Listen, I know I have a mouth on me. It’s a thing. Maybe it’s even a New England thing. But if they didn’t want me dropping f-bombs all over the place, they should have chosen phonemes that sounded less like fireworks. The “fff” of the mortar leaving its tube, the hard “k” of the report that echoes through the sky.
Yeah, you can hear it now too, can’t you? You’re welcome.