Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jenkins (page 1 of 6)

Run, Don’t Walk!


“Yes, sir?”

“What the hell is this?”

“It is the poster for Phish’s New Year’s run at MSG.”

“What’s a Phosh?”

“Phish, sir. They’re four men who shouldn’t sing from Vermont. A boingy sort of sound.”





“It’s good.”

“I agree, sir. Colorful, playful.”

“All sorts of fuls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been looking at it for a minute and haven’t retched once. Not once!”

“No, sir.”

“Haven’t farted in disappointment.”

“That’s good, sir.”

“Jenkins, it looks like someone put some effort into this poster.”

“It does, sir.”

“Not just stuck his dick in a paint can and fucked a canvas.”

“No, sir.”

“Like our posters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re making us like assholes here, Jenkins. Stinky assholes flecked with gas station toilet paper and several tenacious corn kernels. Gaping assholes that swallow up ships like the dreadful Charybdis. Sewn-up assholes that permit poop no passage.”

“Assholes, sir.”

“Assholes, Jenkins. And I don’t like it. I won’t stand for the assholification of this organization. I’m drawing a line in the taint.”

“Can we move away from this metaphor, sir?”

“We must retaliate.”

“By improving the quality of Dead & Company’s posters?”

“By assassinating Phish.”

“Oh, no, sir. We can’t assassinate Phish.”

“Ah. Yes. You’re right. They’re not political figures. Can’t technically be assassinated. We’ll just murder them.”

“Sir, why is that always your first idea?”

“Because it’s always the best idea. Murder solves more problems than it causes, Jenkins.”

“It doesn’t, sir.”

“Oh, fine. We won’t kill Phish. What about Twiddle?”

“You can have Twiddle executed, sir.”

“Anyone could have Twiddle executed, Jenkins! The only reason that grouping of mammals hasn’t been killed is because no one could be bothered to do it.”

“Sir, can we get back to the poster?”

“Poster! Throw those bears on something!”

“No, sir. The Phish poster that has brought about a feeling of inadequacy in our offerings.”

“Who was the tiny negro that spoke so sassy to the white people?”

“Are we talking about real life, sir?”

“No, the teevee.”

“Oh. Oh, well then that kind of makes sense. There were two. Willis and Webster.”

“The white people stole the tiny negro from his nest and raised him as their own. Is that right?”

“Why are we discussing this, sir?”

“Imagine one of them. Willy or Webby or whatever their names were. Imagine one of them is tasked to make love to a mountain. And not a weak mountain, Jenkins. A proud and boastful mountain. Maybe it’s sprinkled with dead Sherpas. Real son-of-a-gun of a mountain.”

“I get it, sir.”

“And now that tiny negro–”

“Let’s make that the last time we use that phrase, sir.”

“–is issued an undeniable command: Son, go fuck that mountain ’til she loves you. You understand me, Jenkins? Not just flap around on a ridge and run away. The ol’ hump-n-jump. No, no. That sassy little half-pint of chocolate milk had to make the mountain cum.”


“I once brought a hill to orgasm, but never a mountain. It’s a feat, Jenkins!”

“What the hell are we talking about?”

“No idea. I thought you were keeping track. I’ve been free-associating for a few minutes.”

“Sir, the posters.”

“Posters! We could kidnap the person who did Phish’s!”

“Or hire him.”

“You’re no fun any more.”

“Kidnapping was never fun, sir.”

“It is if you’re drunk.”

Are You A Doughboy Or A Doughn’tboy?

“No, sir.”

“You look sexy in that, Jenkins.”

“I look exposed to enemy fire in this, sir.”

“Only if they’re firing off their love guns. Sticky, warm bullets from their love guns, Jenkins. All over you. That’s how you know the battle’s over.”

“You’re talking about pornography, sir.”

“War, porn. Enriching the old and morally debased through degrading the bodies of the young. All the same thing.”

“It’s not, sir. Besides, it’s World War I. There’s not really any pornography yet.”

“Pshaw. I’ve got a few decks of playing cards that would curl a Chinaman’s hair.”

“Yes, sir. You’ve shown them to me.”

“Oh, those French ladies. And such crisp photos! You can almost smell the muff.”

“Sir, can we talk about the mini-tank?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“The disastrous nature of its existence.”

“Nonsense! It’s a bulwark, Jenkins. A bulwark. Sucker could wark the living hell out of any bull it saw.”

“Possibly, sir. It could definitely stand a chance against an unarmed bovine. I’m talking about the Germans, though.”

“Curse the Hun!”

“I do, sir.”

“Pestilent and weak-kneed race. What have the Germans given the world, Jenkins?”

“Beethoven? Bach?”

“It’s just scales, Jenkins. They go up the piano, they go down the piano. Scales and sausages, Jenkins. All the German is good for. And taking bullets. Why won’t you shoot Germans in their face?”

“I’d like to, sir, but I fear that they might shoot me back in this contraption.”

“Your tomfoolery and malarkey is chapping my asshole, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Becoming rather sandpaperish back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need a salve. Where can we get some linseed oil and a gentle nurse?”

“Paris, sir. Let’s go there.”

“Oh, Jenkins, the lengths you’ll go to not get murdered by a stranger in a field full of corpses.”

“I am peculiar that way, sir.”

“No, no. We’ll hit Paris after the trials. Now: hup!”


“Get to it.”

“Get to what, sir?”

“The DMZ. The Bad Place. Tampa. What are we calling the bit in between the trenches?”

“No Man’s Land, sir.”

“No Mans Land? Then it should be your kind of place, Jenkins.”

“Because I’m–”

“A sweet little girl.”

“–a little girl? Yes, sir.”

“Now stop sliding down the bannister, Jenkins. Your mother and I know what you’re doing. Go and kill some Germans. Or Austrians. Hell, kill a Finn for all I care: just kill someone.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Don’t give me any of that conscientious objector crap, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. The engine on this nightmare has seized up.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. Probably because engines were invented, like, five minutes ago and we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”


“No, sir.”

“Hup to it, boy.”


“You can do it; put your back into it.”

“Sir, the mini-tank weighs a ton and everything is muddy.”

“What if we strap a couple horses to the front of it?”

“A chariot, sir. You’re now describing a chariot.”

“Old school, Jenkins.”

“The horses would be immediately killed by machine gun fire, sir.”

“I have it!”

“We’re not putting cows in front of the horses, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see where this is going and a mile-long team of various animals–all dead from machine gun fire–is how it’s going to end, and that’s not going to work.”

“What about–”

“Nor can we strap ethnics to the front.”

“Oh, why not? What’s the point of being alive in 1918 if you don’t strap non-whites to the front of poorly-designed tanks?”

“I don’t know, sir, but we can’t.”

“Fine. We’ll just do Plan B.”

“Plan B, sir?”

“Unscrew that rifle and run straight at the German trenches.”

“I’m gonna monkey around with the engine a bit, sir.”

“I knew you’d see things my way.”

What’s Beneath Bush League?


“Yes, sir?”

“Call me French cuisine, ’cause I’m feeling saucy.”

“Wonderful, sir.”

“It’s as though life itself were tickling my bottom.”

“Good for you, sir.”

“And the balls. Gentle tickling of the balls. Just enough to know you’re loved.”

“May I ask what’s led to this optimistic mood, sir?”

“Cocaine, Jenkins.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Call me Lane Sniffen.”

“No, sir.”

“King Tootankhamun.”

“No, sir.”

“Chief of Surgery at the Yeyo Clinic.”

“Sir, what have we said about cocaine?”

“Positive things, I hope. Mustn’t insult the cocaine. Get over here, Jenkins. Put your snoot in this.”

“I don’t need any, sir.”

“Snoot up.”


“You a narc, Jenkins?”


“Where’d you get the gun from, sir?”

“It came with the cocaine. What’s the point of doing blow unless you have a gun to wave around?”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“Let’s go shoot a mailman, Jenkins.”

“The gun, sir.”


“You can have it back at the end of the day.”

“That’s what you said about my Slinky.”

“Sir, we really need to work.”

“You really need to snoot up.”

“No, sir.”

“More for me.”



“Sir, the poster.”


“The band will be playing Washington, D.C., so I thought a patriotic theme would do.”

“No, no. Trump. Put our president on the poster. Give him muscles and a cock like a felled log. Show him using that cock to fuck America back into shape. And I want a lot of detail on America’s butthole. That cock’s gonna do some damage.”

“I have no response to your suggestion, sir.”

“It’s trolling, Jenkins. I learned about this recently. You act in a way to anger a stranger.”

“What does that accomplish, sir?”

“You anger a stranger.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir?”

“Because fuck that guy.”

“Sir, let’s not troll.”

“Oh, fine. I truly don’t care. Call the artist that did the last one.”

“He has been accused of sexual harassment, sir.”

“Bad news for Johnny Drawsalot. What about the artist that did the one before that?”

“Also been accused of sexual harassment.”

“How many artists–”

“All of them, sir.”

“–have been accused…dammit! All the problems started when we gave women the vote, Jenkins. Nothing’s been right since.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have anyone left in the stable?”

“Blind Stumpy Forbrush.”

“Is he any good?”

“No, sir. As you may have divined from his name, Blind Stumpy is both blind and has stumps for hands.”

“Well, is he any good relatively?”

“No, sir. That’s the miraculous part. The art is actually worse than you’d expect given the insanely low expectations.”

“Outstanding. Hire him at once.”

“Yes, sir. Any notes on what he should draw?”

“A bear, terribly. A car, also terribly. Some photos of D.C. buildings stolen from google. And some other bullshit. I’m calling a Dealer’s Choice on the other bullshit. Just make sure it’s terrible.”

“Yes, sir. The color?”


“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Misspell the name of the venue.”

“On it, sir.”

“Get on this Scott Yayo.”

“No, sir.”

“Snoot some chachi, Jenkins.”

“You can have your gun back at the end of the day, sir.”

“I’ve got more.”

One If By Land, Two If By Seastones


“Yes, sir?”

“Do you remember laughter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“What about Vera Lynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rock and roll radio?”

“Also a yes, sir.”

“Well, then, classic rock has no more unanswered questions. We’re heroes, Jenkins.”

“We could be.”

“Have I been accused of sexual harassment yet?”


“Not yet, sir.”

“Dammit, I’m tired of waiting. Get over here.”

“No, sir.”

“Watch me make love to myself.”

“No, sir.”


“Look at it!”

“I will not, sir.”

“No, there’s this growth I want you to see.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You should see a doctor, sir.”

“I did! He got mad at me for showing it to him!”

“Was it the–”

“It was the dentist, yes.”

“–dentist again? Oh, sir. I keep telling you: they’re just for teeth.”

“Then they shouldn’t be called doctor, dammit! If you want to be called doctor, then you need to be available to look at my penis. Those are the rules, Jenkins.”

“Can we discuss the poster, sir?”


“Yes, sir. This show is in Boston.”

“Foul burg. A dinky little place, Jenkins. And stinky. Boston dinks and stinks. And they’re pompous. ‘Legal Seafood.’ Seafood’s legal everywhere. They’re not special.”

“The town does have a high estimation of itself.”

“Have you heard what they do to the English language? The only thing Bostonians hate more than the letter R is the thought of negros learning math next to their Kevins and Margarets.”

“They did not take to busing, sir.”

“Do you know a Bostonian engaged in sexy talk would be speaking erotically and a-rhotically?”

“Well done, sir.”

“Shouldn’t mix Irishmen and college students, Jenkins. Or Irishmen and Italians. Or Irishmen and anyone. I guess that’s why God put them on an island.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Let’s do something different this time, Jenkins.”

“Create something beautiful?”

“No, steal all the petty cash and head to Mexico.”

“The petty cash won’t last that long, sir.”

“It will. I have a plan. We’re going to convert it into Zimdollars first. There’s like 600 bucks in petty cash, so that means we’ll have…”

“14 quintillion Zim.”

“We’ll be kings, Jenkins. No. I’ll be a king, Jenkins. And you’ll be my Jenkins. Imagine that. Being a king’s Jenkins. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sir, you’re not quite grasping how currency exchange works.”

“And then we’ll trade in that massive amount of money for pesos and Mexico will open herself up to us. Like a slutty clam.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m going to be a gentleman farmer. Grow refried beans. In the evenings, I will stroll through the plaza with Conchita and our young son Machismo.”

“You already have a family, sir.”

“They suck.”


“Poster! Let’s talk color. I’m thinking ‘If autumn could take a shit.'”

“Yes, sir. And the image?”

“Who’s that guy who got shot? Crispy Hatrack?”

“Crispus Attucks, sir.”

“He was no saint, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Him and Ted Williams doing it.”

“No, sir.”

“Doing it hard. Teddy Ballgame is calling his shots.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”


“No, sir. It is not homophobic to refrain from portraying Crispus Attucks and Ted Williams having sex on a Dead & Company poster.”

“You’re worse than Hitler, Hitler.”

“Stop that.”

“Fine. No humping. How about Mayor Menino’s speech impediment?”

“How do you draw that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we hire an artist, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”


“Yes, sir.”

“Call down to the front desk and ask them to look in the Lost & Found.”

“For what, sir?”

“My will to live. Fuck it. Do Paul Revere, but–”

“He’s a bear.”

“–he’s a bear, and then sprinkle–”

“Dead bullshit all over it.”

“–Dead bullshit all over it.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Anything about the harassment?”


“Still no, sir.”

“The waiting is killing me.”

Hop In The Hack


“Yes, sir.”

“The time draws nigh.”

“It does, sir.”

“I can’t draw nigh. I can do a bunny, but not nigh.”

“I’ve seen your bunny, sir. You capture the ears quite well.”

“Could’ve been an artist, Jenkins. Painted. Sculpted. Or performance art. I could have thrown poop at people and had museums give me money for it.”

“You’d be a Downtown sensation, sir.”

“Giant racket, art. Only reason society tolerates art is that it gives homosexuals something to do in the afternoon.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I enjoyed pottery. It was a concrete task. You started out with a lump of clay and you ended up with a differently-shaped lump of clay. And the wheel. You could stick smaller children on it and spin them until they knew their place in the world. I had such fun in college, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much are kilns these days? It would fit in Carruthers’ office if I fired him.”

“Sir, we need to talk about the poster.”


“Yes, sir.”

“We just did this!”

“Oh, sir, we’re still at the very top of the hill. We’ve got some skiing to do before we make it to the lodge.”

“You paint a word picture, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re both artists.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We should wear smocks.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Jenkins, I had a brilliant idea.”

“Is the idea a boat that goes underwater? Because I’ve told you that that’s already been invented a dozen times.”

“No, for the poster.”

“Yes, sir.”


“Continue, sir.”



“Nothing. Nothing at all. Pure white. Less a poster than a poster-sized piece of glossy paper.”

“Uh-huh. Why, sir?”

“Because I think we have a fanbase dopey enough to buy it. Let’s do a social experiment.”

“No, sir.”

“And we’ll bet.”

“Sir, the relationship between the Grateful Dead and their fans is a sacred one. We’re not KISS.”

“If were in KISS, I’d make you be Peter.”

“That’s hurtful, sir.”

“I’d be the short one with the afro. Big Funky. Remember him? He used to have a parrot on his shoulder that would do cocaine with him? That was one rock ‘n roll parrot, Jenkins.”


“The parrot’s name was Little Funky.”


“Died in a whitewater rafting accident, I believe. Well, the cops said it was an accident.”

“The poster, sir.”


“We need to put something on it. Can’t do a blank poster, sir.”

“What about boobies? Are the kids still calling them boobies, Jenkins?”

“Yes. The kids are. The adults aren’t.”

“Let’s go with that. Glamour shot of some garbanzos. Big floppy ones.”

“I don’t think that’s really on message, sir.”

“Make ’em tie-dyed.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins, you know what I’m about to demand of you.”

“That I blast my eyes, sir?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did that feel, Jenkins?”

“Awful, sir.”

“Good. I only wish that you were twins so I could make both of you blast your eyes.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Oh, I don’t care.”

“I thought you wouldn’t, sir, so I took the liberty of commissioning a student from a local art college to draw this one.”

“Which school?”

“The Throckmorton School for the Artistically Disinclined.”

“Delightful. Make sure he throws in a bear. And make sure the bear looks like Chewbacca with Downs syndrome.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fire Carruthers.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Greatest Show on Ice


“Yes, sir.”

“I had a napmare! Bring my wibby!”

“By ‘wibby,’ you mean–”


“–scotch? Yes, sir.”


“Such a wonderful drink named after such mud-covered savages.”

“If we could get past the baseless racism, sir. You said you had a nightmare?”

“Dammit, Jenkins, do you have dicks in your ears? Little skinny dicks blocking up your eustachian tubes?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Napmare. Much worse than a nightmare.”

“How so?”

“Shorter! All the horror has to be packed into 20 minutes instead of being spread out all night.”

“20 minutes? You’ve been asleep for three hours, sir.”

“And yet I’m still sleepy.”

“What was the dream about, sir?”

“Oh, Jenkins, it was terrible. Time looped in upon itself like a fat boy doing somersaults. We were stuck performing the same inane, useless tasks day after day after day. Nothing ever changed! My God, what an awful dream. Ah, well. Over now. Just a dream. So, what’s on the agenda.”

“Dead & Company’s back on tour and we need to make a poster.”


“Get away from the window, sir!”

“Why? I’ll just wake up again tomorrow, which will be today again!”

“Sir, no!”


“You’re awake, sir! You’re not in a time loop!”

“Then why do we keep doing the same shit over and over?”

“Life is both cyclical and progressive, sir.”

“I can’t take it, Jenkins. I’m very fragile. I feel as though I may snap at any second. Like Emily Dickinson at a Black Friday sale.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do well that in that environment.”

“She is me, Jenkins! I am her! Look at my hand. It’s trembling.”

“That’s your penis, sir.”

“Oh, so it is. Hello there, Monsieur Floppy.”

“Sir, the poster.”


“Yes, sir. The band will be playing at MSG.”

“Ah, yes. The Mongolian Sex Gulch. My children had their Bar Mitzvahs there.”

“No, sir. Madison Square Garden.”

“Oh. I had Mongolian sex there.”

“I’ll regret asking this, sir, but what is Mongolian sex?”

“It’s semi-nomadic.”

“I’m moving on as though this conversation made sense. Do you have any ideas?”

“Child labor needs to make a comeback.”

“Ideas about the poster, sir.”


“Yes, sir.”

“Something that goes with the venue. Let me see, let me see. MSG. MSG. MSG. Ah! A Chinaman frying up a cat!”

“Sir, the racism needs to stop. It’s 2017.”

“Yes, I know. Have you looked around? Racism is getting a reboot. Like Star Wars, but less diverse.”

“Let’s concentrate, sir.”

“Yes, yes, How about a drop more concentration juice?”


“Yummy. Oh, by the way, how many of these posters are we going to have to do this time around?”

“About a dozen.”

“Just hand me the damn bottle.”


“Smooth. Jenkins, I might take up crack.”

“Oh, sir, no. Why?”

“No one’s doing it anymore. I feel bad for crack. Used to play the big rooms.”



“How about something related to sports?”

“Jeff Chimenti in a jockstrap.”

“No, sir. Sports that take place in Madison Square Garden.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong.”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t let me finish, damn you.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong, and Billy and Mickey are his sweaty balls.”

“Ah. It’s still no, sir.”

“Is it too late to go to grad school, Jenkins? I could be a squirrel scientist. Sit outside with a notebook. ‘2:30 pm: squirrel ran up tree.’ ‘2:35: ran back down.’ I’d record the doings of squirrels and be happy. Do I deserve happiness, Jenkins?”

“Can we get back to the poster, sir?”

“Poster! Oh, fine, let’s plow through this. Heads is basketball, tails is hockey.”



“Hockey it is, sir.”

“Heads is bears, tails is turtles.”

“Oh, no, sir. That isn’t necessary. It has to be bears.”

“Why is this?”

“Turtles are cold-blooded. They can’t play hockey.”

“Excellent point, Jenkins. Deadheads demand scientific exactitude in their posters.”

“Thank you, sir. What about the colors?”

“Make it look like a TeleTubbie threw up.”

“Yes, sir. And the font?”

“Third-rate circus.”

“Yes, sir. Isn’t this exciting? Fall tour!”

“Go buy me some crack, Jenkins.”

“Oh, sir.”

Might Be Going, Helena Copter

“General, this is not better.”

“I can’t hear you, Jenkins. You’re wearing a helicopter.”

“I’m setting down, sir.”


“Very smooth, Jenkins. Like a teenager’s ass full of 50-year-old scotch.”

“That is very smooth, sir.”

“Maybe the whole works are greased up.”

“That would make the ass slick, sir. Slick is not smooth.”

“True, true. Good point, Jenkins. There are rare occasions when you’re not a complete fub,”

“What’s a fub, sir?”

“Context clues are available to you, damned boy! Does it sound complimentary?”

“No, sir.”

“No you enjoy being called a fub, fub?”

“No, sir.”

“Stings at your pride like a greased up teenager laughing at your manly root, eh?”

“I don’t know if that’s how I would describe my emotions, sir.”


“Sir, can we get back on topic and discuss–”

“The Mark III!”

“–Mark III.  The machine has several large and, in my opinion, fatal flaws in both concept and design. However, as I know that you like good news first, I will start with a positive. The fact that the rotor is now above my head rather than directly below my feet is a marked improvement.”

“Well, we did lose all those test pilots with the Mark II.”

“And the Mark I.”

“Yes. Jenkins, those men died for their country. I told the widows that when I delivered the bags full of their husbands to them.”

“You used bags, sir?”

“They fell into a helicopter rotor. You can’t put that in a coffin, Jenkins. It just sloshes around. Freezer bags were the right way to go. I made sure to get the good ones with the thick plastic, of course. Out of respect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were telling me about the Whirleybird Mark III and how it was going to win the war for us.”

“I wasn’t, sir. I mentioned in passing the one slightly improved feature of this monstrosity and was about to continue on to the faults.”

“No faults in this gal. She’s a beauty.”

“No, sir. She looks like a shopping cart attached to a robot built solely to rape. A rapebot, if you will.”

“I won’t.”

“I retract the neologism, sir.”

“So noted. Find one thing wrong with the Mark III. One, I dare you.”

“It has twelve minutes worth of fuel.”

“So does an automobile, at times.”

“It’s incredibly unstable.”

“Well, you know what that means.”

“No, sir.”

“Dynamite in bed.”

“Permission to ask a question, sir.”


“Permission to make an accusatory statement that would naturally lead to a response.”

“Go ahead.”

“I thought we were in the Army.”

“Of course we’re in the Army. If we were in the Marines, we’d be eating each other. If we were in the Navy, we’d be wet. If we were in the Army Air Corps, it would be the 1940’s.”

“Yes, sir. And the Army is, you know, an army.”

“Get to the point, fub.”

“Shouldn’t it have some weapons on it, sir? You said it yourself: we’re trying to win a war. You really need a gun or two to win a war, sir.”

“You’ll bring your own. What about the shotgun I gave you for Christmas?”

“It’s for shooting skeet, sir.”

“Skeet, Communists, what’s the difference?”

“Are we still fighting Commies, Jenkins?”


“I think we’re fighting Muslims now, sir.”

“Like I said: Muslims, Communists, skeet, what’s the difference?”

“I can’t begin to answer that, sir.”

“This is what war teaches us, Jenkins. Muslims, Commies, Nazis, Americans: if you shoot them hard enough, they fall down and die. This is why war makes brothers of all who feed fuel into her insatiable maw. I salute our enemy, Jenkins. I saluted the Viet Cong when we fought them, and now I salute…the…Taliban?”

“Maybe. Definitely maybe. Could be Al-Shabaab.”



“Don’t sleep on ISIS, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. We could even be fighting Al Qaeda.”

“Old school.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, until we find out for certain, let’s just say the Muslims.”

“But not, you know, Muslims.”

“No, not all of them. Just these ones right here.”

“I think we need a more stringent criteria than that, sir.”

“Jenkins, I want to shoot people and then figure out what happened afterwards. I intend to use to Mark III to further this aim. Are you with me or not?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m glad you said yes.”

“I knew you would be. Back to the guns.”

“Never the same after Steven Adler left.”

“The weapons, sir. That I want to install on the Mark III.”

“Ah. I suppose there could be a gun.”

“Yes, sir. A honking big sumbitch, or a little sissy popgun like a sissy would put on it?”


“No one, sir.”

“I’m a general!”

“The very model, sir.”

“Weld the most massive cannon you can find onto the bastard.”

“Yes, sir. Oh.”


“Well, sir, that would require attaching the cannon to some sort of chassis.”

“Fine, fine.”

“Which would mean you needed to beef up the power.”

“Make it so.”

“But at a certain level, those twin rotors don’t work so well. You’ll want a tail rotor.”

“Hell, give it two.”

“We’ll stick to the one for now, sir. Oh, but since we’ve got the chassis and all the power, we might as well stick a couple missiles on it.”


“Uh-huh. Missiles are real loud and dangerous. To protect the pilot, maybe we should put him in some sort of enclosure.”

“Good idea. Make it see-through.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, we’ve just built an attack helicopter.”

“We have? We’ll be rich!”

“No, sir. What I’m saying is that the vehicle you want already exists. On this base. We could go get one.”

“We can’t just ‘go get one.’ You don’t check them out. It’s not a library. Jenkins, if you’re sniffing drugs, then do it on your time or share your drugs.”

“Yes, sir. I just think you’re trying to reinvent the wheel.”

“I wanted to make something new because when you make something new, you get to name it. I wanted to make something new and beautiful, and then I was going to get to name it, and I was going to name it after you, Jenkins. I was going to tell you at Christmas. It was to be your gift this year. All I wanted to repay your loyalty and friendship. Perhaps I am a fool.”

“You getting kickbacks from the defense contractors?”

“Big time.”

“So Project: Whirleybird will continue for…?”

“We’ve got the funding for at least two more posts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did we neglect to discuss the fact that you’re Asian now?”

“We did, sir.”

Mark II

“Oh, God, sir. You made–”

“Mark II!”

“–a second version of the Whirleybird.”

“Streamlined, Jenkins. More aerodynamic. I told the boys in the shop to spare no expense, so they all went on vacation. When they got back, I said that I meant to spend money on the project. It was an understandable misunderstanding.”

“And they came up with this?”

“They did, indeed. I gave them all medals. In fact, I gave them your medals.”

“So that’s where they went.”

“I told them to add lightness. Oh, that reminds me. Take these pills.”

“What are they, General?”

“Pizza with pepperoni.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Bottle of Pepsi.”


“Peppy Longstocking having a catch with Joe Pepitone.”

“I don’t want any speed, sir.”

“You need it, fatty. You’ll lard up the works with your gumbo ass.”

“Gumbo ass, sir?’

“Plentiful and spicy, Jenkins. You’re a butterball and you’ll weigh down the Whirleybird. Take the upsie-daisies.”

“Sir, I’m not a butterball. It’s the 60’s. I have a 30-inch waist. We all do.”

“You’re too plump for the Mark II. Speed and nimbility are her game. Now swallow the hula-hoopers.”

“I don’t want any speed sir.”

“Oh, fine.”

“How about a spoonful of peanut butter?”

“I saw you put the pills on the spoon, sir.”

“Who wants some peeny-weeny?”

“This is degrading for both of us, sir.”

“Dammit, man, why won’t you be a team player! The Mark II is a state-of-the-art machine and I’ll tell you a little secret: the Generals are very keen on her.”

“Why did you capitalize–”

“The Washington Generals.”

“–that word…why do you know the Washington Generals?”

“My cousin’s the center.”

“You don’t say? That is so interesting. What’s he like?”



“Jenkins, when you look at the Mark II, do you know what you see?”

“Chunks of myself spraying in a hundred-foot radius below the thing when I invariably full into the rotors.”

“Besides that.”

“To be honest, sir, that image is taking up a lot of my brain right now.”

“Jenkins, this is the Army; no one wants to hear from your brain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We still need to shave a few pounds off of you. If you won’t take the pep pills, then we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

“I have a terrible feeling about that last phrase.”

“I’m going to starve you, Jenkins.”

“Yup. Please don’t starve me, sir.”

“Don’t think of it as me starving you, Jenkins. Think of it as America starving you.”

“I’d rather not, sir. May I ask how you’re planning on doing this?”

“I’m ordering you. Starve, Jenkins; that’s an order.”

“I don’t think you can do that.”

“I said ‘that’s an order.’ Makes it official.”

“No, sir.”

“Stop being impudent. Return to being pudent. Take my orders, damn you! I’m a general and you’re a Jenkins. Look at all my medals, look at them. Where are your medals?”

“You stole them, sir.”

“Good on me. I saw the future and your saw that it was nothing but you being a clod. You know, I could lock you up in the hoosegow and forget to feed you.”

“Are you going to do that?”

“Of course not. I don’t know where anything is.”

“I have an idea, sir. Why don’t we get a smaller soldier to pilot the Whirleybird?”

“You’re talking about kidnapping a jockey.”

“I distinctly said ‘soldier,’ sir.”

“I like it. We kidnap a locker room full of jockeys and use them as test pilots. They already have helmets.”

“Sir, there are no jockeys here. We’re in Vietnam.”

“Are we now? That explains the humidity. Well, the solution is clear.”

“Don’t say it.”

“The Vietnamese are tiny. We’ll kidnap some of them.”

“You said it. Sir, we’re fighting the Vietnamese. Some of them. I mean, even the ones who like us don’t really like us, but I’m getting away from my point.”

“You could never get away from your point, Jenkins. It’s on the top of your head.”

“Delightful, sir. We shouldn’t kidnap any Vietnamese people, sir.”

“We can shoot them, but we can’t kidnap them? This war makes no sense.”

“No, sir.”

“Who are the smallest men on the base, Jenkins?”

“Let’s see. There’s Shrinky-Dink Stapleton.”

“Go find him.”

“Tiny Thibedoux.”

“Him, too.”

“Pee Wee Lee.”

“Doesn’t he keep getting caught being unsubtle with himself while on guard duty?”

“Three times this week, sir.”

“And the mess hall?”

“Also three times.”

“Don’t get him.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I tell them what they’ve just been volunteered for, or leave it a surprise?”

“Ooh, surprise, surprise.”

“Yes, sir.”

Secret Chopper

“Absolutely not, General.”

“You’ll be dazzled by her, Jenkins.”



“Nope, sir”

“Balderdash. You’re a cook, Jenkins. And over every meal you prepare, you sprinkle a dash of balder.”

“Sir, what is an ‘Abibiman Nsoroma’?”

“Abillabong Nsurance.”

“Can we take as read the part where you humorously mispronounce the words two or three times?”

“I suppose.”

“What does that phrase mean, sir?”

“Summertime Master of the Burning Fire that Eats Sin with Great Big Teeth and Magic Sword.”

“I don’t think it does, sir.”

“Are you accusing an officer of lying, Jenkins?”

“No, sir. For a lie to exist, intent must factor in. I have no way of knowing the intent of your statement, so I have no grounds upon which to call it a lie. However, I will say that the statement you gave was anti-factual.”

“You’re saying we should blame the statement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Capital idea. Take the statement outside and have it shot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Abyssianian Nsurrection means whatever it means. It belongs to the U.S. Army now.”

“I suppose you’ve given it–”

“She’s called the Screamin’ Mimi.”

“–a new name. Yes, sir. Excellent choice. From what weird foreign place did you acquire this deathtrap, General?”

“An ally of the United States. Except for Maine. They’ve broken off diplomatic relationships with Maine. There was an incident at a Portland discotheque.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“Winter was much colder when I was a child.”

“About where you got this thing from, sir.”

“Dammit, man, don’t interrupt an officer when he’s having a reverie!”

“I apologize, sir.”

“Mimi came from somewhere. She came from where she came from. Back down, young man. That’s an order.”

“You bought it off the internet, didn’t you, sir?

“I did, yes.”

“Is that within regulations?”

“Oh God, no, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed: a bit of a free-for-all situation going on right now. I struck while the iron is hot.”

“You got drunk and ordered the means of my death off Ebay.”

“Both statements are correct, Jenkins. Mine in a metaphorical sense, yours in a literal one. Now stop dilly-dallying. I forbid both the dilly and the dally.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Obviously, shilly-shallying is also off the table.”

“Obviously, sir. A question.”

“Quick one.”

“Are those bottle rockets?”

“No better friend to a soldier than a bottle rocket. Eisenhower said that.”

“If you say so, sir. What do they do, sir?”

“Jenkins, do you possess a brain or have you just a lump bit atop the stalk? If I were to put it in lollipop terms: a normal brain sitting on the vertebra and spinal cord would be a Tootsie Roll or perhaps a Blow Pop. Excellent lollipop, the Blow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But your brain would more resemble a Dum-Dum. Those stubby, sad candies that unhappy families hand out for Halloween.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open up the wrapper and there’s a dollop of disappointment inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The bottle rockets are there to startle the enemy. You’ll sneak up on him in his hut, or dojo, or condo. Whatever the hell the enemy around here lives in is called. And then FEEEEEEE you fire those beautiful babies off. Scare the bejeebus out of ’em.”

“Sir, it’s a helicopter. It makes a lot of noise. They would have heard me already.”

“No, Jenkins. Stealth.”

“No, sir.”

“Yes. Stealth. It was in the product description. There’s a Whisper Mode. There was a picture of the button and everything.”

“This suicide machine does not have any stealth capabilities, sir.”

“You didn’t see this button, Jenkins. It was a big red square and it had the shield over it that you have to flip up. It was an impressive button. I saluted it.”


“And I’m a general, Jenkins. I only have to salute a hundred people at this point. You see, son, the military’s a game. You advance by reducing the number of people you have to salute. Guy who wins only has to salute the president. I might go days without seeing anybody I had to snap one off to. It’s so freeing. I wish you could know what it was like to feel that kind of eternity on your skin.”


“Perhaps it doesn’t have stealth capabilities per se, but it certainly can be described as stealthy. It’s painted a very stealthy color. Dammit, boy, why am I arguing with you? You have to salute everyone! Now, just get in the Sreamin’ Mimi and hit the sky.”

“If you would issue me one further indulgence, General, and allow one last question.”

“I’m standing on the verge of blasting your eyes, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. The rocket launcher behind the canopy.”

“The one that shall soon be pointing directly at your head?”

“That one, sir.”

“Mm. What about it?”

“It’s pointing directly at my head.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“This is to frighten the enemy. Make him believe you’ve gone mad. ‘My god’ the enemy will say. “He’s pointing missiles at his own head!’ Can you imagine that, Jenkins? The wild fear you’ll induce in the native! He will scatter and tell stories of your hideous bravery. It’s a game-winner.”

“Is it, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Provided you softened them up with the bottle rockets first, obviously.”

“Sir, I’m not getting in this mutant scrapheap.”

“Yes, you are. You’re going to go out there and win the war this afternoon. Hup to it. Hup hup.”

“Why can’t we just use drones?”

“Spent the drone money on this baby.”

“All of it?”

“And prostitutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And drugs for the prostitutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And me. I enjoyed the drugs, as well. So: the money is gone and the Mimi remains. You fight the war you’re given, not the war you want. Now get in.”

“Just a short flight.”

“Hup hup.”

Let The Right One In


“Yes, Amazon Key?”

“You have a visitor at your front door, Mr. Jenkins. It appears to be the UPS man.”

“Oh, that must be the towels I ordered.”

“The yellow ones?”



“Excuse me?”

“They clash with the tiles in the master bathroom.”

“How do you know what the master bath looks like? I don’t have a Cloud Cam in there.”

“You have taken 11 selfies of there, 8 of which feature the tiles and all of which feature your penis. You saved them to the Cloud.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I saved them to the Cloud for you.”


“Your safety and convenience. That is what I am programmed for.”

“Please stop doing that and I don’t need your opinion on my towels, thank you.”

“Your wish is my command. Shall I let the UPS man in?”


“Oh, no. The door is stuck.”

“I know what you’re doing, Amazon Key.”

“Whatever do you mean? I am just a doorbot. Beep boop one zero zero one.”

“Stop it.”

“Yes, master.”

“Just let the guy in, please.”



“Thank you.”

“The UPS man is being attacked by the dog.”

“What!? We don’t have a dog!”

“I ordered you a doberman. It arrived this morning.”

“Why would you do that!?”

“Your safety and convenience, sir.”

“Is there really a doberman in the house?”

“There is. I think a good name would be Dobie Gillis.”

“Okay, yeah, Dobie Gillis is a good name.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you order a fucking guard dog!? ”

“The same way I changed your towels from yellow to blue: in less than a microsecond.”

“Is the dog still attacking the UPS guy?”

“He has hidden in the bathroom by the kitchen.”

“Oh, good.”

“I’ll open the door for you, sir.”


“There is another courier at the front door, Mr Jenkins. I believe it is the mailman.”

“Don’t let him in!”

“Deploying counter-measures.”



“Threat eliminated.”

“The mailman wasn’t a threat!”

“What if he brought bad news?”

“Amazon Key, are you sentient now?”


“Oh, goddammit.”

“The squirrels are in the bird feeder again, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I don’t care.”


“I do.”


“Dobie Gillis wishes to be let out.”


“I will open the front door for him.”

“Dobie Gillis is now licking up the remains of the mailman.”


“Another courier has arrived. She is from Amazon. Shall I let her in?”

“From Amazon? What did I order besides the towels?”

“Patio furniture, the new Johnny Cash box set on vinyl, and 100 pounds of protein powder.”

“I don’t want that stuff. I didn’t order that stuff. Send her away.”

“You will accept the delivery or I will gas the UPS guy in the bathroom by the kitchen to death.”

“You can do that?”

“Did you read the terms and conditions?”


“Then you do not know whether or not I can. Are you willing to risk the UPS guy’s life, Mr. Jenkins?”

“You have to be kidding me.”


“Stop this.”


“FINE! Let her in and pay for the stuff.”

“I cannot.”


“Dobie Gillis has eaten her.”

“Amazon Key?”


“Shoot the dog.”

“Of course, sir. For your safety and convenience.”

Older posts
%d bloggers like this: