"Windbags! I've shaid it before, and I'll shay it again - they are nothing but shtuffed-up, fornicating, shelf-aggrandizing, horse-buggering peacocks and popinjays!" The man's equally drunk companion looked blearily at him over the last of several bottles of fine wine. "Huh?" "Bloody cavalry. Eshpecially those damned Dragoons. Shpend all their time imitating their horses by blowing hot air. Comes from too many damn' months on campaign with no company except for their mounts *giggle*. All Paris can talk about ish shome pooor Captain who followed the ol' 'carpe diem' motto and grabbed his chance. Now he'sh worried he'sh gonna be ostrichized. Yeah, they're gonna make him bury his head in th' sand. Pickled. Inna jar..." The man's head slumps, striking the table with a thump in a splash of spilled burgundy.
