InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
Unfortunately, there are far too may people who have no idea what you are talking about. I do, however. Viet Nam was a bitch.....
how would biden take my guns.
- Thread starter washamericom
- Start date
Unfortunately, there are far too may people who have no idea what you are talking about. I do, however. Viet Nam was a bitch.....
- Banned
- #902
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
Do you know what "going viking" means?
Why I’m going Viking – and why you should too
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: When the time is right, I will leave my home shores and go Viking. In this blog post, I will try to explain what that means, and why you should …bull-hansen.com
No - that's why I asked for a translation. In reality I guess Scandinavians (and Slaws) had sent their psychopaths to other countries to bring home some robbed gold. And if such a psychopath died and never came back this was also not any problem. Similar was the situation of pirates.
The little idea of romance, which your text describes, has more to do with manufacturers and traders and a tradition which exists latest since the early middle ages in central Europe. The journeymen for example had to leave their district or country for three years and a day to learn more about their own job from other masters all over Europe, so they were able to become a master in their job on their own. This was in former times also often very dangerous, because of the uncalculable conflicts all over the world. I guess the famous Autralian song "Waltzing Mathilda" shows somehow also the tragic end of one of this journeymen or -woman.
I also have Calico Jack Rackham's flag on the wall in my library at home.
View attachment 473942
It's a hard world; let the weak fall.
I don't have any idea why so many people hate themselve so drastically. Do you know what had happened with the "strong" Roman soldier who had murdered the "weak" philosopher Archimedes?
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
- Banned
- #906
Do you know what "going viking" means?
Why I’m going Viking – and why you should too
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: When the time is right, I will leave my home shores and go Viking. In this blog post, I will try to explain what that means, and why you should …
No - that's why I asked for a translation. In reality I guess Scandinavians (and Slaws) had sent their psychopaths to other countries to bring home some robbed gold. And if such a psychopath died and never came back this was also not any problem. Similar was the situation of pirates.
The little idea of romance, which your text describes, has more to do with manufacturers and traders and a tradition which exists latest since the early middle ages in central Europe. The journeymen for example had to leave their district or country for three years and a day to learn more about their own job from other masters all over Europe, so they were able to become a master in their job on their own. This was in former times also often very dangerous, because of the uncalculable conflicts all over the world. I guess the famous Autralian song "Waltzing Mathilda" shows somehow also the tragic end of one of this journeymen or -woman.
I also have Calico Jack Rackham's flag on the wall in my library at home.
View attachment 473942
It's a hard world; let the weak fall.
I don't have any idea why so many people hate themselve so drastically. Do you know what had happened with the "strong" Roman soldier who had murdered the "weak" philosopher Archimedes?
I don't.
I reveled in it, and I miss it still.
- Banned
- #907
You're a bit of a weak sister, aren't you?From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB. Damned right I call him "Sir" and he would do the same for me. Put the uniform of your country on skippy. Go to war. Come home in one piece and maybe, just MAYBE, you'll understand. Until then, keep your mouth shut.
Last edited:
InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
Do you know what "going viking" means?
Why I’m going Viking – and why you should too
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: When the time is right, I will leave my home shores and go Viking. In this blog post, I will try to explain what that means, and why you should …
No - that's why I asked for a translation. In reality I guess Scandinavians (and Slaws) had sent their psychopaths to other countries to bring home some robbed gold. And if such a psychopath died and never came back this was also not any problem. Similar was the situation of pirates.
The little idea of romance, which your text describes, has more to do with manufacturers and traders and a tradition which exists latest since the early middle ages in central Europe. The journeymen for example had to leave their district or country for three years and a day to learn more about their own job from other masters all over Europe, so they were able to become a master in their job on their own. This was in former times also often very dangerous, because of the uncalculable conflicts all over the world. I guess the famous Autralian song "Waltzing Mathilda" shows somehow also the tragic end of one of this journeymen or -woman.
I also have Calico Jack Rackham's flag on the wall in my library at home.
View attachment 473942
It's a hard world; let the weak fall.
I don't have any idea why so many people hate themselve so drastically. Do you know what had happened with the "strong" Roman soldier who had murdered the "weak" philosopher Archimedes?
I don't.
I reveled in it, and I miss it still.
We were kids. We were soldiers. I remember when I ETS'd back to the states. Everything around me looked completely different. Seemed like no one gave a damn about Viet Nam and they hated those who fought there..no big deal, I hated them, as well.
I knew I had to get rid of the 11B MOS so I re-upped, went to University and became an MP which quickly turned into CID. Hell, I saw some terrible, terrible things at different Posts from Fort Hood to Fort Knox and everything in between - terrible things.
War is a nightmare fought by young men that should be home watching submarine races at the lake with little Blonde Debbie. But, Life doesn't work that way. Our elected "leaders" don't go to war. they send us to fight in their steads - just as the early English King's did. All the way back to the beginning of time.
So, before you little snowflakes cast dispersions on those who do a job that you are scared shitless to do - keep your god damned mouths shut, you worthless assholes. Just remember when you look in the mirror - that person that looks back at you is a coward.
- Banned
- #910
Do you know what "going viking" means?
Why I’m going Viking – and why you should too
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: When the time is right, I will leave my home shores and go Viking. In this blog post, I will try to explain what that means, and why you should …
No - that's why I asked for a translation. In reality I guess Scandinavians (and Slaws) had sent their psychopaths to other countries to bring home some robbed gold. And if such a psychopath died and never came back this was also not any problem. Similar was the situation of pirates.
The little idea of romance, which your text describes, has more to do with manufacturers and traders and a tradition which exists latest since the early middle ages in central Europe. The journeymen for example had to leave their district or country for three years and a day to learn more about their own job from other masters all over Europe, so they were able to become a master in their job on their own. This was in former times also often very dangerous, because of the uncalculable conflicts all over the world. I guess the famous Autralian song "Waltzing Mathilda" shows somehow also the tragic end of one of this journeymen or -woman.
I also have Calico Jack Rackham's flag on the wall in my library at home.
View attachment 473942
It's a hard world; let the weak fall.
I don't have any idea why so many people hate themselve so drastically. Do you know what had happened with the "strong" Roman soldier who had murdered the "weak" philosopher Archimedes?
I don't.
I reveled in it, and I miss it still.
We were kids. We were soldiers. I remember when I ETS'd back to the states. Everything around me looked completely different. Seemed like no one gave a damn about Viet Nam and they hated those who fought there..no big deal, I hated them, as well.
I knew I had to get rid of the 11B MOS so I re-upped, went to University and became an MP which quickly turned into CID. Hell, I saw some terrible, terrible things at different Posts from Fort Hood to Fort Knox and everything in between - terrible things.
War is a nightmare fought by young men that should be home watching submarine races at the lake with little Blonde Debbie. But, Life doesn't work that way. Our elected "leaders" don't go to war. they send us to fight in their steads - just as the early English King's did. All the way back to the beginning of time.
So, before you little snowflakes cast dispersions on those who do a job that you are scared shitless to do - keep your god damned mouths shut, you worthless assholes. Just remember when you look in the mirror - that person that looks back at you is a coward.
"I have humped it or jumped it, rucked it or fucked it. I been there, I done that, I got the T-shirt and the hat. Chicks dig me and guys wanna be me, because I am Airborne, baby....... All the way."
InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
Do you know what "going viking" means?
Why I’m going Viking – and why you should too
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: When the time is right, I will leave my home shores and go Viking. In this blog post, I will try to explain what that means, and why you should …
No - that's why I asked for a translation. In reality I guess Scandinavians (and Slaws) had sent their psychopaths to other countries to bring home some robbed gold. And if such a psychopath died and never came back this was also not any problem. Similar was the situation of pirates.
The little idea of romance, which your text describes, has more to do with manufacturers and traders and a tradition which exists latest since the early middle ages in central Europe. The journeymen for example had to leave their district or country for three years and a day to learn more about their own job from other masters all over Europe, so they were able to become a master in their job on their own. This was in former times also often very dangerous, because of the uncalculable conflicts all over the world. I guess the famous Autralian song "Waltzing Mathilda" shows somehow also the tragic end of one of this journeymen or -woman.
I also have Calico Jack Rackham's flag on the wall in my library at home.
View attachment 473942
It's a hard world; let the weak fall.
I don't have any idea why so many people hate themselve so drastically. Do you know what had happened with the "strong" Roman soldier who had murdered the "weak" philosopher Archimedes?
I don't.
I reveled in it, and I miss it still.
We were kids. We were soldiers. I remember when I ETS'd back to the states. Everything around me looked completely different. Seemed like no one gave a damn about Viet Nam and they hated those who fought there..no big deal, I hated them, as well.
I knew I had to get rid of the 11B MOS so I re-upped, went to University and became an MP which quickly turned into CID. Hell, I saw some terrible, terrible things at different Posts from Fort Hood to Fort Knox and everything in between - terrible things.
War is a nightmare fought by young men that should be home watching submarine races at the lake with little Blonde Debbie. But, Life doesn't work that way. Our elected "leaders" don't go to war. they send us to fight in their steads - just as the early English King's did. All the way back to the beginning of time.
So, before you little snowflakes cast dispersions on those who do a job that you are scared shitless to do - keep your god damned mouths shut, you worthless assholes. Just remember when you look in the mirror - that person that looks back at you is a coward.
"I have humped it or jumped it, rucked it or fucked it. I been there, I done that, I got the T-shirt and the hat. Chicks dig me and guys wanna be me, because I am Airborne, baby....... All the way."
Oooorah!!!
View attachment 474271
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
You're a bit of a weak sister, aren't you?From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Depends who is used how to see me. You could also be in contact with a Borg Queen.
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Last edited:
InspectorDetector
Platinum Member
- Mar 3, 2021
- 911
- 1,061
- 898
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Du hast keinen Arsch, um dich feige zu küssen
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
I will happily call one of my Brothers Sir - something you know nothing about.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Einstein was a dope head fool
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Du hast keinen Arsch, um dich feige zu küssen
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
I will happily call one of my Brothers Sir - something you know nothing about.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Einstein was a dope head fool
Good grief. Poor USA, where criminals think they are "Sir"'s!
Last edited:
- Banned
- #916
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Du hast keinen Arsch, um dich feige zu küssen
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
I will happily call one of my Brothers Sir - something you know nothing about.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Einstein was a dope head fool
Good grief. Poor USA, where criminals think they are "Sir"'s!
I'm an Outlaw, not merely a criminal.
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Du hast keinen Arsch, um dich feige zu küssen
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
I will happily call one of my Brothers Sir - something you know nothing about.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Einstein was a dope head fool
Good grief. Poor USA, where criminals think they are "Sir"'s!
I'm an Outlaw, not merely a criminal.
Go back into your book, idiot.
Rigby5
Diamond Member
So you still don't get it, and I have to explain it to you.
Ho Chi Minh had beat the French, who treated the Vietnamese like dirt.
So Ho Chi Minh was their hero.
He was going to be elected leader of the whole country in the 1955 elections.
But the US did not want that, so backed Diem in pulling a military coup against Bao Dai in 1955.
That was a tragic mistake that could never work.
So then the US had to back a continual series of military coups a series of dictators we supported, Diem, Thieu, Huong, Mihn, and Ky.
It was a totally disaster.
No one in Vietnam supported anyone the US was forcing on them.
They all wanted Ho Chi Minh.
It had nothing to do with cowardice.
I was not just teargassed protesting the illegal war, but getting arrested, beaten, bones broken, etc.
And the problem is not limited to just Vietnam.
Those who have the money and are willing to pay people also control the police here in the US.
And they don't want free and fair elections, newspapers, or anything else.
And they hire people to make sure no one really understands what is going on or that this is really a dictatorship.
If it were not, then we would not be imprisoning so many people in the War on Drugs, lying about WMD in Iraq, passing illegal 3 strikes laws, etc.
So if you really want to server this country, you will stop serving those who just pay you to cause harm, and realize the real enemy is those who have subverted the democratic republic and have take away all our freedoms.
Last edited:
- Banned
- #919
Go
Go hide in a hole and leave the world to the men willing to conquer it.
From the link;
"I am a soldier. I am dirt. With Joshua I put the cities of Canaan to the sword while women screamed and tried to protect their babies. I spent long days in Nanjing butchering and butchering civilians because I enjoyed it. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I fire-bombed Hamburg till the wind-fanned flames left nowhere to hide and the people burned screaming and their fat puddled in the streets. I am a soldier. I am dirt.
On the crumbling walls of Angkor Wat, the Cold Lairs, trees now crawling over the walls, you may see me carved, marching, marching to kill forgotten peoples, it matters not whom. In the sweltering heat of Chichen Itza and the terrible winter of Stalingrad and the flaming paper cities of Japan and on the Death March of the Philippines I killed and killed, for I am a soldier. I am dirt. I kill.
In this I glory. I spend my declining years drinking in bars with old soldiers I knew when Breda fell to us and we raped and killed and looted, when we torpedoed the troop ships and left the soldiers in their thousands to drown slowly as their strength gave out. The fierce exultation of watching Atlanta burn, Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, these I remember lovingly. For I am dirt.
Crush their skulls and eat their faces, we say with remembered bravado. We remember the adventures fondly. They almost had us at Plei Cuy when a 551 arrived with beehive rounds, and that put paid to them, hoo-ah.
These are degenerate days. Once I breached the walls of Ilium or Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and killed and looted and raped girls of seven in front of their parents—how they howled! Now perforce I say I do it for democracy, about which I don’t give a damn, or to end evil, though our allies are the worst tyrants we can find. Before, I could torture my captives between two slow fires, or by running a red-hot poker up their neither ends, and this in the public square for the amusement of a bored populace.
Now I water-board them, bringing them to the edge of drowning, screaming, begging, puking, yes, that does nicely, now a little more water as their minds break, and maybe I will masturbate over it later. For I am a soldier. I am dirt. I am the worst of a sorry species.
I am a soldier. I pride myself on my allegiance to duty, God, honor, country. My god is Moloch of the red fangs, who wills me to besiege a city into cannibalism, to catapult the severed heads of loved ones over the walls, with blankets infected with smallpox. My god, however named—Yahweh, Molloch, Satanas, Odin, imposes my duty, to kill, to rape.
But if my country says to butcher, then butchery were no crime, but a source of honor. To kill for pure enjoyment, as Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, is most contemptible, but to do it because Bush II, Tojo, Bin Laden, or Netanyahu commands it—this is virtue at its highest. Killing for your own reasons is criminal. Killing someone you have never seen for the benefit of a politician you have never met is a source of medals.
I was a soldier once. I received certain medals. They were trivial medals. The meritorious variety are awarded for jumping into a trench of scared conscripted adolescents and bludgeoning them to death with a rifle butt. I lacked the character. But medals can be problems. If I put them in the toilet, they might clog it, but I certainly would not want children exposed to them. The military presents problems that Clausewitz did not anticipate.
Once, in a war of no particular importance, I lay in a hospital of little importance in a country in Asia that didn’t matter. It was just a country. Soldiers kill, who and where and why being beyond their capacities for thought. I was blinded. Soldiers are dirt, and sometimes they get what they deserve. I did. Across from me, though I couldn’t see them, were the survivors of a tank crew. An RPG 2, which you probably don’t know what is, had hit their M60, which you probably don’t know what is, and had cooked off the cherry juice, which you probably don’t know what is.
I couldn’t see them. I was a soldier. I was dirt. But I was blind dirt. I couldn’t see them under the plastic sheeting under which they oozed serum. But they spoke of the fire within, and the loader and gunner screaming as their skin sloughed off, and they desperately tried to find the hatches and couldn’t, and died screaming, screaming, fingers groping for hatches they couldn’t find in the smoke and agony and terror, which is why I hate you sonsofbitches that sent them and us to make money for McDonnell Douglas.
For this we hold reunions. We get together in Wyoming and Tuscaloosa and Portland and remember when we were young and the war held off the boredom of life and the star shells flickered in the night sky over Happy Valley and life meant nothing but was at least intense. I hated the H&I fire over the dark forests of a puzzled Cambodia and I hate you cocksuckers living soft at home for sending us and I hate what I did and I hate what my friends did who were there, who are really my only friends. And I hope you one day pay, what we paid, what our victims paid and you pay it as we did. And this will bring me the only joy in my life.
I am a soldier. I am dirt."
Yes Sir........I can relate.
Don't call absurde idiots "Sir" - even if it is a joke.
Kiss my Lilly white ass you snowflake SOB.
Küsse meinen lilienweissen Arsch du Schneeschluchzer ... that was wrong ... du Schneeflockensohn einer Hure. ... hmm ... Got it. Sounds nice.
Du hast keinen Arsch, um dich feige zu küssen
Aha. And I thought you made a joke. Now you are the joke.
I will happily call one of my Brothers Sir - something you know nothing about.
He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.
Albert Einstein
Einstein was a dope head fool
Good grief. Poor USA, where criminals think they are "Sir"'s!
I'm an Outlaw, not merely a criminal.
Go back into your book, idiot.
Go hide in a hole and leave the world to the men willing to conquer it.
zaangalewa
Gold Member
- Jan 24, 2015
- 21,235
- 2,148
- 140
The result of the election in 1955 was faked. The problem the USA had in the war in Vietnam was totally different. The problem was a problem of the logic of time and a wrong automatism of the will to win. Extremely short: The brutal methods of this war escalated and made everyone helpless, who liked to stop this escalating helix of senseless violence - including the forms of violence against the own people and the own soldiers. Ho Chi Min was a brutal mass-murderer in the tradition of Stalin, Mao and others. Nothing more to say about this cruel monster.
A problem of the USA was for example in this escalating situation in Vietnam that they misused their own soldiers like guinea pigs: they gave them for example in masses heroine. And when more than 2 million Vietnamese had died, slowly many people asked themselve what's the sense of a war for the freedom of the people, if soon will be no people any longer which are able to be free.
And then made the US-Americans something what was so unbelieveable, that it's nearly impossible to believe that this really had happened. Against the will of their own army - against the will of many elites, politicians and many people in their government they stopped this war and ended it. I'm sure this is something what a slave of the Commies - I think about you now - never will be able to do.
This was one of the greatest victories in history which ever had happened: The US-American people wan against the USA and ended this war. This will never be forgotten in history. It's unbelievable that a complete nation is able to change the own wrong way in times of war and to end a war which had seemed to be in the beginning a very senseful war - but had shown more and more what war really makes with human beings. Many parents had to send their children into wars since mankind exists - and got them back dead or like strangers.
Last edited:
