You, like Gilligan trying to glue the S.S. Minnow back together with
cocoanut milk, unquestionably are a 6th class idiot. You overlook my
lessons and then stand up and proclaim that you are about as smart as
the shit-flies stuck in the firm (due to rigor mortis) ass cracks of
dead whores found on dirt paths of Madagascar. I threw my best friend
on that grenade and then went on to save a busload of Soldiers on their
way with half price coupons to a Bob Hope Concert. Instead of both
myself and my friend dying, I lived and in doing so, saved many lives of
other men. Uncle Sam needed us to Kill or be Killed. I fought for 12
days straight from the moment I threw my friend on a grenade. Figure
that, 12 days straight and I didn't even pause to go with a bunch of
grateful soldiers to that Bob Hope Concert. For days I fought with
dried up hairy clumps of my friend's corpse splattered over my body. ON
the 2 nd day of fighting I took a slight pause to run my finger's
through my long flowing john Rambo type hair. In doing so a horror
would beseech me that left me wanting to scramble to do a last few
kills, for it would seem I am dying. Or at least so I thought. It
seems while running my fingers through my hair I would come across what
I thought was a hole in my skull exposing my brain. It turns out after
running at top speed looking for 12 or 15 more Charlies to kill before I
died from my brain wound, when from my heroic flowing hair falls out my
friends Liver. Silly me, it was only my friend's liver. I swear to you
though, if you are ever in war and you scratch your head and feel
something gushy... chances are it's your friends liver, but it honestly
feels like it is your brain. With my patent Swiss timing reflexes I
place the liver under my Special edition War boots and use the liver to
slide down a hill into the hub of a full fledge gun fight with 10
Charlies. Don't think to yourself I didn't do all this without
reasoning or feeling some sort of remorse. For I recall as I was doing
the Tony Hawk down the hill with my friends liver, I did think to myself
that I truly hoped my friend was dead from the grenade incident. 
Otherwise using his liver as a skateboard might get me court marshaled
or hell he might not want to be my best friend after the abuse I put his
liver through. In a salience of desperation you could surely note the
liver and I fought hard against Charlie and I acknowledged a laceration
penetrating deep in my ass. Days of fighting went on and the pain in my
ass grew. Finally when I hadn't taken a shit in days and the pain was
insufferable, I punctured my second best finger up my asshole. Yes, my
Second best finger, and not my Best finger. For had Charlie shot me to
death at that precise moment with one of his fancy "On the Spot
Financing" bullets, let's just say I didn't want my body going back to
my mother with her son's best trigger finger stuck in his asshole. She
would have screamed thinking Charlie had sent me home with a message
about what he thought of her son's trigger pulling finger. 
Throughout fingering my ass in search of the diabolic pain, out plopped
my deceased best friend's eye ball. The explosion from the grenade had
sent his eye ball on a top speed run. Due to how deep I had to shove my
finger up my asshole to fish out the Eyeball, If it wasn't for my
asshole playing the valiant role of Catcher's Mitt, that explosion
would've sent the Eyeball out as far as the sea. One day I would return
that eyeball to my best friend's wife and explain to her that I saved
this one eyeball with my asshole, but the other eyeball was lost at sea.
It truly was weird how that land mine incident would have my friend's
eyeball lodged in my brown onion, but no time to ponder or ask why, and
I truly had no choice but to fight on and turn down the "Ripley's
Believe it or Not" people who showed up the very next day with a cash
and a tempting contract to tell my Eyeball story. Warman9330 Copyright 2001