Thoughts On The Dead

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

Jenkins And the Jets

“You look like a giant, Jenkins.”

“That’s odd, General. I feel very small right now.”

“Look at her, Jenkins. Can you believe that just 18 months ago I wondered out loud why we didn’t just strap the pilot directly to the engine?”

“I can believe that, sir. I think the taillights are from a Pontiac. Sir?”

“Mm?”

“Why does it have taillights?”

“So the enemy can watch in awe as an American flies away.”

“Strategic thinking, sir.”

“The XF-85, Jenkins! What a futuristic name!”

“What happened to the first 84?”

“Crashed immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Most of them. Some exploded while being fueled. The XF-41 killed itself.”

“Understandable.”

“The first batch were all wrong. XF-1 through 13 were plane-sized! I had to yell and yell at the engineers, “Damn you, I want a plane that’s smaller than a plane. Stop giving me planes that are the size of planes.’ They had the balls to tell me that planes needed to be plane-sized!”

“Imagine that.”

“So I fired all of them and replaced them with engineers who know how to get things done.”

“The captured Nazis–”

“The captured Nazis from Operation Paperclip.”

“–from Operation…oh, sir.”

“They’re former Nazis, Jenkins. That’s the Nazism sweet spot.”

“The sweet spot, sir?”

“You could never be a Nazi, but that’s a bit closed-minded of you. Or you could currently be a Nazi, which makes you a Nazi. Former Nazi is the best of both worlds.”

“I respectfully disagree with that entire line of thinking, sir.”

“And, man oh man, do those guys got stories. Anyway, soon as the Nazis got ahold of it, the project surged ahead really fast.”

“That’s their modus operandi. Sir?”

“In a way, those Nazi scientists were the only ones to come out of the war happy. They just wanted to be left alone to build death rays and sew twins together. And now they can. God bless America, Jenkins.”

“I hope He does, sir. Sir?”

“Mm?”

“Why?”

“Why should God bless America? Well, I gave Him a direct order, first of all.”

“Not that, sir.”

“I’m a general, dammit. If I say ‘jump,’ then God better make some kangaroos.”

“Sir.”

“Oh, that reminds me. We’re calling it the Kangaroo.”

“Are we?”

“Oh, yes. You see, we fly them to the battle zone inside B-29s and drop them out of the bellies of the planes. Just like a kangaroo. The joey bursts forth from the pouch and sprays Communists with .50 caliber machine guns. Very violent place, Australia. Many believe the whites to be more savage than the actual savages.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Kangaroo! They call it the Assassin of the Outback, Jenkins.”

“Don’t know about that, sir.”

“Silent but bouncy.”

“Sir, please. Why do we need this deathtrap?”

“To defeat Communism.”

“How?”

“How? Jenkins, there is a Tiny-Plane Gap! Those collectivist bastards have all sorts of tiny planes! They’re beating us, Jenkins!”

“Maybe we let them win this one and concentrate on the Space Race?”

“It’s like talking to a drunk child. Have you ever hear of the Domino Theory?”

“That if one country turns Communist, then the next will and the next and the next and so on.”

“Exactly! If they win the tiny-plane race, then next they’ll win the giant-tank race, and then they’ll win the perfectly-round battleship race, and then we’re all wearing furry hats and licking Stalin’s balls.”

“Round battleships?”

“Sharks can’t eat them. The way a shark’s mouth is? On the bottom of its face? Can’t bite into a big spheroid. Learned that from James and the Giant Peach.”

“Do we lose a lot of battleships to sharks?”

“If I told you, you’d never step foot on a boat again.”

“General, let’s get back to the plane.”

“Death Kangaroo!”

“We’ve added ‘death?'”

“We have, yes. Sounds cooler.”

“Why does it exist? Why do we need a plane this small? What advantage is it?”

“You lack vision, Jenkins. Perhaps it’s because I’ve forced you to blast your eyes so many times.”

“Could be, sir.”

“No matter! Blast your eyes!”

“Consider them blasted, sir.”

“The advantage, nitwit, is that of confusion. You fly up to a Communist plane and they’ll have no idea how far away you are!”

“I suppose.”

“And target size! You’d have to be Ted Williams to hit this thing.”

“Isn’t Ted Williams a fighter pilot?”

“Yes. He refused to get anywhere near it.”

“His loss.”

“You’ll zip and zop in between the bullets. Look how maneuverable it looks!”

“Yes, but is it actually maneuverable?”

“No, not at all. Like you taped wings to a mailbox.”

“Yes, sir. And how does it land?”

“It doesn’t land! Goes back up to its momma, and back in the pouch.”

“Re-entering the cargo hold of a plane at ten thousand feet?”

“Higher, lower, sure.”

“How?”

“You get it on in there.”

“What?”

“Slide that puppy in the chute.”

“Sir.”

“Think wedding night, Jenkins.”

“I understand, sir. You think this monstrosity is going to ease itself into the belly of another plane in flight without killing everyone involved?”

“Not ‘think,’ Jenkins.”

“Hope! I hope it will! Now let’s go boldly into the future. See you if you get back.”

“I should’ve joined the Navy.”

“And I should’ve shot my wife when I caught her cheating on me, but I didn’t. We all have to live with our mistakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get in the Death Kangaroo.”

“Yes, sir.”

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