With help from Mark Twain, who as a dead man, speaks the truth, a prayer for those of you keeping vigil tonight;
"O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it,"
Do you scream tonight like one thousand Afghan and Iraqi children, your bodies covered in ash, moments after the luminescence and sound? The war isn't over so go home till we kill another 1,000 then have a reunion, but this time bring the grill and listen to the sound of that raw meat sizzle. Serve with ketchup and devour. You earned it. Have a beer! I'd spring for a Sam Adams tonight, and flip that hat around bro! You might get some head after this!
If you're lucky you might even get to see a picture of his corpse though I realize you have delicate stomachs and are still getting over the shock of the wedding. But weddings so close to funerals can only mean great things, right?
"O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it,"
Do you scream tonight like one thousand Afghan and Iraqi children, your bodies covered in ash, moments after the luminescence and sound? The war isn't over so go home till we kill another 1,000 then have a reunion, but this time bring the grill and listen to the sound of that raw meat sizzle. Serve with ketchup and devour. You earned it. Have a beer! I'd spring for a Sam Adams tonight, and flip that hat around bro! You might get some head after this!
If you're lucky you might even get to see a picture of his corpse though I realize you have delicate stomachs and are still getting over the shock of the wedding. But weddings so close to funerals can only mean great things, right?
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