Don Malarkey - Blog Posts

if you dont like it catch my hands

Band of Brothers as coffee?

as if i wrote this out and tumblr deleted it so here we go again

Winters: a nice cool glass of milk

Nixon: 8 shots of irish espresso via IV drip

Webster: americano bup bup gotta stay awake, fresh, write

Liebgott: a nice cup of joe

Guarnere: What the fuck is a cappuccino

Toye: An Iced Tea

Luz: pours caprisun into his coffee

Doc Roe: chug it boi dont ever sleep a nice mocha 

Babe: No coffee just hot chocolate with whipped cream marshmallows and sometimes a dollop of icecream

Perconte: he just likes to nibble on the beans 

Lipton: just the foam

Speirs: Black Coffee. through a straw if hes feeling fancy

Malarkey: lil Flat White, sip sip

Martin: He just crushes the beans in his hand and sips the juice from his fist

Talbert: Frappacino, no nonsense

Muck: Coffee with salt

Easy as random memes on my phone part 1:

talbert:

liebgott @ web:

malark, skip & penk:

german pow's & speirs:

babe:

buck:

lip, martin & luz (in that order):

winters about nix:

i keep shitting out shitty content on the daily. am i sorry? no not one bit 😎✌🏻

Since we are all quarantined in my state there is nothing to do. Please tell which band of brothers boy I should draw to cure my boredom. I will post each drawing.

Malarkey: Little girls who kiss frogs expect them to turn into you.

Webster: Oh, come on. I’m not that good looking.

Muck: Yeah, you are.

Liebgott: You kind of are.

Luz: My boyfriend is too tall for me to kiss him on the lips. What should I do?

Liebgott: Punch him in the stomach, then, when he doubles over in pain, kiss him

Malarkey: Tackle him

Perconte: Dump him

Babe: Kick him in the shin

Toye: NO TO ALL OF THOSE! JUST ASK ME TO LEAN DOWN, YOU IDIOT!

Muck, over the phone, holding his bloody nose: Hey, Malark! We're best friends, right, bro?

Malarkey, sighing: Normally I would say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is heading somewhere I won't like.

That can: it’s peaches

Weekend pass: revoked

The dog: it’s mine

Brass knuckles: could use some

Got: a penny

Skip Muck: How long are we going to let him do this?

Alex Penkala: Just give him a minute.

Don Malarkey: *is pushing a door clearly labelled pull*

Had a dream where I saw somewhere that the actors for Luz, Perconte and Guarnere (maybe Malarkey?) rented a house that was shown in some random BoB episode and used it to film a bunch of movies and stuff just the three of them, I was like a vlog where they were showing around, It was really sweet

The first time I saw Skip Muck’s grave at the Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial, I just stood there and felt numb. I was with Dick Winters and Carwood Lipton, on a trip led by Stephen Ambrose. It was 1991. No tears. In fact, there’s a photo of three of us old vets standing at his grave and we’re all looking resolute. Soldiers, you know, posing for a picture taken by a historian who admired the hell out of us. I returned there in 2004 and remembered how when Roe asked if I wanted to see Skip, I’d said no. And when Winters asked if I wanted a break, I’d said no. I realized that since those moments, I’d grieved for everybody I’d lost except for one man, the man whose death I’d tried for decades to run away from, the man whose loss had hit me harder than all the rest. How many times had I looked at that 1942 photo of all of us at Toccoa, the one I’d written all the KIAs and SWAs on for those killed and seriously wounded, and thought, Why not me? Why no initials on my chest? Why not at Brécourt Manor, when I’d stupidly gone after what I thought was a Luger on that dead soldier? Or at Hell’s Corner, when German soldiers had our patrol outnumbered eight to three but wrongly assumed we had more firepower and surrendered to us? Or at Bastogne? If Winters hadn’t split Skip and me up, that would probably have been me, not Penkala, in that foxhole with Skip on January 9, 1944. But even if I’ve played the what-if game often, I know, deep down, that you can never win at it. Better to remember that, for whatever reason—God or fate or reading a Reader’s Digest article about paratroopers on a Greyhound bus heading for Astoria—I was privileged to serve with a company of men who would make me far more than I would have been without them. And that losing one of those men had hurt so badly that I’d buried the thought of him, thinking that somehow that would help me avoid the pain. Better, I’ve since learned, to turn into those waves and dive. So on that day in 2004 when I visited the cemetery where Skip is buried, I looked at that white marble cross and that name—Sgt. Warren H. Muck—and thought of the kid who swam the Niagara. The march to Atlanta. The smile. I knelt, placed flowers at the base of that cross. Prayed. All the things I’d done before when I’d come to see his grave. Only this time I did something different, long overdue, and hard but freeing. I cried sixty years’ worth of tears.

~ Don Malarkey