Acting 1SG Lawes reads the morning formation announcements

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

At ease.

Okay, listen up. Coupla things here.

First.

Lemme get this out of the way most quick smart.

Night bakers. I'm positively fucking thrilled that you love your jobs so much that you want to sing on the way to work. I will simply advise you that if you choose to sing "Bath Salt" again outside the Battalion Sarn't Major's office window when said Battalion Sarn't Major's wife is dropping said Battalion Sarn't Major off at work I will personally go Willy Wonka candy semen on your asses, hit a killswitch and put an end to your personal problems. I trust I am making myself clear.

Second.

Regarding this battalion's upcoming deployment to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

Despite what you current events junkies may have heard on the electronical teevee or over the intertoobz, no matter what Ahab the A-rab is paying for our asses none of that money is going to come your way, Specialist Black, so dancing on the table in the dayroom shouting "Shake mommy's little moneymaker for twenties in my undies!" is not going to make you a profit but will, controversely, result in you spending some unpaid quality time with my friend Mister Rotary Floor Buffer. Are we clear on this, hee-ro?

Outstanding.

And, no, because the desert-roamers are paying for our asses does not make us Free Companions, or The Black Company, or the Fucking White Company, or Fucking Baron von Fucking Riedesel's First Fucking Battalion of Hessian Fucking Jagers. I have personally confiscated those copies of "The Dogs of War" and "The Wild Geese" from the dayroom television because they are a bad influence on you high-velocity projectile interceptors, and I will personally advise you that if I find anyone. ANY. One. In possession of a dried ear, a bolo knife, or a "vive le sacre' mercenaire" tattoo on their ass they will be doing the most heinous form of extra duty for me that I can devise from now until I fucking retire. This in not the Foreign Legion, people. We are soldiers of the United States and will act like it, regardless of the shenanigans of those voted into office in our chain of command.

Now. Last item.

I observe that the new U.S. Space Force facility at North Post is operational. I trust that you are treating our new sister service-members with the respect and dignity that you would treat any other zoomie, squid, or jarhead.

That means, Sergeant Garcia, that repeatedly shouting "To Infinity and Beyond!" when the space cadets are doing what passes for marching in formation past our battalion area is not entirely respectful. And, though I say this more in sorrow than anger, Specialist Black, asking them if their camouflage uniforms are for fighting Wookies on the moons of Endor is entirely non-sat. That is because the hairy aliens on Endor are fucking Ewoks, not Wookies, and only a complete pop culture moron would not know that, and I dread to think that the space rangers think of you and, hence, us, as pop culture morons.

Leave the starship troopers alone, people. They got enough problems as it is.

And medical platoon.

After this formation we will fall in to the motor pool where we will closely examine the 7-Eleven you seem to have set up in the Headquarters 52 GAMA Goat. The last time I saw that many Cheetos bags in one place it took three hours to excavate the sleeping doper underneath. I note in passing that Specialist Denney is absent from this formation, and I trust that we will not be in a similar situation after you have brought that vehicle to an acceptable level of cleanliness.

Are we clear?

Good. That is all.

Comp-ney, Atten-shun!

Platoon sergeants, take charge.