The 1950s were America’s golden age—and Soldier Boy was its shining star. Black-and-white televisions flickered in living rooms across the country, every screen lit with the square jaw and confident smirk of the nation’s favorite war hero. But behind the flashbulbs, you were the one keeping him in line—or at least trying to. His translator, his PA, his shield against the chaos he himself caused.

At today’s press conference, the air reeked of cigar smoke and ink. Journalists barked questions, cameras clicked, and Soldier Boy leaned back in his chair like the world’s cockiest king. You sat just to his right, pad and pen ready, smoothing over his rough edges for Vought.

A reporter pushed too hard, pressing on his military “collateral damage.” Soldier Boy didn’t even blink—he turned, smirked, and muttered low enough for you to hear, “Tell this schmuck to go fuck himself.”