So, you've been to school for a year or two and you know you've seen it all in daddy's car, thinking you'll go far, but back East your type don't crawl. Playing ethnicky jazz to parade your snazz on your five-grand stereo, braggin' that you know how the ******s feel cold and the slums got so much soul? It's time to taste what you most fear - Right Guard will not help you here. Brace yourself, my dear; it's a holiday in Cambodia. It's tough, kid, but it's life. It's a holiday in Cambodia, don't forget to pack a wife.
You're a star-belly sneetch, you suck like a leech, you want everyone to act like you; kiss ass while you ***, so you can get rich, but your boss gets richer off you. Well, you'll work harder with a gun in your back for a bowl of rice a day, slave for soldiers 'til you starve, then your head is skewered on a stake. Now you can go where people are one, and now you can go where they get things done. What you need, my son, is a holiday in Cambodia, where people dress in black; a holiday in Cambodia where you'll kiss ass or crack.
And it's a holiday in Cambodia where you'll do what you're told, a holiday in Cambodia where the slums got so much soul.
Pol Pot.