Example of how sailors speak to each other:
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 gobs.
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 (SOS) ready on the mess decks so we cut and run to avoid the fustercluck 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 over the brow. 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.
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