The infantry: a crash-course in physical suffering, mental agony, and sensory overload. But above all else, if there is one thing you will take from it all for the rest of your life, you're going to learn to talk some shit. Take a bunch of sexually pent-up 18 to 25-year-olds from all sorts of different backgrounds, withhold basic luxuries (and some times necessities) from them, put them in crazy situations, and you're going to have a group of people who don't get squeamish when it comes to language. And since you're in Bravo Company and you don't even associate with those assholes in Delta Company, your shit-talking is going to be directed to the people you know the most: your friends. If you're a comedy writer looking for material, go spend a week in a rifle platoon. Listen to the way these animals talk to each other. I promise you that you'll have golden material for the rest of your life. Cursing is an art. Insults are extreme. Banter is more than a simple back and forth: it's violent poetry. Do you know why? Because, when you're in a job that puts your life on the line, language doesn't matter. It means nothing. It's simply a test to see how much the people you're supposed to rely on can take. You love them. You need them. That's why you're okay with insulting their mother. I went infantry so I could talk shit for the rest of my life.
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