The static builds like the whine of a jet engine spooling up, and then, just like that, the frequency locks in. For a half-second, I can almost smell the jet fuel and see that name written on the side of the aircraft.

[Announcer Voice: High adrenaline. Somewhere between fighter pilot and used-car salesman.]

In naval aviation, nobody cares what your mother called you. You get a call sign, and the more you hate it, the faster it spreads through the squadron like food poisoning on deployment.

Here at Call Sign Confidential, 104.3 FM, every name has a story. None of them are flattering, and all of them are true, and at least one of them involves a questionable wardrobe decision.

You don’t pick the name; the name picks you.

So grab a beer, strap in, and try not to feel too good about your own life choices—because first on the roster is…

DUKE
Nobody remembers how it started. That’s either proof that it was innocent, or proof that everyone in the family got their story straight a long time ago.

I suspect that somewhere on that farm there was a mule, or maybe a dog, named Duke. Stubborn. Annoying. Slight resemblance to me as a kid. Apparently impossible to ignore.

Whatever the origin, it stuck—like manure on the bottom of a boot that already made it halfway through the house before somebody noticed.

I didn’t mind it. I was young, had a cool nickname, and just thought they were talking about the mule whenever Duke did something stupid.

GOD
It’s not what you think—and exactly what you think at the same time.

My first day of Navy flight school started with obligatory paperwork. There we were—the entire class—crammed into a tiny room with the unshakable scent of thousands of sweaty, anxious aviators who sat there before us.

First order of business: roll call. Naturally, I was first on the list. The instructor butchered my last name, calling out “a-DAM-itz” like he was trying to solve a math problem out loud.

It was 1996, when Beavis and Butt-Head somehow qualified as the greatest cultural influence of our generation, so without hesitation, the class responded in perfect unison: “GOD a-DAM-itz!” followed immediately by that unmistakable Beavis laugh—heh heh heh.

And just like that, on the very first day of flight school, my first almost-call sign was born.

Of course, there was no way my fellow aviators were going to let me walk out of that room with “God” as my call sign. That’s a level of arrogance no twenty-three-year-old should bring into aviation. I was twenty-three. I brought plenty.

Closest I ever came to a great call sign—and I didn’t even get to keep it. I’ve been making up for it ever since.

TOOTSIE
This was my first official call sign—and, ironically, I got it after I had already left the squadron. Confusing? Yeah. It only makes sense after a few drinks—and even then… not really.

Let’s rewind to March 1999. Deployed to Puerto Rico and our crew earned a week of leave. Three of us boarded a Carnival cruise out of San Juan. Five days of sun, rum, and likely some truly questionable decisions. It was spring break season. What could go wrong?

The first night was a singles mixer—basically speed dating with games. Awkward, chaotic, and absolutely perfect for meeting people. Within hours, our group had grown to about nine, carrying on like lifelong friends.

Then, halfway through the cruise, came the moment that would follow me far longer than the tan.

A challenge thrown down. One of the girls dared me to swap clothes with her—appropriately, of course—and walk back into the nightclub.

Back at her stateroom, I wedged into her halter bikini top and black mini skirt. It was less a clothing change and more a tactical insertion. I looked like a gorilla stuffed into a toddler’s church outfit. My hairy legs, white tube socks, and clunky brown shoes didn’t exactly sell the illusion. Nobody was confusing me for a runway model.

I was somewhere between panic, regret, and total commitment. She was laughing, the group was waiting, and the dare was on the line. When we stepped into the bar, the entire place erupted. Cameras flashing like I was the main attraction at a zoo exhibit nobody asked for.

A few weeks later, I was medically evacuated to Bethesda, MD for treatment of Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

Life, as it tends to do, had thrown me another curveball.

Weeks later, I received a farewell gift from the squadron—a large, beautifully framed photo of me dressed in those clothes from the cruise. On the matte border, every aviator had written a heartfelt get-well message, each addressed to “Tootsie”—a nod to the Dustin Hoffman film.

They meant well. But mostly, they wanted a framed reminder that dignity is temporary and squadron ridicule is forever.

That picture remains available upon request. Fee is negotiable.

DRIVE-THRU
The call sign Tootsie didn’t survive chemo, so once again, I was without one—this time aboard USS Nimitz. I was qualified as Officer of the Deck, effectively driving the aircraft carrier. Big job. High stress. Very little room for mistakes.

On this particular day, we pulled alongside a supply ship to take on food, cargo, ammo—everything short of a Starbucks. My job was to keep the carrier roughly sixty yards away while waves and relative motion constantly pushed and pulled the two ships together and apart. It’s every bit as stressful as it sounds.

I’d been on the bridge for eight straight hours. The waves were fighting me, the tension lines snapping tight, and my bladder and stomach negotiating what could only be described as a hostage situation.

Finally, the Captain let me take a break. I hit the head, grabbed my first meal of the day, and sat down with my tray salivating like a starving raccoon. That’s when the wardroom phone rang. The Captain needed me back on the bridge.

So I abandoned my food and headed back to the bridge hungry, exhausted, and increasingly bitter. The only thing running through my head was a Leo Getz quote from Lethal Weapon 2:

“They f@#k you at the drive-thru, okay? They f@#k you at the drive-thru! They know you’re gonna be miles away before you find out you got f@#ked!”

Apparently, I’d been muttering it out loud because after we finally broke away from the replenishment ship, the Operations Officer looked at me and asked, “So how’d that go for you, Drive-Thru?”

Honestly, that one should’ve lasted. Call sign gold. And I let it slide right off the tray.

BUTCHER
Now this is how a real call sign is born—by doing something truly stupid.

After Drive-Thru didn’t exactly carry over to my next squadron, I decided to stay quiet about call signs—no need to advertise one born from an explicit movie rant.

I was assigned as a military assistant at the Pentagon, where everyone’s last name looks like a Wi-Fi password: consonants everywhere, vowels in hiding—and pronunciation? Good luck.

A few weeks in, I was reading names from documents—people I’d never met—doing my best to sound them out. What followed was less conversation and more a linguistic bloodbath. Like graduation day, where the poor soul reading names has to do it cold as people walk across the stage.

I butchered every single one.

And just like that, Butcher picked me.

DA (aka DUMB ASS)
At my final squadron, I thought I was walking in with a call sign that carried some weight: Butcher. It had history, humor, and it felt earned.

That was until the question came: “What call sign do you want written on the side of the aircraft, Skipper?”

I froze. “Butcher” suddenly felt… aggressive. Not exactly the tone I wanted etched under the cockpit window for everyone to see.

So practicality—and probably a touch of laziness—won. I went with my initials: DA.

Short. Simple. Professional. Perfectly boring.

Walking the passageways and hangar, I heard the snickers, noticed the sneers, and found the graffiti. DA had been recast—Dumb Ass, Definitely Average, or whatever they came up with that day. The kind of playful, merciless ridicule only aviators can deliver.

And yet, somehow, it stuck.

Turns out the actual call sign doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone gave it to you—and they’re probably still bragging about it behind your back.


And that’s all the time we have. There are plenty more call sign stories, but those are the only ones we can legally share with you on the air.
If you’ve got a great call sign story—or just do stupid things—you know where to find us.

… and the frequency goes quiet, the smell of jet fuel fades, and the sound of static fills the room.