Full Metal Jacket1987

Hartman:
What's your excuse?

Cowboy:
Sir, excuse for what, sir?

Hartman:
I'm asking the f***in' questions here, Private! Do you understand?

Cowboy:
Sir, yes, sir!

Hartman:
Well, thank you very much! Can I be in charge for a while?

Cowboy:
Sir, yes, sir!

Hartman:
Are you shook up? Are you nervous?

Cowboy:
Sir, I am, sir!

Hartman:
Do I make you nervous?

Cowboy:
Sir!

Hartman:
"Sir" what? Are you about to call me an a**hole?

Cowboy:
Sir, no, sir!

Hartman:
How tall are you, Private?

Cowboy:
Sir, five-foot-nine, sir!

Hartman:
Five-foot-nine? I didn’t know they stacked sh*t that high! You trying to squeeze an inch in on me somewhere, huh?!

Cowboy:
Sir, no, sir!

Hartman:
Bullshit! It looks to me like the best part of you ran down the crack of your mama's ass and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress! I think you’ve been cheated! Where in the hell are you from anyway, Private?

Cowboy:
Sir, Texas, sir!

Hartman:
Holy dogshit! Texas? Only steers and queers come from Texas, Private Cowboy, and you don’t much look like a steer to me, so that kinda narrows it down. Do you suck d*cks?

Cowboy:
Sir, no, sir!

Hartman:
Are you a peter-puffer?!

Cowboy:
Sir, no, sir!

Hartman:
I’ll bet you're the kinda guy that would f*** a person in the ass, and not even have the goddamn common courtesy to give him a reach-around. I'll be watching you.