enough to make it bounce 5 feet high. Threw down his cover, stripped off his deuce gear and blouse. Looked back at the IG and at his Bn, Co, and Platoon Commanders and screamed to the sky "fuck 'em all". He then ran away.
We never saw or heard of Tough Teddy Tenesco ever again. He was eventually declared a deserter and became a federal fugitive. But in the hearts of those of us who knew him, we all knew he was the only Marine who told the truth that day.
The troops (myself included) stood the inspection in Summer Service "A" with web gear and rifles. Something is slightly warped there. But if the IG wanted to see it, then we would be there. Trying to properly wear an H-harness and cartridge belt over a blouse made for a mess. Add the canteens, magazine pouches and 1st aid kit and you really had something straight out of "Plan 9 From Outer Space".
But we did it. Almost all of us.
There was a rather small Corporal in the Battalion Supply Platoon who only had a couple weeks until his EAS. Normally, short-timers are excused from large scale inspections; but not this time. So Corporal Tenesco (AKA Tough Teddy) was highly outraged by having to buy a bunch of new uniform parts to stand the inspection. He was so mad that he didn't ever take the time to clean up his deuce gear or rifle.
Sure enough his Company was selected to be inspected by the IG himself. The rest of us immediately started sweating. This was the first big inspection for a lot of the young troops and they were nervous. Some of us older troops were nervous as well. Not so much about ourselves, but about our junior troops.
So the IG marched over to start his inspection, preceded by about 3-4 ne'er-do-wells, he started down the first rank. The second man to be inspected was Tough Teddy Tenesco. Not necessarily in this order, but he had a few discrepancies. Unshined shoes, worn out shoes, trow too short, blouse too tight, chevrons not properly located on the sleeves, dirty cover, sloppy tie, filthy deuce gear, dirty/rusty rifle. About the time the recorder was half way through the list of discrepancies, Tough Teddy broke ranks and ran about 5 yards out in front of the platoon. He threw his rifle down on the blacktop, hard enough to make it bounce 5 feet high. Threw down his cover, stripped off his deuce gear and blouse. Looked back at the IG and at his Bn, Co, and Platoon Commanders and screamed to the sky "fuck 'em all". He then ran away.
We never saw or heard of Tough Teddy Tenesco ever again. He was eventually declared a deserter and became a federal fugitive. But in the hearts of those of us who knew him, we all knew he was the only Marine who told the truth that day.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Short Stick
When hanging tobacco in a barn, you position "rails" (movable barn rails) so that the ends of a 5 foot long stick (holding the tobacco) will rest on the rails. Sometimes you would get a tobacco stick that was a little too short. So you would get a little broken piece of stick and place it across the ends of a couple good sticks and hang the short stick there. When one of the workers up in the barn would encounter a short one he would holler out "short stick" and someone like me, hanging out and watching the evolution, would run and fetch a little "short stick" and throw it up to whoever had called for it.
Once upon a time, one of the uneducated Darkies was helping house tobacco and encountered a short stick. He called out and someone on the ground threw him up a short stick. He wasn't smart enough to adjust it properly and called out for another short stick because the one he was trying to hang was short on both ends.I wasn't around for the original joke, but the first time I ever helped to house tobacco I heard it over and over again. I was just a kid, so fetching "short sticks" was my job.
Once upon a time, one of the uneducated Darkies was helping house tobacco and encountered a short stick. He called out and someone on the ground threw him up a short stick. He wasn't smart enough to adjust it properly and called out for another short stick because the one he was trying to hang was short on both ends.I wasn't around for the original joke, but the first time I ever helped to house tobacco I heard it over and over again. I was just a kid, so fetching "short sticks" was my job.
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