"Dear sweet Jesus! What in the hell are you doing, private Mahoney?!"

"Modified push-ups, sir."

"Modified what?!"

"Push-ups. Because regular push-ups hurt my arms and chest. I get sore so easy."

"Holy shit, private Mahoney! Are you shittin' me, you stupid son of a bitch?! How about I modify your mother's asshole?!"

"My mother lives way down in Palm Springs. And even if you found her house, which I doubt you would be able to, she has a security system and you have to know the code. And the police would arrest you so fast you will be surprised."

"Jesus Fuck!! You know what I'm gonna call you, Mahoney?! I'm gonna call you private Puke-shit!!"

"You should call me private Q-tip because my hair is soft and pure like cotton. Listen... I'll do regular push-ups if that's what this is all about. I just thought--"

"I'll tell you when to think, private Q-tip!! I mean PUKE-SHIT!!! I meant to say private Puke-shit!!"

"Well I'm not going to argue with you."


Private Mahoney struggled through basic training. His drill sergeant was a hard man whose lot in life was weighed in big ol' dirty bags of hair. Nobody stuck any important life lessons in their pocket. I used to think airplane jumps and pin-up girls with olive-drab hypnotism swirls in their eyes counted for something, but every time I wake up alone in a wet bed with the country station on my alarm clock radio cutting in and out, I get a sick feeling, like diplomacy's more important and the other stuff is way too old-fashioned. Thank God for whiskey. There's good and proper ways to change your stride that never go out of style, and the only truth is on your headstone. Don't look at me like that. You asked for my opinion and yeah... I'm gonna give it to you. But your mother won't be home for a couple hours still. It's nice to have some company for a change. So let's take this nice and slow. Roundabout. Pussyfoot. What part of "I'm so lonely" don't you understand?

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