There’s this poem I read. I love poems. Really

love them. I should put out a book of my own

poems. It’d be very good. A very big seller.

So this poem’s about some air force pilot. Irish.

Says he knows he’ll be shot down somewhere

in the clouds then bitches about how he doesn’t

hate his enemies. Not too crazy about his own

team either. Only cares about the poor people

from his god-forsaken town. The poor people.

Give me a break. Let me just say, some of my

best friends are Irish. Very best friends. Very

close. They love me over there. This jerk-off goes

on about ‘some lonely impulse of delight’ making

him be a pilot. Sad. Very sad. Pathetic. Any one

of twenty top models I could have arranged for him.

In a minute. Soon sort out his impulses. The pilot

guy’s got a thing about balance. He’s got to balance

everything. And then, get this, he says it’s all ‘a waste

of breath’. Waste of breath. I could have told him that

before he got started. There’s a place for these losers.

It’s called Mars. There is no way this man would ever

be allowed into our armed forces. No way. I would

personally make sure of it. We got the best men

in the world right here. They can’t do enough for me.

Tremendously loyal.