Savannah Salutes the Military Man
Dear Savannah,
What do you do with a drunken sailor,
What do you do with a drunken sailor,
What do you do with a drunken sailor
Early in the morning?
Signed,
Basil
Cheddar, England
Savannah Says:
I don’t understand this. What can it mean? Broncho wants, nay demands, that I pay his hospitalization costs. It’s a very perplexing development.
To explain (for those of you who aren’t Fan Club members and therefore didn’t get this news bulletin earlier), Broncho fell off my roof last week while installing my new DirecTV satellite dish. Luckily, he was virtually finished with the job when the accident occurred, and I’ve been enjoying over 100 channels of high quality entertainment with crystal-clear digital reception for the past several days. It really helped take my mind off poor Broncho’s condition.
He broke his collarbone, and I had Elizabeth take him immediately to the emergency room where, seven-and-a-half hours later he was seen by a doctor. Unfortunately, they don’t have DirecTV at the hospital, so Broncho was not able to enjoy watching the TCM John Wayne marathon consisting of True Gritfollowed by Rooster Cogburn and rounded out with The Shootist, which made me bawl my eyes out as it always does. The man deserved that Oscar.
Anyway, now that Broncho’s back home at the hacienda, he gently informed me that I should submit a “Worker’s Compensation” claim to cover his accident. Actually, what he said was, “You’ll pay for this.”
After all I’ve done for him.
But back to your question, Basil.
Do many English men share your fascination with drunken sailors? I’ve heard you Brits are randy, but I’ve yet to plant a flag on your territory, so to speak.
Your letter omits many details. However, I think we can safely assume the following, based on little clues and inferences you’ve given us: you and the sailor are naked, or nearly so; you’ve woken up in a compromising position; the sailor is not all that attractive; you have a severe headache; you’re not sure where you are; the sailor is still asleep and snoring loudly; the gasthaus provides only a single, communal toilet down the hall and you think you’re going to be sick and aren’t sure if you can sprint down there in time, given how dizzy you feel and the fact you can’t find your robe, lingerie, or any stitch of clothing to don before you burst into the hallway. Is that a fairly accurate picture, Basil? I’ve never been in this situation before, so I’m just guessing.
Setting aside the issue of hangover, the first thing you should do is quietly rifle through the sailor’s personal effects to find out who he is and whether or not he has a substantial amount of cash on him. If he is of a respectable rank, then you can safely wait around for him to awaken and take you to brunch. If he’s an ensign or something, then you’d better gather up your belongings as quickly as possible and sneak out unnoticed. Also, it’s wise to check for a wedding band, whether on his finger or in his pants pocket. If you do find one, the classy thing to do is to quietly leave the premises and call his wife from a phone in the lobby to let her know where to find her husband. She’ll appreciate this gesture.
Naturally, these guidelines apply only during times of peace. During wartime, you should refer to the Geneva Convention, section 82, paragraph 12(a)5, subsection “C,” which clearly delineates the rights and responsibilities of both sides during a romantic tete-a-tete. It’s also helpful to refer to old, black-and-white war movies, such as In Harm’s Way and From Here to Eternity for guidance.
Good luck, dear!
© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes
