I'd just like to say that I'm extremely proud to be a descendent of the legacy of some of the baddest motherfuckers to ever walk the earth - the paratroopers of the 82d Airborne Division during World War Two. Those mindblowingly bat-shit crazy individuals jumped blindly into a country they'd never seen full of well-trained Nazi assholes firing Flak cannons at them in the middle of the night. (Holy fuck, how scary is that? I damn near piss myself on training jumps.)
Legend has it that after they landed, during the battles in the French bocage, the paratroopers' assault positions were often given away by the sound of their giant, solid brass testicles clanging together in the silent darkness - forcing them to kill everything in their path with a hail of .30 cal gunfire, thereby inconveniently dirtying said paratroopers' weapons and, worst of all, angering their NCOs.
When it was determined that the paratroopers had sufficiently softened up resistance (read: exterminated the enemy) in their current area of operation, higher ups would find another suitable location for them to earn their combat jump pay; whereupon they would repeat said extreme violence upon the enemy until victory was achieved. Rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat.
By God, what a bunch of fucking lunatics. May this country forever be blessed with paratroopers like them.
H-Minus, Airborne, All The Way.
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