So check this. Maybe our cammies aren’t really green. Maybe we’re so sleep deprived that we actually never noticed that it’s desert beige. You know how sometimes things look different when you’re so tired? Like the sun. It looks red when it’s actually yellow.
The point, Lance Corporal: we’re supposed to be a recon unit of pure warrior spirit. We’re out here, 40 klicks in enemy lines, and this man of God here, he’s a fuckin’ POG. In fact, he’s an officer POG. That’s one more layer of bureaucracy and unnecessary logistics, one more asshole we need to supply MREs and baby wipes for. And worst of all, worst of all, the motherfucker doesn’t even carry a weapon. When push comes to shove even Rolling Stone picks up a gun but this fuckin’ shill of God, he can’t cover a sector, he’ll never hump ammo or Claymores. This is a fuckin’ war and we’re here as warriors, so on top of everything else that’s expected of us, do we really need to drag him along and indulge in this make-believe bullshit? —Brad Colbert
“Fuckin’ dress blues commercial, man. That got sooo many fuckin’ guys. Now look at us! Trombley hasn’t killed anybody, I am half a world away from good Thai pussy, and Colbert is out here rollin’ around fuckbutt Iraq huntin’ for dragons in a MOPP suit that smells like four days of piss and ball sweat. Shoulda rolled into battle with a sword, Brad. That woulda fuckin’ rocked.”