Part of roll call, Armands. Private Archonoff. Sir. Private Fitzman. Sir. Private Fittsman. Sir. Private Follekist. Sir. Private Maxwell. Sir. Private Poster. Sir. Avid Ladendo. Awall, sir. Scared silly by aondo! Awall, sir!

Aywall!

Scared silly by a ghost story last night, Sergeant.

The Girl Scout had told it assured him it wasn't real, but he blew out of here like the wind.

Even left his emergency stash of Kotex behind.

Are you telling me I almost had a phantom fearing paddy waste in my course? Sir. A total of the only way, sir. Well, thanks to God on high for his early exit. Back to it. Private Zapkid. Sir. Private Chen. Can't somebody utilize a set of post hole diggers to extract the shit that must be clogging private chen's ear canals he's

podcasting sir podcasting sir he's podcasting sir recording a brand new show he's doing with some guy

he met in the cracker barrel's restroom why don't the devil's crotch and jockstrap is podcasting

i can answer that oh well thanks for finally gracing us with your presence, Princess.

If there's one thing I hate, it's waiting for privates.

That's what she said.

Enough that of you, private punchline.

Shouldn't you be silently mourning E.T.'s untimely passing?

He was innocent.

He was innocent.

Can't explain your tardiness soldier?

I was podcasting, sir. It's defined as a complete waste of my time and everyone who listens to me. File it under the same category as my many other mindless endeavors, such as running, hockey, biking, coffee drinking, yoga, rock climbing, secretly recording co-workers and surfing. Come on now, boy! We all knows Charlie don't surf? He does if he's trying to avoid his family at all costs.

Trying to surf away from the loved ones, are you?

Why not escape reality like the rest of us?

Through alcohol, drugs, and the sacchar and sweet dreams of our inevitable demise.

Did I mention I also like doing headstands?

Headstands? What's wrong with you, boy? Are you simple? That's part of it, I guess. Other theories range from... Listen and listen good, you petrified mound of hyena droppings and cockroach mow? You funky foul-smiling shack of infected antipus? We got bigger fish frying than whatever nonsense it is you're vomiting up? What is it with you, boy?

...