Son, we live in a world that has pants, and those pants have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have more pants here than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved pants. And that my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves pants. I know deep down in pants you dont talk about at parties, you don't want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, pants, loyalty. We use these words as the pants of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the pants nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the pants of the very freedom I provide, then question the pants in which I provide it. I prefer you said pants you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a pants, and stand to post. Either way, I don't give a pants what you think you are entitled to!