A couple of days ago, one of you fine posters asked a bit about Chief Petty Officer lore. I’m sorry, I forget who you are. But here’s a taste of what you were looking for:
A crusty old battleship admiral died and found himself standing before Saint Peter at the pearly gates. Peter welcomed him warmly, “Come right in, Admiral! You’ve served your country well and you may enter Heaven!”
The admiral looked thru the gates and stepped up to Saint Peter, “Just one thing, sonny. I hope there’s no Chiefs here. They are the rudest, most obnoxious variety of human ever, and if there are any of them here, I’m not going in; I’d rather go to the other place.”
“Don’t worry, admiral,” said Saint Peter. “No Chief has ever made it into Heaven. You’ll find none of 'em here.” So, the admiral goes on into Heaven.
Moments later, he comes upon an amazing sight. It is a swaggering figure in a khakis, garrison cap cocked slightly on his head, a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and a beautiful woman on either arm.
Incensed, the admiral rushes back to Saint Peter and gets in his face.“Hey! You said there were no Chiefs here! So what the hell is THAT?!?”
“Don’t worry, admiral,” says Saint Peter gently. “That’s God. He just THINKS he’s a Chief.”
THE FIVE MOST DANGEROUS THINGS IN THE US NAVY
Anyhoo, the only CPO joke I can remember off-hand…
A Mustang retired after 30 years and bought a small ranch in Montana, intending to spend his retirement years bird hungting. His pride and joy was a setter he had named Chief, which the Mustang had trained to perfection. The dog could point, flush, and retrieve like no dog you’d ever seen. He invited an old Captain friend to visit for a weekend of pheasant hunting. The friend was suitably impressed with the dog and offered to buy him at any price. The Mustang, of course, said no, adding that Chief was the best bird dog he had ever owned.
A year later his friend visited again for a weekend of hunting and noted with surprise that the Mustang had a new dog.
“What happened to Chief?” asked the Captain.
“Had to get rid of him,” the Mustang says. “Another old friend came to hunt the weekend after you left and the SOB couldn’t remember my dog’s name. Kept calling him ‘Master Chief’. After he left all the dog would do is sit on his ass and bark.”
As I work in Indian affairs, I’ve been relentlessly lobbying my firm for a change in job title. I want to be “Chief Analyst,” “Chief Researcher”, or just “Chief Paralegal.”
Why? Man, in Indian Country, you don’t get any damned respect if you’re not a Chief.
I passed the Chief’s joke along to my father, who is an old Navy chief. He gave me this one to share with you guys.
There’s a Navy chief on leave in Bangkok. He, of course, gets liquored up and decides to visit one of the hookers Bangkok is famous for. He’s bangin’ away, a bit out of breath from his loving exertions and asks the lady, “How’m I doin’,?”
The hooker replies, “I’d give ya about three knots.”
“Three knots?!” the chief inquires. “Whaddaya mean, three knots?”
“Yup, three knots,” the prostitute replies. “Yer not hard. Yer not in. And yer not gettin’ yer money back.
Forgive my ignorance. I’ve been trying to do a bit of research, hoping to answer the question on my own. Alas, no luck. Best I can figure is you’re an E-8. He’s an 0-2. Is that correct? If so, who outranks whom?
Scott has been trying to get me for months now. Why should I be afraid?