trollingowy Żyd

He is

The massive size of this lion walking through traffic                           

Infantrymen have a pride and arrogance that most Americans don’t understand and don’t like. Even soldiers who aren’t infantrymen don’t understand. The pride doesn’t exist because we have a job that’s physically impressive. It certainly doesn’t exist because it takes a higher level of intelligence to perform our duties. It’s sad and I hate to admit it, but any college student or high school grad can physically do what we do. It’s not THAT demanding and doesn’t take a physical anomaly. Nobody will ever be able to compare us to professional athletes or fitness models. And it doesn’t take a very high IQ to read off serial numbers, pack bags according to a packing list, or know that incoming bullets have the right of way.

The pride of the infantryman comes not from knowing that he’s doing a job that others can’t, but that he’s doing a job that others simply won’t. Many infantrymen haven’t seen a lot of combat. While that may sound ideal to the civilian or non-infantry soldier, it pains the grunt. We signed up to spit in the face of danger. To walk the line between life and death and live to do it again – or not. To come to terms with our own mortality and let others try to take our life instead of yours. We have raised our hands and said, “Take me, America. I am willing to kill for you. I am willing to sacrifice my limbs for you. I will come back to America scarred and disfigured for you. I will be the first to die for you.”

That’s why the infantryman carries himself with pride and arrogance. He’s aware that America has lost respect for him. To many he’s a bloodthirsty animal. To others he’s too uneducated and stupid to get a regular job or go to college. Only he knows the truth. While there are few in America who claim to have respect for him, the infantryman returns from war with less fanfare than a first down in a high school football game. Yes, people hang up their “Support Our Troops” ribbons and on occasion thank us for our service. But in their eyes the infantryman can detect pity and shame; not respect. Consider this: How excited would you be to meet the average infantryman? Now compare that with how excited you’d be to meet a famous actor or professional sports player and you will find that you, too, are guilty of placing the wrong people on a pedestal. You wouldn’t be able to tell me how many soldiers died in the war last month, but you’d damn sure be able to tell me if one of the actors from Twilight died.

Yet the infantryman doesn’t complain about that. He continues to do his job; to volunteer his life for you, all while being paid less in four years than Tom Brady makes in one game.

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Go to the goddamn grocery and get steak. Yes, the grocery. A little ammonia is not going to kill you, you pussy. You want to be all fancy and grass-fed and environmentally conscious, go ahead, I don’t give a shit, just get a fucking steak. Ribeye is good. And, yes, bone-in. Schmuck. Take the steak home. Get a bigass frying pan and put the shit on the stove, cranking the heat up as far as that fucker will go. Take a shitload of salt — rocksalt, you dumb motherfucker, none of that fine-grained crap here — and toss it around the bottom of the pan. When the pan is hot as all fuck — it should scorch the shit out of your finger if you’re stupid enough to touch it — put the fucking steak on there. You can crack some pepper on the top of the steak as the bottom is searing, but don’t even talk to me about garlic or onion powder or COMPOUND FUCKING BUTTER, asshole. This is steak, all you fucking need is salt and pepper. After a bit (3 minutes for pink, 5 for cooked good), flip that shit over and do the same fucking thing you just did with the other side, i.e. sit on your ass and wait for your motherfucking steak to be ready, you useless assbag. When you’re done, sling that shit on a plate. Beringer’s 1996 Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley Private Reserve makes an absolutely delightful accompaniment, particularly if you’ve taken care to let it breathe a bit before quaffing. Also, make some fucking potatoes, because that’s what you eat with a fucking steak. God, sometimes I just want to smack the shit out of you.

You’re either Infantry or you’re a jock strap; you’re only there for support. “Wet work” is a euphemism taken from the Mob to mean murder or assassination. To “do wet work” is to literally get wet with someone’s blood. The 03xx field is kinda like the mafia in the way we do “wet work” for the Corps: 0302. I command that you do wet work 0311. I do wet work 0313. I do wet work with a vehicle (wheelman) 0317. I do wet work from a distance 0321. I do wet work in secret 0331. I do wet work by volume 0341. I do wet work indirectly 0351. I do wet work with explosives 0352. I do wet work by wire 0369. I do wet work, teach wet work, and make sure the wet work is done right By definition we could also add Navy MOS 8404 “Corpsman” to the list: 8404. I put bandaids on wet workers

“Before the shows, Dead used to bury his clothes into the ground so that they could start to rot and get that grave scent. He was a corpse on a stage.” 

“Before the shows, Dead used to bury his clothes into the ground so that they could start to rot and get that grave scent. He was a corpse on a stage.”