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No Steffy Pwease


Manly man Jesse Kelly has some thoughts on women Marines serving in leadership positions. They are exactly as good as you’d expect them to be.

Toughest Marine I ever knew? He was a man’s man. Name was Chet Beefpenis. He liked to drive a vintage truck and roll coal. He drank his whiskey straight. He smoked. By smoke I mean he liked putting his mouth directly over his truck’s exhaust pipe and inhaling. Inadvisable? Sure. But that’s the kind of guy you want by your side when you’re in the trenches.

Chet liked to live dangerously. Sometimes he he’d put on a suit he’d doused in gasoline, hang out in biker bars and dare random strangers to put their cigarettes out on him. He was scarred, inside and out. A real man’s man.

Chet liked to played lead guitar in a punk band that didn’t do anything but covers of Florida Georgia Line songs. He couldn’t play guitar and the music was awful, but Chet didn’t do anything halfway and I respected him for his tenacity. In the heat of battle you don’t want someone beside you who knows his limitations, you want someone beside you who’s screaming the lyrics to amiable pop-country at the top of his lungs and frantically playing air guitar in a way that makes it look like this penis caught fire.

For breakfast Chet ate corned beef hash straight from a can. Then he ate the can. Then he would ugly-cry in the mirror while holding his ex-wife’s robe and screaming “Why Sharon?! Why?!!!” for a half hour. It was manly crying. His tears smelled like bacon.

Chet pooped free weights.

Chet was 3 buffalos, 2 sets of of shark claspers and a bottle of Drakkar Noir in a leather trench coat.

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