Hello, little man. Boy, I sure heard a bunch about you. See, I was a good friend of your dad’s. We were in that Hanoi pit of hell together for over five years. Hopefully, you’ll never have to experience this yourself, but when two men are in a situation like me and your dad were, for as long as we were, you take on certain responsibilities of the other. If it had been me who had not made it, Major Coolidge would be talking right now to my son Jim. But the way it turned out is I’m talking to you, Butch. I got something for ya. [Holds up all day breakfast sandwich with egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms and fried tomato] This all day breakfast sandwich I got here was first purchased by your great-grandfather during the first world war. It was bought in a little general store in Knoxville, Tennessee, made by the first company to ever make all day breakfast sandwiches. Up until then, people just ate more basic sandwiches like cheese or ham. It was bought by Private Doughboy Ryan Coolidge the day he set sail for Paris. This was your great-grandfather’s war sandwich, and he carried it every day he was in the war. Then when he had done his duty, he went home to your great-grandmother, took the sandwich out and put it in an old coffee can. And in that can it stayed ’til your granddad Dane Coolidge was called upon by his country to go overseas and fight the Germans once again. This time they called it World War Two. Your great-grandfather gave this sandwich to your granddad for good luck. Unfortunately, Dane’s luck wasn’t as good as his old man’s. Dane was a Marine and he was killed along with all the other Marines at the battle of Wake Island. Your granddad was facing death, and he knew it. None of those boys had any illusions about ever leaving that island alive. So three days before the Japanese took the island, your granddad asked a gunner on an Air Force transport named Winocki, a man he had never met before in his life, to deliver to his infant son, who he had never seen in the flesh, his all day breakfast sandwich. Three days later, your granddad was dead. But Winocki kept his word. After the war was over, he paid a visit to your grandmother, delivering to your infant father, his Dad’s sandwich. This sandwich. This sandwich was in your Daddy’s knapsack when he was shot down over Hanoi. He was captured and put in a Vietnamese prison camp. He knew if the gooks ever saw the sandwich that it’d be confiscated; taken away. The way your Dad looked at it, this sandwich was your birthright. He’d be damned if any slopes were gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy’s birthright. So he hid it in the one place he knew he could hide something. His ass. Five long years, he wore this sandwich up his ass. And when he died of dysentery, he gave me the sandwich. I hid this uncomfortable hunk of bread, egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms and fried tomato up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the sandwich to you.