Every year at the end of May, the United States Navy, the United States Marine Corps and the United States Coast Guard descend upon New York City shores, and their crews are given full reign to visit whatever tourist attractions they wish for an entire week’s time.
They’re hailed as heroes, and rightfully so. They’re welcomed into New York Yankee games, restaurants, parks, bars and onto the set of the Late Show with David Letterman. As long as they’re donning that white uniform and cap, they have full permission to pretty much do whatever they want, and whenever they want.
And they deserve it. These men voluntarily decided to put themselves in harm’s way, to spend months and months away from their loved ones, and to travel to the most belligerent places our world has to offer — just to protect our freedom. To say they deserve our respect is an understatement. They deserve a hero’s welcome to every room they step into — and during Fleet Week, they get that.
As a New Yorker, I have seen Fleet Week with my own eyes. Many times. I’ve seen it enough that I know how exactly Fleet Week relates to me. No I am not an enlisted military personnel, nor do I have aspirations to be one. I have never donned a white uniform, even for a Halloween costume, and the only war I’ve ever participated in involved the tugging of a rope.
So how does Fleet Week affect me, one might ask? Me, who is a perfectly regular, average, moderately in-shape guy who has no connection whatsoever to the Navy, Marines or Coast Guard.
Well here is what I see with my own eyes.
These sailors enter into Manhattan, donning their slender uniforms that perfectly accommodate their well-sculpted militarily trained bodies, with their clean-shaven faces, buzzed hair, and tall frame, and women practically drop their pants just at the mere sight of them.
Just like how a fat kid could hear the Mr. Softee truck from two miles away, a female can spot a sailor walking in her direction from that very same distance. I swear, they could be out of sight, two avenues and multiple blocks over, and girls will still have some type of SONAR that detects their presence.
And when they do spot them, all they need to see is that uniform, and nothing more. They don’t need to know the guy’s name, his hometown, his favorite color or his preferred brand of toothpaste. He’s a sailor, and that’s enough for themselves to absolutely throw their bodies at him.
As an aforementioned regular, average, moderately in-shape guy, there is nothing more discouraging to see how easy it is for a sailor to lure women. For us regulars, trying to attract a woman is like trying to navigate the obstacle course in The Legends of the Hidden Temple. While tripping on mushrooms.
But for a man in a uniform, it’s as easy as turning on a light switch. A light switch that not only ignites light, but elevates a women’s libido levels tenfold.
So needless to say, I dread Fleet Week each year. If I actually knew what exact week Fleet Week was each year, I would probably avoid the city altogether. But I don’t check such things, and thus, I don’t notice it until I’m in Manhattan and I have to criss-cross around sailors making out with perfect-10s in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s inescapable.
Because of federal budget cuts, New York City Fleet Week 2013 has been canceled.
And I certainly mean no disrespect to our armed forces.
Again, I am forever appreciative for what you do for our country. People go on and on about how we should be “Thanking the troops,” and how you guys are heroes, but people like me can never truly thank you all for what you do. Your bravery and dedication to our country is what makes it the place it is, and rest assured that is something I do not take for granted. Because I know that you guys are out there defending my freedom, I make a concerted effort to be the best person I can possibly be.
But stay the hell away from our women.
This is something that sailors will never understand, since it is so easy for them to get girls. For us regular folk — who really have no outlying talents to offer to a woman — the stars have to align for us to attract females. The amount of things that have to go right in one given night for us to “hook up” is infinite. Trying to form a calculation for it would look something like a scene in A Beautiful Mind, when numbers are floating around Russell Crowe’s head as he develops an equation.
But when there are sailors anywhere near our vicinity, then the formula is pretty easy to tabulate. Because it’s 0. When I am in Manhattan, and I learn that it is Fleet Week, I don’t even say anything to anybody. I just turn around and make an immediate bee line to the next train and go home. Because there’s absolutely no point of trying anything else. Just give it up, go home and watch some porn.
And I actually feel a little bad for the Navy, Marine Corps and Coast Guard. I can’t imagine how much they must look forward to Fleet Week. Not only does it get them out of the high seas, but it brings them to the most lively city in the world, where woman are willing to lift their dresses at the mere sound of their footsteps. They must be heartbroken. Devastated. Forlorn.
I suppose there is only one solution. I guess, that, well… I’m going to have to take their place. I am going to have to be that guy who struts New York City streets like I own the place. Who believes he can unstrap a girl’s bra simply by looking at it. With no sailors around, somebody’s got to do it.
I will be that man.