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   That’s what was told to us by a gas station attendent (this happend a looong time ago to those who’ve never heard the term), as I gave him the money for the fuel. Jan was sitting there about 8 months pregnant, and when we saw him looking at her tummy, we started laughing. In one of Butch’s attempts to copulate with my sanity, he’d written that on the inside of the gas cap. Butch has a long and sordid history of doing such activities, and the first one I remember, I was 9 or 10.

   I was sitting on the floor watching t.v. when Butch came staggering out of the kitchen into the living room. He’d moaned pretty good as he was sliding open the door, so he had my attention when he came in. He was dragging one foot as he limped in and had both hands holding a bloody rag to his forehead. The rag was sopping with blood and some was running down the side of his face. He said “Help me Mike, quick, I’m starting to lose it” and I bolted for the door. Mom and Dad were next door visiting and I was about to catch hell for running in unannounced when I yelled “Butch’s face is tore off, and there’s blood everywhere!”. Mom and Dad hauled ass out of there with me right behind ‘em, and when we ran into the kitchen, Butch is leaning on the kitchen table, lauging his ass off. He ended up catching 4 different hells for that one, but it didn’t seem to help.

   The next one happend in the Navy, where I almost did some time in the brig because of it, but I’ve covered that. The next one happend 8 months before the gas station incident, and it happend during our wedding ceremony.

   For my wedding, I’d bought me a brand new pair of “Drill press shoes with bumpers”, can’t think of the real name for ‘em, anyway, I’d got a pair, and they sat by my bed for a week. Come my wedding day, I slipped them on just as I was walking out the door, and I walked in them until I kneeled down at the alter. I’d just got my knees comfortable on that kneeler when my Uncle Bill broke out in an uncontrolled gaffaw. Then the whole church broke into laughter and after it died down some, Father Reid married us. Later, as the groomsmen were walking by, one said “Look at the bottom of your shoes” so I did.

On the left one, was written, H E. And on the right, L P.

WINGTIPS, they were Wingtips.

   Butch and I were talking a couple mornings ago of how peoples sence of humor has changed over the years. If we preformed some of our antics today, we’d both be in jail and maybe for a long time.

   Butch was my hero and whatever Butch wanted to do, I did too, so it’s his fault this first one happend.

   He’d purchased a .22 starter pistol to use as a tool to train his Springer Spaniel, Nikki. To make Nikki comfortable around the sound of a weapon, every time he fed Nik, he’d step back and pop off a couple rounds, and it worked like a champ. Then one day, Butch comes upstairs and says; “Hey, wouldn’t it be neet if you took off running from the back door, and I step out and kill you dead?”, with the starter pistol in his hands. I immediatly pictured myself in one of those t.v. western’s as the dieing bad guy and was all for it. We went to the back door, yelled at each other real loud, and then I bolted out and headed for the Huggins’ house. I was halfway across the next door neighbor’s driveway when Butch shot me the first time. I arched my back real good and staggered a couple times then, regaining my balance started out again. Butch (he later told me) dropped to one knee as I was doing the staggering part and just as I gained balance he let loose another one. This one took me square between the shoulders and I threw myself forward, chest out and moaning. Just as I hit the ground I looked up and saw Mrs. Huggins with the most teriffied look on her face, watching out her car window. Butch and I couldn’t stand up we were laughing so hard.

   Another time was when we were flying together home on liberty for a weekend. It was common practice then, if the flight was longer than 10 minutes, they’d sell ya booze but only two of those little buggers. We’d catch the flight that routed through either Boston or Baltimore and we could shoot down a couple more bottles before we either got home, or back to the ship. Hell, on several of those flights we’d arrive high as kites and lookin’ for strange stuff when we got there. Anyway, if we were both feeling ‘in the mood’ one of us would start acting nervous and twitchy and the other would ask him, rather loudly, if everything was ok? The nervous one would look to the sky and say even louder; “OH GOD I HOPE THIS PLANE DON’T CRASH!”

   People don’t think that’s funny anymore.