Call Sign: Big Hairy (Don't Ask; I Won't Tell)

The call sign has since evolved into a tradition celebrated by each branch of the military. Naming rituals vary by branch and by squadron, but three rules universally apply: Pilots who do not have good names when they arrive at their first operational squadron, will be given new ones; they probably will not like them; and, if they complain, they will get even worse names."

When I was in the 7th grade, my physical education instructor, our basketball coach, had two assistants, a couple of 9th-grade no-accounts whose qualifications for the job amounted to being on our varsity basketball team and being in need of an easy A to remain eligible. Their charge was to instruct us in the proper ways to do complex techniques like duck-walking and falling off of the pommel horse; but, they chose instead to use the time to physically and mentally abuse us at every turn.

One of their favorite tricks was to sneak up behind one of us during roll call, when we were lined up in our P.E. duds, and pull the target's gym shorts down, leaving him there, in his tighty-whities or, worse, his jock strap. I say worse because at the time, there was nothing that compared to standing in a junior high school gym with your gym shorts around your ankles and your ass hanging out except...

There was this one kid, who because of poverty or whatever, didn't have any underwear to wear, but, due to some ingenuity, had acquired the elasticized waistband of a pair, which he wore to give us the illusion of undies. I know this because, one day, the no-accounts chose him: They walked up behind him, pulled down his gym shorts, and left him standing there buck-ass-naked, except for that rim of otherwise absent Fruit of the Looms.

This is his naming story. Real name omitted (actually forgotten); Call Sign: "Rim Daddy."