Those girls are wearing suits, by God! That ain't right.
And with your bellyachin' about the food around here, you're one of 'em! Stop complainin' like a sissy and get back to work, private. Those pots ain't gonna scrub themselves.
And here, take these. One's a flask with my last shots of whiskey, the other's my last half a Hershey Bar. You need 'em more'n I do. Don't mind my yellin' at ya, son. This war, or conflict, or police action, or whatverethehell the meatheads in charge are callin' it this week, can sometimes get to us all. War is Hell, son. Goddam stinkin', festering pools of lava-filled Hell!