Me and Willy were lollygagging by the scuttlebutt after being aloft to
boy-butter up the antennas and were just
perched on a bollard eyeballing
a couple of bilge rats and flangeheads using
crescent hammers to pack
monkey shit around a fitting on a handybilly.
All of a sudden the dicksmith started hard-assing one of the deck apes
for lifting his pogey bait. The
pecker-checker was a sewer pipe sailor
and the deckape was a gator. Maybe being
blackshoes on a bird farm
surrounded by a gaggle of cans didn't set
right with either of those
The deck ape ran through the nearest hatch and dogged it tight because
he knew the penis machinist was going to lay
below, catch him between
decks and punch him in the snot locker. He'd
probably wind up on the
binnacle list but Doc would find a way to
gundeck the paper or give it
the deep six to keep himself above board.
We heard the skivvywaver announce over the bitch box that the
breadburners had creamed foreskins on toast
and SOS ready on the mess
decks so we cut and run to avoid the
clusterfuck when the twidgets and
cannon cockers knew chow was on.
We were balls to the wall for the barn and everyone was preparing to hit
the beach as soon as we doubled-up and threw
the brow over. I had a
ditty bag full of fufu juice that I was gonna
spread on thick for the
bar hogs with those sweet Bosnias. Sure beats
the hell out of brown
bagging. Might even hit the acey-duecy club
and try to hook up with a
Westpac widow. They were always leaving snail
trails on the dance floor
on amateur night.
If you understand this, you're true blue and gold!