Brad: The point, Lance Corporal: we’re supposed to be a recon unit of pure warrior spirit. We’re out here, 40 klicks in enemy lines, and this man of God here, he’s a fuckin’ POG. In fact, he’s an officer POG. That’s one more layer of bureaucracy and unnecessary logistics, one more asshole we need to supply MREs and baby wipes for. And worst of all…worst of all, the motherfucker doesn’t even carry a weapon. When push comes to shove even Rolling Stone picks up a gun, but this fuckin’ shill of God, he can’t cover a sector. He’ll never hump ammo or Claymores. This is a fuckin’ war, and we’re here as warriors. So on top of everything else that’s expected of us do we really need to drag him along and indulge in this make-believe bullshit?
Ray: Oh, no. Now not only do we have to worry about all the Charms you’ve eaten, but now Brad’s just pissed off God.
Brad: If they’d stick around and manned those, we’d have been dead before we’ve even saw.
Ray: Dude, lighten up.
Brad: Then again, the world wouldn’t have to deal with the prospect of you returning to your cretinous, daughter fucking, trailer park, red state shithole, and producing mutant, whiskey tango, scrotum faced, buck toothed, zit exploding progeny.