Why go over there, where it's all hot and sandy and sticky and shit, and have to get up in the enemy's grille, when you can fight The Good Fight just as effectively from waaaaay the fuck over here:
Do tell, Sgt. Rock. Can't wait for a few years down the road, when Cliffy and Pantload and J-Pod and the rest of the dogfaces of the 82nd Chairborne meet up and swap war stories, talk about their nightmarish tour of duty in the shit. You can tell the Pantload by his thousand-yard stare, and his 80-pound ruck full of dirty socks and popcorn chicken. Just remember not to say the word "Charlie" in front of him, or he will flip the fuck out and gut you like the legacy-defining record trout The Decider caught at his pre-stocked lake.
Civilian pussies just don't get what's it's like out in the shit at The Corner, never knowing when Buckley's gonna toddle by, on another Tanqueray and Vicodin bender, and tell you a-fucking-gain how it was back in the day. You never know when Ponnuru's gonna sneak up behind you, like a fuckin' ghost, man, and pester you to work his stupid fucking book into the blog yet again. Jesus, doesn't he have an agent or a publicist or something?
Yeah, the civilians don't get what grunts like Cliffy and K-Lo do, man, day in and day out, but they do it for us anyway, and they do it for their country. It's a tall job, done by short, dumpy people who basically operate an electronic tin cup.
Semper fi, Cliffy. Semper fi, Pantload. Ooo-rah.