Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Bad Motor Scooter

cannon cycle

“General, have I done something to you, personally, to warrant this treatment?”

“Done something to me? Jenkins, you’re my favorite man.”

“I am? Then how do I make you hate me, sir?”

“Oh, many ways, Jenkins. Malingering. Bolshevism. That sort of thing. To be honest, the nitpickery on your end is getting on my last tit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay off that last tit, Jenkins! Dangerous place to be!”

“That’s what the scuttlebutt around the mess hall says, sir.”

“You should be thanking me for volunteering you for this.”

“Thank you?”

“Thank you, sir?”

“There’s my man! Think nothing of it, Jenkins. Now hop on the MD.”


“Motorcycle of Death.”

“Ah. Sir, this is not a motorcycle. It is a scooter.”

“Nonsense, Jenkins. If it were a scooter, then it would be named the SD.”

“And, yet. It is a scooter, sir. You step over a motorcycle, you step through a scooter.”

“Well, there you go, Jenkins! You can’t step through this.”

“Only because someone welded a cannon onto it.”

“The fact remains, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. Now, a small question: that small leather pad bolted to the cannon–”

“That’s the seat.”

“–is that actually…ah. Yes, sir.”

“Looks comfy.”

“I’m to rest my testicles on the gun?”

“Well, you’ll be wearing your uniform.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No more naked soldiering around here. It was a pain-in-the-ass getting that wise ass with the weird name out of the tree.”


“Yes, him. What kind of name is Yossarian?”

“It’s Yossarian’s name, sir.”

“Terrible name. Who could ever remember it? Now: Jenkins. That’s a solid name. I would trust your name with my wife, Jenkins.”

“How is the general’s wife, sir?”

“Conducting multiple affairs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“For the best! Allows me to get on with winning the war.”

“Which war is this again, sir?”

“One of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now forget about my wife’s constant cuckoldry and put that massive deathstick between your legs and drive to where people are and shoot them with your powerful meat.”

“I’ll just continue as if we were both sane, sir. This will not work. This does not work. This cannot work.”

“Give me one good reason, Jenkins.”


“Pshaw. A Jewish science.”

“Sir, a gun this size needs a stable platform from which to fire.”


“And a scooter is the mathematical opposite of a stable platform.”

“It’s got a kickstand.”

“Still, sir: very wobbly. Bad for aiming.”

“Well, obviously you secure the platform down.”

“You mean sit on it while it fires?”

“Like ballast.”

“Making my testicles part of the gun’s emplacement, sir?”

“Jenkins, when you joined up, your balls joined up, too.  We’re all making sacrifices. My wife is being plowed by friend and enemy alike, you need to rest your sack on a working bazooka. War is hell.”

“I thought hell was other people, sir.”

“Well, war is nothing but people, isn’t it? The tanks aren’t shooting each other. Can’t have a war without people, Jenkins.”

“Maybe we should try one time, sir.”

“Oh, no. Put too many people out of work. Unions would squawk. Now get on the MCD.”

“Sir, I bring up one further snag in design.”

“Jenkins, you’ve got more snags than a snaggletooth. Laugh at my witticism.”

“Ha, sir. The problem was this: if I ride into battle with such an enormous gun, won’t I become a primary target for the enemy?”

“If they’re any good at all at what they do, yes.”

“They are, sir.”

“Then, yes: you would draw their fire. That’s what the armor is for.”

“The small bits of tin by my knees, sir?”

“Yes, Jenkins: the armor.”

“What about my head, sir?”

“Quite frankly, I’d rather protect your knees than your head. I don’t have to have conversations like this with your knees.”

“Would that you could, sir. But while my knees are important, my head is vital.”

“You’ll have a helmet, obviously.”

“And my torso, sir?”

“Bullet-proof vest.”

“And my arms, sir?”

“You’ve got two.”

“I’m attached to both, sir.”

“Blast your eyes, Jenkins! Take them from their sockets, blast them, put them back, and live with the knowledge that your eyes have been blasted!”

“Yes, sir. I have no more complaints.”

“Thank Jesus and all the lesser, foreign gods.”

“Just one question.”

“What is it?”

“Where does the ammo go?”


“General, if I tell you I’m a homosexual, will you have me thrown out of the military, please?”

“Jenkins, if you tell me you’re a homosexual, I’ll make passionate love to you right on top of that scooter.”

“I did not see you countering in this manner, sir.”

“Nevertheless, Jenkins: here we are.”

“Be gentle, sir.”

“I’ll do no such thing, Jenkins.”


  1. that’s a strange combination of Montrose and Kelly’s Heroes . . .

  2. Luther Von Baconson

    May 31, 2016 at 10:55 am

    notice the confusion & bunching

  3. Luther Von Baconson

    May 31, 2016 at 11:21 am

    this the bombardeer here

    • Not a Bombadeer but always a Flyer, RIP Rick Macliesh.

      • Luther Von Baconson

        May 31, 2016 at 2:55 pm

        yes, The Hawk. Tom Lysiak too

        ’77 my Dad was coaching a house league team, basically a Bad News Bears team. all the kids no coached wanted, lots of single parent (mom) kids. he wanted to give some players who’d improved some awards at the end of the season. so he canvassed a few NHL teams to see if they had some schwag to give. long story short, the only team who gave more than a form letter and a puck was the Flyers. Fred Shero phoned my Dad and said to come the game (Leafs Maple Gardens) next time Flyers are in town and we’ll see what we can do. we go to the game, get inside the dressing room, The Broad Street Bullies at their finest…..naked (Macleish included), smoking cigarettes, using Bad Swears, really pumped for kicking the shit out of Toronto. Fred introduces my Dad, Rick Macleish got everyone on the team to sign it and gave it to my Dad, who gave it to one of his players. Shero also gave him a manuscript of his views on Life and Hockey in general, never published i don’t think.

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