You would think so; however, my battalion's supply sergeant never qualified with his weapon at the range - the whole time he was in the military (22 years, like).
I used to buy the biggest, fattest, and juiciest joints off his brain damaged wife. She was fecking weird to the max. She would sit on top of their fridge all day long with a glass of iced tea and a bag of doobies.
She was all right, and Sgt was all right too. He let me stay at his house and get away from the barracks on the weekends. He taught me how to be a man. He made me laugh. Sgt was a double hard bastard with a soul.
Sgt was killed in Panama. I watched him die. His eyes were open. He had a fly on his face on the ride back. I hated that fly. I still hate that fly. I hate all flies. They're the first vultures of death.
Peace, Sgt Brother Doobie
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