Christeson stretches his leg and manages to nudge Q-Tip with the toe of his boot. "I think it was the LT, man."
"No fucking way," Q-Tip counters, but he leans forward, raises his voice, and calls, "Yo LT, that was you? Have you been holding out on me all this time?"
"Sorry, Stafford. Forgot where I was for a second," the LT answers over his shoulder.

"Sir, if I wanted easy access to lube at all times," Brad begins, enunciating carefully, and almost smiles when the LT drops his eyes and rolls his shoulders a bit, "then I would have gone to an Ivy League with four-thousand other idealistic, bright-eyed liberal shits, majored in Philosophy, and joined the local Stitch 'n Bitch when I wasn't preparing meatloaf for my lawyer-fuck homosexual of a boyfriend."

"Three out of four," the LT acknowledges without batting an eye, and after only a brief pause. "I actually majored in Classics."