Losing the Craneheart Award

My minions,

This past Friday evening I was awarded the Craneheart Peerless Award for courage by The Navy. It was a great honor, a thrill, really.

The kind people at the church recorded the event and have sent me the acceptance speech transcript. I thought you might like to read it.


RETIRED REAR ADMIRAL RICHARD BUTLER ACCEPTANCE SPEECH

[Craig Scuntz addressing the attendees]

Mr. Scuntz
Hello and good evening fellow seaman. We are gathered here this evening to honor a great man, a great Navyman, the Retired Rear Admiral Dick Butler. Please join me in welcoming him to the dais, here he is. Here he is. He's coming now. Here he is. Rear Admiral Dick Butler.

[Mr. Scuntz begins weeping]

[Mr. Scuntz still weeping]

[Mr. Butler hobbles onto the dais]

[Mr. Butler to Mr. Scuntz]

Mr. Butler
Get a hold of yourself you ninny. Stop crying. Stop crying you sap. I'm here to talk, you're ruining it. Get off. You're a queer. You are why we have a bad reputation.

[Mr. Scuntz attempts to embrace Mr. Butler]

Mr. Butler
Away. Off of me.

[Mr. Butler hits Mr. Scuntz in the knee with his cane]

[Mr. Scuntz exits stage left]

[Mr. Butler into the microphone]

Mr. Butler
Am I on? Is this thing working?

[to Mr. Butler]

Transcriber
Yes. It's on. Go ahead.

[Mr. Bulter begins his speech]

Mr. Butler
The Sea has been good to me: As a child I never knew the Sea, then it was all I knew, and now, as an old man, it is all I can remember.

[A young man heckles Mr. Butler (unintelligible)]

Mr. Butler
Be quiet. You. Deck boy. Shut your yap.

Young Man
I’m your son you cunt.

Mr. Butler
Pardon?

Young Man
You raped my mother in Puerto Rico.

[Large Navalman escorts the shouting young man out of the audience]

Mr. Butler
Good grief. That’s not possible.

Ah. Ah. Yes. So it is a great honor to be here this evening…

[Mr. Butler begins staggering]

[Mr. Butler begins to moan]

Mr. Butler
Ohh. Hornish. Hoooooooorniaash. Ohhh.

[Mr. Butler removes his boots]

[Mr. Butler removes his pants]

[Mr. Scuntz approaches Mr. Butler]

[Mr. Butler begins urinating on Mr. Suntz]

[Mr. Scuntz shrieks]

Mr. Scuntz
Ahh. Oh my God. Heathen. He’s godless. Arrest him. Take him away. The award is revoked.

Mr. Butler
Good, you ninny. You’re why the Navy is the laughing stock of the armed services today. I would cut your throat if I weren’t drunk.

[Mr. Butler is taken into custody by a Naval Policeman]

I love you.

A Major Award

Today I retrieved the mail to find this:

Dear Retired Rear Admiral Mr. Richard Butler,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you of our plans to bestow on to you the greatest Retired Rear Admiral honor that a Retired Rear Admiral can receive.

Please join us on May 10th, 2000 hours at the South Carolina Methodist First Second Home Church to receive the Craneheart Peerless Award for Courage.

The award ceremony will be followed by refreshments and a chant along led by Retired Admiral Mr. Richard Dryfus.

We look forward to honoring you.

Sincerely,

Craig Scuntz

THE NAVY


It would appear that I will need to begin un-mothballing the formal dressy blues and finding a date. It has been too long since I've been awarded; I await the ceremony with great vim.

Time for some Chopin and mustard pudding. I am a happy man. I love you.

Leave it to the Russians

Har har har. This morning I woke, spent a half of a full hour pumicing my feet then set about reading the morning paper. I happened on to a delightful story about a good old Russian boy who was out cavorting with his men and had a bit too much to drink (I doubt whether or not there is such thing). He stumbled home; raided the refrigerator; shoved a few bangers in to his mouth; and nodded off. However, he awoke to his wife telling him he had been stabbed in the back.

From what I gather, if it wasn't his wife who actually stabbed him, he was stabbed somewhere between leaving the place where he was imbibing a little Russian nectar (vodka), and when he arrived home? Peculiar, I suppose.

Although, I can tell you that I have had more than one similar experience of my own. I was with Deckhand Mercurser on a secret mission to pickup a super-charged outboard boat motor in Tijuana back in 1971. We took one of the Jeeps from the base in San Diego and headed for the boarder on our day off. We must have arrived in Tijuana around dinner time; that's when we met Ramon and Gerard. Two mild, bronzed, short, Mexican chaps with the motor connection.

We spent the next 12 hours living it up, drinking tequila and playing man-on-man beach volleyball. It must have been 600 hours by the time we nodded off on the beach. When I woke up to the scorching sun I noticed that I had a 7-inch-long, inch-wide burns on my thighs and stomach. It was like someone was rubbing something hot on me while I was sleeping. Ramon and Gerard told me it was a sand eel; I never did figure it out. I also never got the motor. I love you.

Captain Hornish Has Arrived

My fine friends, the mortal remains of Captain Hornish arrived today, in all of their splendid glory.

For those of you who are new to the Retired Rear Admiral Richard Butler Diary, I will painfully remind you that one of my dear friends, Mr. Captain Hornish, was eaten by a Giant Mekong Catfish a few weeks ago on the Mekong River.

His pickled penis and epaulets now rest on the mantle above my faux fireplace.

I love you.

Marauders in the Mind

My minions:

I suffered a terrible Korean War flashback this morning and it has rendered me useless. I spent almost all of the day splashing around in my bathing tub throwing raw hot dogs at enemies who were not there.

No matter, everything looks like it's on the up and up now so I should be back to my old self by tomorrow morning. I plan on having a corn tonic before bed, that usually does the trick. I love you.

Incapable Capable Hands

Hello. Yesterday, I went to prepare my usual, Monday morning repast of Lake Trout and strawberries when I realized that I ate my last trout last week (Goddamnit!)

I have a magnet on my refrigerator that came pre-affixed when I purchased my retirement community condominium: it advertises Capable Hands, a free automobile service for the elderly in and around the Myrtle Beach area. So I called.

Some two hours later, a young, ruddy-faced, wench picked me up in a dilapidated automobile van. She was nice enough, but a very slow driver. Repeatedly, I scolded her for driving like an idiot; I also told her she could stand to lose some weight.

Eventually, we arrived at the Publix market; I got out of the van and did my business.

When I returned to the Capable Hands van, the hog driver wench had the gall to say that I took "long enough." At this point, the Rear Admiral in me took over and I bashed her in the face through the open driver side window with the raw Lake Trout that I had just purchased. She shrieked like the ninny that I knew she was and sped away.

So that's why I did not have an entry in my diary yesterday: I only returned home this morning. My odyssey from the market back to my home took me the better part of 24 hours. I love you.

An Ode to Hornish

For those of you who have not read my previous entries, I will be brief. My dear friend Captain Hornish was eaten by a Giant Mekong Catfish last week.

Long ago I was broke, temporarily court-martialed, and addicted to heroin; living in New Orleans and playing in a Creole jug band. So I decided to write this song for Deceased Captain Hornish. I love you.

P.S. This previous entry will give the song the requisite context.

Here is "Hornish's Lament"

A Fan to Some a Menace to Me

I lay in bed this morning gazing toward the window off the starboard side of my retirement community condominium master bedroom bed transfixed by the rhythmic whirling of the small electric table top fan that I purchased from a Walgreen's several months ago.

This fan, its noise, the constant droning, it comforts me, in a way. Without it, I would sleep and wake in utter silence---that terrifies me. However, on this particular morning the circular whirling of the fan put me into a trance and I was immediately transported to another time---another life, really.

I was 18 years old, just a little boy who knew nothing about the world. I had been Shanghaied and forced aboard the HMS Conch by a rouge Navy recruiter who was, in fact, not even working for the Navy anymore but had brokered some sick deal with a few of the homosexual engine men working aboard several Navy Destroyers.

This rouge recruiter, whose name I have forgotten, would take young men out on the town in San Diego and get them liquored something fierce. I recall him buying me several rum drinks...they were called...ah...yes...Slippery Seamans. And so I imbibed enough Slippery Seamans to deprive me of any modicum of good judgment. When I woke the next morning, I had signed up for a 2 year tour of duty aboard the HMS Conch. Oh the terror I felt upon being presented with my papers of commitment. I hadn't, at the time, even a velleity of interest in becoming a Navyman. But so I had, and so I would.

The next few months are a blur. I remember being taught how to shovel coal in the engine room and not understanding why it had to be done nude and in tandem with another man. I was more than capable of lifting a shovel's worth of coal myself, but the Captains insisted that we straddle one another buttocks-to-crotch wise and do it that way. The experience was not entirely bad. It was the most conditioned my body has ever been. I was by all accounts a Grecian adonis.

So that was that, my time aboard the HMS Conch. I love you.

Greatest Fears Realized

Hello. It is with great regret and sadness that I report this afternoon the news of Mr. Captain Hornish's passing.

Yesterday's ruminations caused me to think about Captain Hornish a great deal. Late last night I worked myself into a frenzy and ultimately made a phone call to the renegade branch of the Thai merchant marine that Hornish, supposedly, was Captaining.

It seems that the rumors were true: he and an inordinately muscular and masculine gang of ladyboys had taken control of the merchant marine and turned it into a de facto pirating operation. Over the course of the past 15 years Captain Hornish and his band of sissy soldiers were raping and pillaging tourist boats---the details are too sordid to recreate. Nonetheless, this is how he chose to live out the twilight of his life and I will not pass judgment upon him.

The telegram that I received a few hours ago informing me of his death describes that on one of his recent "missions" he had developed a pressure ulcer and it had begun to fester. Unfortunately, for the Captain, much of his time as a marauder was spent in and around the Mekong River. Anyone who knows the Mekong knows that it is home to the Giant Mekong Catfish, an absolutely docile and harmless giant, bottom feeding beast that can reach enormous weights and lengths. As I said, the Giant Mekong Catfish is harmless, unless, unless, you have an open wound. The scent of human blood and infection turns the beast from a nonchalant catfish into a ferocious thing with an unquenchable blood lust.



And so it was Captain Hornish's fate to be torn to bits by the giant fish. All that was left of him were his epaulets and a small piece of his penis. The head ladyboy of his operation has promised me that his remnants will be delivered to me within the next week; his epaulets in a small box and his penis in a small jar of preservative. God rest your soul Captain Hornish. I love you.

A Candied Delight

Last evening I was feeling especially chipper; for a Monday evening, especially. I am not sure where this flooding of essence came from, I have not been with a woman in 27 years and 11 days.

I took to the veranda off the southwest side of my retirement community condominium to spy the traffic coming in and out of the local whore's condominium. I counted three men coming and going over a 4 hour span. I cannot say whether or not I would indulge if I were given the chance. I fear that my reduced physical capacities might prevent me from pleasing a woman, even a whore.

In 1961 Captain Hornish and I were furloughed in Buenos Aires for a long time, we had many idle hours with one another. We enjoyed evening beach runs and morning mojitos in the bathing tub. It was truly an enjoyable period of my life, that is, until he found out that he had impregnated a Thai ladyboy at some point over the course the past year and he had to go to Asia at once. That was the last time I saw Captain Hornish.

In any event, I am going to finish my beet salad now. I have garnished it with corn crackers and sweet beads. It should be delectable. I love you.

Let's Not Guild the Lilly

I rose very early this morning; 0400 or 0500 at the latest. Something in my retirement community condominium was making me feel uneasy? I had already urinated the requisite 7 times throughout the night. My last solid bowel movement was less than 12 hours ago, as I counted. What in blasted hell was it?

Ah yes, I remembered...the toast that I was milking was left out on the table. You cannot ever leave a milking toast out over the night. The toast had turned rancid and peppery; absolutely not fit for consumption. And now, I am left to decide whether or not to try again. I confess, I am very afraid that I haven't the composition for another effort.

It was either '75 or '76, I cannot promise which, when the free spirit of the free livers and thinkers was finally dying. I dare say that I felt ambivalent about the direction our nation was headed. I am a man of tradition and a man of the sea.

The rules of the sea do not always agree with the edicts of the land dweller. I had by this point, grown more than accustomed to the fleshy tyranny of the sea. Self abuse was not only permitted but encouraged on the ships. Time was passed, hell--entire wars were passed, getting lost in and exploring the folds and convolutions of the male form. And now, I was faced with the shame that seed spilling drew from the terra firmites. I am strong but I am week. This post is dedicated to Captain Hornish: a true friend and guide of the spirit. I love you.

Good Afternoon from the Deck

Hello. The weather is sour today. I awoke to two pigeons mating on the faux banister outside the south-facing window of my retirement community condominium. The larger male pigeon had taken the smaller female pigeon from the back and was defecating while making intercourse with her. It was a sight to see. Primitive. Joyous. Carnal.

It reminds me of February 12, 1948. I was stationed with a loose band of Norwegian Naval castoffs in the North Sea. We had been assigned the chore of investigating a massive cod die-off that was happening. No one could figure out why the fishery was on the brink of collapse when it had been healthy just months before. Nonetheless, cod are bottom feeding fish, that means they have no teeth. We used to heat the dead cod up and have our way with their mouths and then boil them and eat them. I have never felt more vigorous in my life and I have always ascribed it to the large amounts of semen I must have been ingesting each time we ate the boiled fish. I love you.