Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs There painting

Frida Kahlo My Dress Hangs There paintingFrida Kahlo Fruits of the Earth painting
slowly, his eyes alive and glistening, "thirty . . . six . . . miles! Christ on a crutch! Do you realize how far that is? Why that's as far as it is from Grand Central to Stamford, Connecticut! Why, man, I haven't walked a hundred consecutive yards since 1945. I couldn't go thirty-six miles if I were sliding downhill the whole way on a sled. And a forced march, mind you. You just don't stroll along, you know. That's like running. That's a regulation two-and-a-half miles per hour with only a ten-minute break each hour. So H & S Company is fouled up. So maybe it is. He can't take green troops like these and do that. After a couple of seven- or ten- or fifteen-mile conditioning hikes, maybe so. If they were young. And rested. Barracks-fresh. But this silly son of a bitch is going to have all these tired, flabby old men flapping around on the ground like a bunch of fish after the first two miles. Christ on a frigging crutch!"
"He's not a bad guy, Al," Culver said,
"he's just a regular. Shot in the ass with the Corps. A bit off his nut, like all of them." But Mannix had made the march seem menacing, there was no doubt about