Thanks Alot General

Drones embedded in the crotch of battle while the white-collar generals bark orders from remote hills. Every now and again patting our virtual heads. Never telling us the vital things although we draw much closer to death. After the dust settles after the invisible devils are beaten back after the masks are packed away. The generals will come back puffy chested-well tanned. Vocal chords revving patting each other on the back. Give themselves a piggy's raise and reward us with a lunch pass.