Private Urkel there on the left is so on “cleaning the latrine with his toothbrush” duty after the camera gets shut off.
“It only works if the round is in the chamber,” delivered sotto voce by the drill instructor, is the greatest putdown evar, but Private Urkel is just warming up at that point.
Except without a parachute, natch.
Do we have some sort of official tiered system of diplomatic threats in case of international shenanigans? First comes the strongly worded letter from the UN, which the fellow in Trashcanistan with a hook for a hand and an eyepatch doesn’t bother reading. Then comes John Kerry, who threatens to visit your benighted hellhole of a country and eat all the foie gras. Somewhere halfway between that and Hiroshima there must be an entry for: We’ll drop an entire used car lot on you.
These fellows seem confused. They can kill you with a harsh word, probably, or maybe a dirty look. You’re an Intertunnel pansy, of course, so they don’t really even need weapons. But they do seem at sixes and sevens. They can’t decide if they want to be helicopter commandos or submarine badboys or boat badasses or what. I half expected them to park an F-16 in there behind the rubber boat, then shoot a rocket back out to cover all the bases.
Well, whatever they’re doing, I imagine the other fellows are dead already, so it doesn’t much matter.
Yes, yes, we love videos of dudes rollerskating down volcanoes. Snowboarding off cliffs. Sure, you can climb up the side of an apartment block and run across the roof like a lemur. That’s swell. You can sit on an airbag wearing a hockey helmet and undershorts as good as the next guy, it’s true. We adore it all, every last loose tooth and road rash. But compared to the military, it’s all conversation.