You look like you’re about to rumble with the jocks.
“Well, have you met ’em, man? Really not where it’s at, those types.”
Then why the hell are you joining the Army?
“I’d like to kill some Viet Cong.”
“Stab ’em in the face with a bayonet, man. To protect democracy.”
You’re pulling my leg.
“Well, it was right there, right? C’mon, man, it’s 1959. It’s either go into the Army or take your chances getting drafted by the Navy or Marines. The thought of being cooped up in one of those boats gives me night sweats. Other people seem to really take to it, but that’s their experience and reality, right?”
What about the Marines?
I don’t think you’d do well in that milieu.
“The entire organization is built on yelling. And I couldn’t bear to think of what I’d look like with that haircut.”
Your pompadour looks like a greasy lobster tail.
“Get stuffed, man.”
(These no-longer never-before seen photos come via the great Eric Schwartz, who hosts Lone Star Dead on KNON in Dallas, Texas, and should be visited here.)