I'm not a fighter. I, ah, I have bad reflexes, and I can't fight. I was once run over by a car with a flat tire, being pushed by two guys. And I was not in the army, in case you were wondering. I was in the canine corps. Strange story, when I was young, I wanted a dog, and we had no money, we were very... my father at that time was a caddie at a miniature golf course in Brooklyn, y'know. I couldn't get a dog, 'cause it was too much, and they finally opened up in my neighbourhood, in Flatbush, a damaged pet shop. They sold damaged pets at discount, y'know, you could get a bent pussycat if you wanted, a straight camel, y'know. I got a dog that stuttered. When the cats would give him a hard time, he would go "B-b-b-b-bow wow", y'know. He'd turn all red, y'know. We wanted to send him into the army, but the papers got crossed up, and they got me instead of him. I was in the canine corps for two weeks. Me and eleven dogs was the outfit. Taught me how to heel. Sergent was a little mexican hairless, y'know. I was not in the regular army. I was classified '4P' by the draftboard, we went to war, I'm a hostage.
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