Hydrogen: General DeLukas, or as he prefers to be called, Big Gzy D-Bone Kumanawanahua.
Trillaphon: Huh, I guess it's Hawaiian shirt day at Space Marines HQ. Ah, come in Sgt., have a seat. I believe you've already met my orderly Mr. Mustafa and my lovely Bottom Bitch, Lolo.
Hydrogen: SIR, PERMISSION TO HANG LOOSE SIR!
Trillaphon: Permission granted. Now for God's sake get yourself into some Billabong shorts and grab a lava flow before I have you busted back down to taro-picking duty, soldier!
Hydrogen: It's not everyday you see a raging alcoholic who only drinks fruity tiny umbrella cocktails.
Trillaphon: I AM YOUR SENIOR DRILL INSTRUCTOR AND CERTIFIED LIFEGUARD GUNNERY SGT. MOONBEAM, AND THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS OUT OF YOUR FILTHY SEWERS WILL BE BRAH!
Trillaphon: Wait, did he just say that mai tais are "very sweet and very rare"? Because that is pure fucking madness.
Hydrogen: You see, it's the future. The mai tais were wiped out during the Tiki Bar massacre of Molokai VII.
Trillaphon: We lost a lot of good cocktails that day...
Hydrogen: ...what did you do, sir? Back before the war.
Trillaphon: I was a bartender at Applebees, son.
Hydrogen: I'll bet you made a mean Fuzzy Navel, sir.
Trillaphon: You're goddamn right I did soldier. But that was another life.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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