By Jinx Da Clown
Disclaimer: No property, people, or “feelings” were hurt during the events out-lined below. Because, you know, in maintenance we are assholes for fun. Well that, and because each of us Lost our last “feeling” on an MPA, somewhere; dont worry, QA got the lost item report.
Look, anyone that knows me, knows one fact…well two: I take my Job and alcohol WAY too serious – nothing new to you fucks, I am sure. Maintainers are proud, drunken FuckNuts, just in our DNA. Additionally, we have these prescriptive, borderline stereotypical ways of viewing each other – by job, not skin color SJWs… not today!
Now that I have everyone sipping their scotch, or drinking their frosty beverage and nodding in agreement I am going to tell you about the most confusing time in my career.
I was a new MSgt, and it was time to visit my brother – a yearly tradition – for a much needed break from work shit. This particular year, the visit took place over the New Year’s Eve holiday; we TOTALLY planned that on purpose. You know, because we were gonna get FUCKED up!!! Whatever, no BFD…
Side note: At the time, my brother had recent PCSd from San Diego to Florida, to be an instructor. An avionics instructor. A Marine, avionics instructor.
Before he moved to Florida, I had never been around Marines, with my brother, at the same time. We come from broad military roots, but both ended up in aircraft maintenance so the #GTFOMH banter never really came up. Basically, we never had the Marines over Air Force, or smarter over grunt talks. Plus, If I am being honest: we care more about drinking and bullshittin’.
Not this visit.
No, this visit was going to be epic. We were going to a party, getting Shawasted, and making good on our annual ‘fuck-it’ vacation. Little did I know, this party would over-torque my mind.
We get to his boss’s house – the Gunny’s house. Obviously, he and I were the same rank, everyone else was a Staff Sergeant – Marine Staff Sergeant; I really hope that didn’t NEED to be explained.
I met all the fuckers, meet their spouses, and commence downing some drinks. As do they. But in the amount of time it would take for me to go buy a set of OCPs for home station wear, if authorized – aka, no time – I realized I was a lone Airman, in a sea of Marines.
I could see the writing on the wall; if they got shitty wasted trying to keep up with me, because obviously no one can drink like AF Maintainers, then they would get all pissy and resort to combat PT, or something. I didn’t want my brother having to prove his alliance to me over his fellow Marines – because DogNuts had – and always will – have my back first; it’s a brother thing.
Drinks disappeared. BattleShots wrecked. Tobacco smoked. A boat-load of cocktail shrimp devoured. Next thing I know, we all end up in the back yard; talking shit and laughing. Then it happens: One of the homies asked, “Wait, so you’re in the Air Force?”
Over. Or as the children are saying these days: #GTFOMH; right?
“Why yes I am, maintaining the most lethal airborne inventory worldwide!” Surely, I am paraphrasing, but the intent is the same.
“Oh, well you’re cool for a Chair Force fuck, just hope you can handle your alcohol better than one. Bad enough you guys let your Officers fight in war for you, but not being able to drink is just embarrassing.” Insert a simultaneous Devil-Dog chuckle – including my Broski.
Well, well, well; that shit wasn’t going to fly. I explained to them the importance of holding one’s own; and that I would welcome a challenge from any of them. Still kept it light, didn’t need pics of my naked ass on FB in retaliation.
More laughing, and more Chair Force jokes. Then something amazing happened. My drunken state opened a direct line of communication with the Maintenance Gods. They helped me realized a flaw in the situational dynamic. What I originally perceived, as did they, was that this was – something like – Six Marines and One Airman, where anyone would say I lose. But that wasn’t the situation.
No, the reality was: six Specker-heads and one Crew Chief. And in that reality lived a different set of rules.
Only one way an argument like that ends: DogNuts and I up with the Sun trying to out-drink each other; all the other Marionics passed out…bitches!
At the end of the trip, my brother and I still couldn’t answer what trumped what – branch hierarchy, or maintenance hierarchy? Good thing we are willing to debate the topic till the day we die, over beer and shots.
What say you MX Nation?