It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black 'forty four
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks held back
The enemy tanks for a while
And the Anzio bridgehead
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary livesEsteemed
Gentlemen, good evening.
History has a way of repeating itself, and as the French went into Agincourt relying on their armor, only to be turned into human brochettes by English longbows,
Her
Majesty's favorites, the
Pilgrims of
Saint
Paul,
Royal Fusiliers Company C CloisterCucks of the
Inner
Cloister
Expeditionary
Force, attempted to take the Ardennes forest via an armored assault against a faster, more agile opponent.
To our (and pretty much everyone's) surprise, said opponent came from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the highly-decorated
Fallschirmjägerregiment I ezpk.., of
Kaiser
Franz
Joseph's
First
Army
Legendary Melee.
Clearly knowing their ground and tactics, their 420 mm Big Bertha guns decimated our slow moving ranks before we even stood a chance. In the ensuing disarray, Field Marshal
Father Jon suggested to commit all our remaining forces in a final frontal attack. It didn't quite turn out as expected.
It was dark all around
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C
They were all left behind
Most of them dead
The rest of them dying
And that's how the CloisterCucks
Saw defeat in round threeWelp, no, I confess. Our telegraph was down, runners and courier pigeons were nowhere to be found, and I was holding the map upside down when I called for a retreat.
Anyway, as usual, here goes the super-extra-mega-short-brief-summary for those that have trouble reading stuff.
First round
ezpk.. 5
CloisterCucks 4
Second round
ezpk.. 5
CloisterCucks 1
And so it is, this report to your
Most
Honorable
Venue here is being issued as we displace back towards the coast, our forces down a handful of runners (whom we found down the road: apparently, they had been stashing our lost shipment of
Blue
Pills and were putting it to good use), a full complement of non-GMO courier pigeons,
Father Jon and
yours truly. We can only pray to
The Holy Trinity of The Paul, The Jay Es Pee and The Forum Gold for guidance in these dark times: we shall see if we can make it back home in the seventh and final episode of this already-extremely-tedious-and-retarded saga.
Esteemed
Gentlemen, once more, thank you, and enjoy your beef Wellington.
Legal disclaimers1. I am fully aware that it's company Z instead of C, that Anzio is nowhere near Belgium and that sure as shit there were no Tiger tanks in world war I. What is there is there for dramatic effect: please refrain from busting my balls in this regard, thanks.
2. Intelligence reports suggest that certain individuals (who shall remain unnamed) believe that the bold letters make up subliminal messages. I assure you here and now that this is
not the case, in any form or fashion, by any stretch of the imagination.
3. In the nigh-impossible event that Roger Waters actually reads this: apologies for butchering your beautiful song in the end there. On the other hand, you left Pink Floyd out to dry, you smoked/shouted your voice to shreds, you became an actually happy person and ended up betraying whichever ideals you may have had, so fuck you. You broke my heart, Roger, you broke my heart.