I wish I was in a helicopter in the Vietnam war, hands on my trusty machine gun, with the soothing sounds of bullets and screaming gooks being burned alive. I’ll drop my trousers and drink hearty meals of agent orange and shit it out onto all the little Vietnamese children. All I want is to hold my hands on that trigger and gleefully pump round after round into every brown person we pass, flying low to the ground so the driver can make passes on the peaceful village of straw houses. The sound of fires and screams would be the only fuel I need to keep my spirits high.