Have a ball?
You really are a weird one, that's for sure.
Twenty wobbly seconds of uninformative busted concrete and assorted bits of wreckage. Could be anything. Nothing graphic at all. No blood. No gore. Nothing...Do you 'have a ball' over that?
Hey fella! Haven't you gathered this is a WAR? Isn't it time it was shown as such, not a sterilised woke disney production to be discussed by wiseacres thousands of miles off who turn their noses up and recoil at the sight of - aagh! Just imagine! Maybe even a casualty?
And how/why do you imagine you are you entitled to this content yet consider the rest of us beneath it? What, exactly, is your special (self awarded) entitlement?
FFS.
There's a piece written about people like you. I know it from Gen. Archibald Wavell's wonderful book, Other Men's Flowers.
I'll see if I can dig it up.
edit...
Guess what - It's Billy Spokeshave himself! Who could have put that sort of self-absorbed poncyness better?
Henry IV Pt. 1, Act1, Sc3
Hotspur (Henry Percy).
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose and took't away again;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk'd,
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly I know not what,
He should or he should not; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman
Of guns and drums and wounds,—God save the mark!—
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said;
And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.