Bubba Whartz

Bubba Wants to Rename the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of Florida

By Morgan Stinemetz

The crash of shattering glassware and curses of angry men exploded simultaneously in a microburst of chaos at the Blue Moon bar. Responsible for the crescendo was Captain Bubba Whartz who had come to the conclusion that the Gulf of Mexico belongs more to the United States than it does to the Republic of Mexico. In his exuberance about changing the name, Whartz — possibly over served – made a sweeping gesture with his right hand and his emphatic motion cleaned six beers off from the bar countertop. A small riot ensued.

Tripwire, the Vietnam vet who still wears cammies, grabbed Bubba by the throat, uttering ominously, “You just signed your death warrant, pilgrim.”

Shorty, who stuttered badly, threw in “You-you-you knokno-kno-knocked over my beer, you son-son-son of a bih-bih-bih...”

Doobie, the bartenderette at the Blue Moon, stopped the fracas before it flamed further out of control by telling the upset patrons that she would treat everyone to a free beer and take off her sweater after doing so. Just as there is nothing that will push a peaceful demonstration into an out-of-control riot quicker than the smell of tear gas, nothing will defuse a tense situation among men quite as rapidly as a chance to look at a woman’s boobs, bra or no bra.

Harmony instantly broke out in the Blue Moon bar. Mister Rogers could have done no better. One could see small clouds of testosterone disappear like coins fed to a slot machine.

Captain Whartz, ever the gentleman, apologized for knocking the beers to the floor. Doobie set up the free beers she promised. Though only six beers and the glasses they came in had been destroyed, thirteen Blue Moon bar patrons applied for replacement beer. The nature of the bar business doesn’t always add up precisely, it seems. Maybe it never has.

“As I was saying,” Bubba Whartz continued as if nothing had happened, “changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of Florida, say, would help the disadvantaged residents of Longboat Key, Sanibel Island, and Naples.”

Tripwire, still hot under the collar because of the loss of his beer scoffed, “You’re out of your mind! Disadvantaged residents? My combat boots! People in those places live in ritzy homes and condominiums, eat at fancy restaurants, and have servants to do something as routine as turning down bedcovers. I’d bet most are draft dodgers! Women in real estate who sell properties at all three of those locations have grown rich turning over the same properties again and again. If they had to list or sell real estate anyplace else, they be as out of place as a condom machine in a nunnery.”

Doobie, who rarely gets involved in discussions at the Blue Moon had a question for Tripwire. “Have you ever seen a condom machine in a nunnery?”

“Once,” responded Tripwire, twirling his dog tags around. “It was in Spencer, Massachusetts. It was at St. Joseph’s, a Pappist Order, I asked some questions about it, but no one would talk to me. Nuns are hard to approach. Reminds me of girls I knew in high school.”

“Are you-you-you going to-to-to take your siss-siss-siss sweater off now?” Shorty asked Doobie. When exercised, Shorty has a tendency toward obsessive/compulsive behavior. Bubba, upset, cut him off. “We’re talking about changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of Florida here, folks. Mexico doesn’t deserve to have its name on the body of water anymore,” Bubba asserted.

Bruno Velvetier, ASAID, rolling, between his thumb and index finger, the purple paper parasol from his cream drink, observed, “Mexicans have some absolutely precious decorating ideas. I’ve always said that.”

“But they also have corruption, a permanent smog bank over Mexico City, out-of-control drug gangs, dangerous highways, and most of the people in Mexico don’t even speak English,” Captain Whartz said.

“Is Doobie going to-to-to-to take off her siss-siss-sisssweater any ti-ti-ti-ti-time soon?” Shorty wanted to know. “They don’t speak English?” Tripwire, who may have been involved in some disturbance in Washington early in 2021, asked in a shouted question. “When did that happen? Probably a communist plot. The same thing happened in Cuba, and we all know what that meant!”

Bubba, possibly carried away by patriotic enthusiasm, urged, “If the gap of water between the United States and Cuba is already named the the Florida Straits, doesn’t it follow that the body of water above those Straits should be named the Gulf of Florida? These are perilous times, when men who believe in our country stand up to be counted!”

“Yes!” Shorty hissed. “We nee-nee-nee-need to do that wheh-wheh-wheh-when some people aren’t wheh-whehwheh-wearing siss-siss-siss-sweaters.” Shorty sounded like an angry cobra.

“I’m all for it!” Tripwire enthused. “Will it require commando missions with inflatable landing craft, automatic weapons, dead-of-night tactics? I’m ready to defend this country from attacks from Cuba by people who don’t speak English. Let’s go to the Florida Keys!”

Tripwire sounded ready to go. However, loud noises always spooked him badly, to where he became as nervous as the family dog on the 4th of July, and no matter how much he talked the talk, he couldn’t walk the walk. Of course, I didn’t say that out loud. I knew better. Tripwire is reputed to cook hamburgers and hot dogs on his grille with napalm and prefers his buffalo wings super hot. There’s a rumor about that he lights his propane torch with his breath.

Bubba was aghast. “Tripwire,” he choked, “no one from Cuba is coming across the Straits of Florida to attack the Keys. This is a political thing. We need to convince our representatives in Washington that, rightly, the United States has a vested interest in renaming that body of water the Gulf of Florida. And who named it the Gulf of Mexico in the first place? Spain! Think about it, Tripwire, that country isn’t even on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. And while I’ll admit that one of Spain’s sailors discovered America, it was us, the Floridians, who made this land prosper. Where would we be if developers hadn’t built beach-front condominiums? Look at all the golf courses in Florida. And while I’ll admit the news media gets all over a story about an alligator eating some Florida citizen, it doesn’t happen very often. Sure, we have the largest rattlesnakes in the country, but no one has been killed by one in years. And while is may be true that senior citizens clog our highways in cars they cannot operate well, think of all the world class shuffleboard competitors there are in Florida. Florida is unique. Certainly, it’s not too much to ask to change the name of a neighboring body of water to bring things up to date.”

His small speech must have dehydrated Bubba some, for he reached for a beer—not his own—and drained it.

During the five seconds or so Bubba was not talking, Shorty was able to interject, “Doo-Doo-Doo-Doobie, when will you take off your siss-siss-siss-sweater?”

“Tomorrow,” Doobie replied.

“What ti-ti-ti-time to-to-tomorrow?” Shorty wanted to know.

“Sometime between open and closing,” Doobie replied. Women have been saying vaporous things like that for centuries. Men have been rising to the bait like trout during a mayfly hatch.

When one thinks about it, Captain Whartz’s sally into renaming the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of Florida aroused little interest. Tripwire’s bugle call to stave off attackers-foreigners he sometimes called them—turned rancid early when he got Cuba confused with Mexico and never quite comprehended that both countries shared only a common language. “Like Canada and the United States?” I heard him ask.

Shorty’s attention to what Bubba was saying had, early on, shunted onto a dead-end siding. He never got back on track.