Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jenkins (page 2 of 6)

It’s What He Would Have Wanted

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“When I say ‘Jerry Garcia,’ what do you think of?”

“Tie-dye? Hippies?”

“No.”

“Beard.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“20-minute solos.”

“Stop that. Concentrate, damn you, or I’ll give you such a hiding.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sir.”

“Skank!”

“Wow, that wasn’t even close to one of my guesses.”

“Jenkins, when you think of Jerry Garcia, you think skank. Semi-naked titty-bitches writhing in orgasmic ecstasy in furtherance of a capitalist agenda. You know, skank.”

“That’s a bit misogynist, sir.”

“Yes. I’m a terrible man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing, nothing at all, sells like skank, Jenkins. Humor, cleverness, outright lying: these work in ads, but not like skank.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but what is this exactly an ad for?’

“The concept that Garcia’s guitars were magical.”

“Ah.”

“Otherwise, people will just think they’re overpriced geegaws that sounded objectively worse than a Strat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can’t have that, now. Bad for merch sales. Gotta sell merch, Jenkins. And do you know how?”

“With skank, sir?”

“Skank! Cures all ailments and washes away trouble, does skank. Puts a spring in your step and a boner in your pocket; talking about skank here. Jenkins, have you ever felt the warm summer rain on your face?”

“I suppose.”

“It was skank.”

“The rain was skank?”

“All is skank; skank is all. Like the Christ, but with a butthole you’d like to wrestle into submission.”

“Why would you need to wrestle a butthole, sir?”

“They get feisty. Buttholes have minds of their own, Jenkins. Never turn your back on a butthole.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’ll be dead!”

“Sir, do you have a plan beyond ‘procure skank?'”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you like to tell me?”

“You didn’t make it clear that was your desire, Jenkins. Be assertive, old bean.”

“What is the skank plan, sir?”

“That’s better. So: we get the skank.”

“Right.”

“And the guitars. Then, we apply a thick coat of polish.”

“To the guitars or the skank, sir?”

“Yes.”

“And then?’

“Well, then the skank skanks it up, I suppose. Wriggling. Going ‘woo!’ That sort of thing. Maybe we get some bellybutton in play. Who knows with skank?”

“So, the model will just dance around in her underwear in front of the guitars?”

“You say that as if it isn’t a mitzvah.”

“It’s not, sir.”

“Anti-semitism will not be allowed in this office, Jenkins. Unless it’s from me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, set up a casting session and run to the store for some polish.”

“Skank or guitar?”

“Yes.”

Get Away From Da Chopper

“Sir, I really must protest.”

“No, Jenkins. You must maintain your balance.”

“That’s what I’m protesting, sir. I’m literally eight inches above twin helicopter rotors. There must be a better configuration.”

“Oh, there is. One where there’s not a wussy piloting the Whirleybird.”

“Ah. You’ve already named it.”

“First thing was the name, Jenkins. Took three years of R&D. Cost the Pentagon four billion.”

“And the actual craft?”

“Like, a week. Used the parts from an old crop duster.”

“Can’t tell, sir.”

“Fine machine, Jenkins. Heroic. You look like Krishna on his chariot. Would we know who Steve McQueen is?”

“I think it’s the mid-60’s, so we would.”

“Wonderful. You look like Steve McQueen.”

“Thank you, sir. May I ask you some questions about the monstrosity?”

“Whirleybird!”

“Whirleybird, sir.”

“Shoot. But don’t actually shoot. The recoil will send you tumbling into the blades.”

“Important note, sir. Thank you. First question.”

“Listening.”

“Why?”

“Oh, blast everyone’s eyes but mine! How dare you cower in the face of the future, Jenkins! This is the next step forward! But, you know, don’t actually step forward.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Whirleybird is the logical evolution of warfare, Jenkins. First we had the horse, and then the tank, and now we have this. Logical.”

“Second question.”

“Yes, yes.”

“How do I steer it?”

“With vigor.”

“I meant practically.”

“Isn’t there a joystick?”

“There is not, sir.”

“Perhaps some form of telepathic linking device? Do you see something that looks like a colander with wires attached to it?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you look everywhere?”

“I did, sir. Not much room for a psychic helmet to hide up here.”

“Have you tried voice commands?”

“I have not, sir.”

“Well, then, why are you bothering me if you haven’t exhausted all your searching yet?”

“Well?”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m as serious as you are Jenkins, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. Ahem. Go right!”

“Right!”

“Try saying starboard. Maybe the Navy programmed it.”

“Yes, sir. Starboard!”

“I think I saw it move.”

“It didn’t, sir. The Whirleybird is not voice-activated.”

“Slight design flaw. Adapt and overcome, Jenkins.”

“I’d really like to, sir, but I’m just not sure how I’m going to make this one work. Assuming I do get it moving, then what comes next?”

“Winning the war.”

“By myself?”

“I’ll take the credit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can you imagine the look on Charlie’s face when he sees you in this?”

“Yes, sir. He’ll have one eye closed in concentration and the other pressed up against his rifle.”

“Poppycock. That cock is the poppiest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie will fear you. He may even worship you as a god. You know these people: show them something shiny, and they call it God.”

“I think they’re Buddhists, sir.”

“And you’ll send them to meet the fat bastard.”

“Yes, sir. Sir?”

“Damn your inquisitiveness and self-preservation! What is it?”

“You want me to kill the enemy with this thing, right?”

“I want you to kill the enemy with everything, Jenkins. It’s a war. Use your little hat for all I care.”

“Yes, sir. But with what? Where are the weapons?”

“The mind is the most lethal weapon, Jenkins.”

“Are you saying I should headbutt the Viet Cong, sir?”

“If you can. Or your incendiary bombs.”

“My incendiary bombs?”

“The four of them. Out on the stalk-y things.”

“Those are fuel tanks, sir.”

“Fuel tanks, incendiary bombs. Same thing. Only difference is whether it’s being thrown at you.”

“Sir, if I drop my fuel tanks on the enemy, then I won’t have any fuel.”

“Hmm. Excellent note. Ah!”

“Oh, no.”

“We’ll have the boys rig you up a backpack.”

“I’m going to wear the fuel? Standing out here in the open?”

“Jenkins, you go to war with the Whirleybird you have, not the Whirleybird you want.”

“Yes, you do, sir. It’s called a helicopter. Why don’t we just use a helicopter?”

“I’m not speaking to the Air Cavalry at the moment.”

“Why?”

“They know what they did.”

“Oh, sir.”

Five Red Balloons

NUCLEAR COMMAND BUNKER, MOSCOW – MORNING, 9/26/83

GENERAL ALARM NOISE

“Lieutenant Colonel Petrov! The general alarm has sounded!”

“I heard it, Private Jenkins. It’s an alarm. Loud as shit. Marlee Matlin would’ve heard it.”

“Colonel, the alarm means the Americans have fired their ICBM missiles at us.”

“The M stands for ‘missile.’ You don’t need to say missile.”

“Sir, please.”

“You think we should shoot ours at them?”

“This is what the manual calls for.”

“Are you authorized to read the manual?”

“No, sir, but I assumed you were.”

“I am.”

“Oh, good.”

“But it’s on back order. They said it would be here in September.”

“Of this year?”

“They didn’t say. Jenkins, don’t tell the KGB I said this, but Communism is not very detail-oriented.”

“Sir, we don’t have time to discuss the inherent flaws with any ideology. The Americans have launched their nukes at us!”

“How many?”

“The computer says five.”

“The computer’s working again?”

“Almost all day.”

“Jenkins, why would the Americans shoot five nukes at us? That makes no sense. I mean, one nuke makes sense. That’s a rogue general or an accident. And all the nukes makes sense. That’s World War III. But five? Something’s hinky.”

“Maybe the Americans are trying to confuse us, Colonel.”

“Yeeeeah, no. Nukes aren’t really ‘confusion weapons.’ You’re thinking about flash-bang grenades. Only thing confusing about a nuclear weapon is, you know: Hey, didn’t there used to be a city right there?”

“Sir, the computer says we’re being attacked.”

“Jenkins, it’s 1983; the computer’s a moron.”

“I cannot believe you’re going to sit there and ignore this.”

“I’m not going to ignore it. I’m going to monitor it closely. But it’s a malfunction.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“Are there still just five missiles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They haven’t launched any more?”

“No, sir.”

“Yup! Computer’s a moron. This is a false alarm.”

“Sir, may I speak freely?”

“Of course not: you’re in the Soviet Union.”

“Regardless. I believe you quite presumptuous to think yourself smarter than the best computer Mother Russia could build.”

“Jenkins, it’s 64 K. I can beat it at chess. And we smoke around it constantly. The machine is wrong, and I’m right.”

GENERAL ALARM NOISE

“It is much louder than you, Colonel.”

“I’ll give you that.”

“Sir, I must insist that you respond to the alarm.”

“Fine.”

GENERAL ALARM SHUTTING-OFF NOISE

“There you go.”

“Sir!”

“What?”

“Colonel Petrov, under Soviet military code 663.1–”

“You’re making that up.”

“–I must insist that you turn your key.”

“Are we doing this bit?”

“TURN YOUR KEY, SIR.”

“Jenkins, this isn’t where we launch the nukes from. We don’t have the button. I make a call to my boss and then he does it.”

“Really? I totally thought we pushed the button.”

“How long have you been working here again?”

“Four years.”

“Sounds right. Jenkins, this is a false alarm. I’ll make you a bet. If I’m right, you owe me a bottle of vodka.”

“And if I’m right?”

“We get incinerated in a nuclear fireball.”

“This is a terrible bet.”

“Not for me.”

 

For Slanislav.

The Ol’ Switcheroo

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“My brain is on fire!”

“I thought you said you were gonna quit huffing Dust-Off, sir.”

“No, not like that. Okay, also like that, but mostly the fire is made from pure ideas. You see, Jenkins, my brain is a farm.”

“A farm on fire?”

“The fire is a metaphor.”

“What about the farm?”

“Also a metaphor. I planted tiny nuggets of notions in there, you see. And now it is harvest-time, Jenkins. We will reap the beautiful flames we have grown on my brain-farm. You and I, Jenkins.”

“Give me the Dust-Off, sir.”

“Blast the Dust-Off and blast your eyes, Jenkins. My word, it’s been a while since I told you to do that.”

“Yes, sir. They’ve completely recovered.”

“Good, good. Then they’ll be up for the blasting they’re to now receive! Blast them, Jenkins.”

“Blasted, sir.”

“I hope you know that hurt you more than it did me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins, is your sister still dead?”

“The brain-farm, sir.”

“Brain-farm! Yes, as I was saying: we’re going to make some movies. Well, re-make them.”

“Can’t we come up with our own stories, sir?”

“Come up with our own stories? How precisely do you suggest we do that? Shall we call for one like a pizza, Jenkins? Have the cat catch one? Perhaps a story is hiding in my credenza. Do you think that a story is hiding in my credenza?”

“No, sir.”

“Shall I check my credenza?”

“No, sir?”

“Do I even have a credenza?”

“The piece of furniture behind you.”

“Oh is that what that’s called?”

“Sir, the movies.”

“Movies! I have a million-dollar idea, Jenkins.”

“If we’re making movies, then a million-dollar idea really isn’t worth much any more.”

“Jenkins, I’ll slap your girlish mouth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to take stories with all men and re-do them with all women. Gentrifying.”

“Genderswapping, sir.”

“No, no. Replacing one group with another to make money. Gentrifying.”

“Your malapropisms are a delight, sir.”

“Close your eyes, Jenkins. Close them tight and dream with me.”

“Are you going to slap my girlish mouth while my eyes are shut, sir?”

“I don’t need your eyes to be shut to do that.”

SLAP!

“See?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now close your blasted eyes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever seen RoboCop?”

“Many times, sir.”

“But what if RoboCop was a lady?”

“And?”

“And also the businessmen. They’d all be lady businessmen.”

“Okay. And?”

“I suppose the evil robot could be called EDNA-209.”

“No, what I meant was: why are we changing the characters’ genders?”

“Because we’re woke, Jenkins.”

“In a story sense, sir.”

“Woke story, too. RoboCop will fight crime and the patriarchy.”

“Sure. What about Nancy Allen? RoboCop’s partner. Is she going to be a man now?”

“Jenkins, do you even listen to yourself? Changing a female character to male? That’s whitewashing.”

“It isn’t.”

“I hope Twitter drags you into the Problem Attic. You should sleep there with Scott Baio and the Washington Redskins’ logo.”

“Yes, sir.”

Patton.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“All-female Patton reboot. Cate Blanchett as Patton. Melissa McCarthy as General Bradley. Lupita Nyong’o as Rommel.”

“That’s terrible, sir.”

“Why do you hate equality, Jenkins?”

“Sir, Patton was a biographical picture. It was about a real guy.”

“So was RoboCop.”

“Did you have any other ideas, sir?”

“I wanted to try some of that fentanyl all the kids are talking about.”

“I’ll make a call, sir.”

“Goody.”

He Read The News Today, Oh Boy

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, President Putin?”

“You see this shit?”

“You could be referring to so many things, sir.”

“Dummy talked to the New York Times again.”

“I know, sir. We took turns reading it out loud at lunch.”

“How’s your borscht sitting?'”

“Honestly? Not well.”

“Me, neither. Have the cook poisoned.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the transcript. It’s so much better. This shit is bananas.”

“B-a-n-a-n-a-s, sir?”

“That song was a banger, Jenkins.”

“Yes , sir.”

“C’mere and read this to me. I wanna make sure my eyes haven’t lost their mind. This paragraph can’t have come out of the mouth of someone who controls nuclear weapons.”

“I don’t have my reading glasses, sir.”

“I do. You know why?”

“The leash.”

“Best invention ever. Glasses are always there. Do I have to buy you one?”

“No, sir.”

“Here. Last time I’m lending you mine.”

“Thank you, sir. Ahem.”

McCabe’s wife. She got $700,000, and he’s at the F.B.I. I mean, how do you think that? But when you say that — and think about this for a second. I don’t think — you could give me a whole string of new information. I don’t think I could really have — there’s only so much. You know, you can only say many things. After that it gets boring, O.K.? How can it be better than deleting emails after you get a subpoena from the United States Congress? Guys go to jail for that, when they delete an email from a civil case. Here, she gets an email from the United States Congress —

“Yeah, that’s what I thought he said.”

“I have no idea what he means here, sir.”

“The general thrust is that he’s picking a fight with the FBI.”

“Hachi-machi, that’s a terrible idea.”

“Right up there with writing an expose on me.”

“Oh, speaking of which: I solved that problem for you.”

“The tall problem or the problem with the beard?”

“Tall one.”

“Good, thank you. Solve the beard problem, too.”

“Wheels are in motion, sir.”

“See, this is how a government works.”

“Efficiency above all, sir. You see the new Spider-Man movie yet?”

“Aspirational filth, Jenkins.”

“Aunt May’s hot now. Marisa Tomei.”

“Ooh, Marisa Tomei. Maybe we’ll go later. Now read this part.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do the voice. You do the voice good.”

“I do the voice the best, no one does the voice better than me, many people have told me this.”

“That! I love that! Read it like that.”

“Yes, sir. Ahem.”

And nothing was changed other than Richard Nixon came along. And when Nixon came along [inaudible] was pretty brutal, and out of courtesy, the F.B.I. started reporting to the Department of Justice. But there was nothing official, there was nothing from Congress. There was nothing — anything. But the F.B.I. person really reports directly to the president of the United States, which is interesting. You know, which is interesting. And I think we’re going to have a great new F.B.I. director.

“Fuck me with a maryushka dildo.”

“Is that a dildo with multiple smaller dildos inside it, sir?”

“Obviously. Keep up.”

“Yes, sir. President Putin, I am not a scholar of American history, but I do not believe the part about Watergate is true.”

“Jenkins, surely you’re not suggesting that the President of the United States doesn’t know how his own government works.”

“Noooooo.”

“Dude, I’m having the best fucking year.”

“It’s like you’ve hit every green light for a thousand blocks in a row.”

“Right? But, hey: a lot of people contributed to this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have them all murdered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ooh, ooh, read this part. It’s just the tits.”

“Ahem.”

“And do the hand thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

No, I think that’s a violation. Look, this is about Russia. So I think if he wants to go, my finances are extremely good, my company is an unbelievably successful company. And actually, when I do my filings, people say, “Man.” People have no idea how successful this is. It’s a great company. But I don’t even think about the company anymore. I think about this. ’Cause one thing, when you do this, companies seem very trivial. O.K.? I really mean that. They seem very trivial. But I have no income from Russia. I don’t do business with Russia. The gentleman that you mentioned, with his son, two nice people. But basically, they brought the Miss Universe pageant to Russia to open up, you know, one of their jobs. Perhaps the convention center where it was held. It was a nice evening, and I left. I left, you know, I left Moscow. It wasn’t Moscow, it was outside of Moscow.

“What?”

“No idea, sir.”

“I mean: what?”

“Something about Russia.”

“Well, that’s everything lately.”

“Seems like it, sir.”

“Jenkins, I might come to regret saying this, but I am getting tired of all this winning.”

“I see what you did there, sir.”

“You saw that?”

“I did.”

“Sir, there’s nothing actually linking you to him, is there?”

“What, like evidence?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Jenkins, he’s the moron, not me. There’s nothing connecting us at all.”

“Oh, good.”

“Just every single person surrounding him.”

“That’s what I thought. Just checking.”

“Curiosity can be an unhealthy impulse to indulge.”

“Yes, President Putin.”

“Now let’s go see Spider-Man.”

“Yay.”

Transcript Of Donald Trump’s Private Meeting With Vladimir Putin (And Translator) At The G20

“So glad we could talk alone, President Putin. Everyone here is a loser and a hater and very fake. Not you, though. Strong and great. Cologne? You wearing cologne or is that your natural scent? Very strong and fragrant. Beautiful smell on you, President Putin.”

“Vhen ve are in private, you may call me Vladimir.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You can call me Donald.”

“I have been calling you Donald.”

“Right, sure, great, yes.”

“English is nyet so good. Putin bring translator. Is Jenkins.”

“Good evening, Mister President.”

“Jenkins, great, wonderful. You have a wonderful translator. Very fit. I’m like you, Vladimir, all man. Love the ladies. Big pussy man. Tits are great, but pussy? No one loves pussy like me with maybe the exception of you, sir. But this translator? Very fit. Good choice you made.”

I have no idea how to translate what he just said, sir.

“I got most of it. I think Dummy wants to fuck you. Or me.”

Jesus, sir, what color is he? Up close, it’s inhuman.

You’re telling me. First time I met him, I nearly did a spit-take. Okay, tell him that I thank him for his compliment or some bullshit like that.”

“Mr. Putin thanks you for the kind words, President Trump.”

“Wonderful, great, beautiful words.”

“And would like the two houses in Maryland that President Obama illegally seized returned to Russia.

Jenkins, stop free-lancing.”

Hundred rubles says he goes for it.”

You’re on.”

“Absolutely! Obama was very unfair to you and also very black. Two bad things! Either one is bad, but both is disgusting. The worst president we’ve ever had, and probably tried to have you murdered many times. They’re yours. Done, boom. Next?”

Jenkins, I owe you a hundred.”

Had a hunch.”

See what else he’ll go for.”

“President Trump, there is also issue of sanctions. Perhaps meeting could be scheduled to discuss a path forward in friendship.”

“We can do this. It’ll be easy, we could do it quick. Can you lift sanctions by a tweet? I could do it right now.”

Did you just say ‘path forward in friendship?'”

Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins, you’re a funny motherfucker.”

Watch this.”

“President Trump, Mr. Putin admires your necktie.”

“Here you go. It’s yours.”

OVERLY-LONG NECKTIE REMOVAL NOISE

“Spaceeba, Donald.”

“That means ‘Thank you,’ Mr. President.”

“Great, fine, wonderful language. Long history, the Russian language, which many people don’t know. Didn’t show up last week. You’ve got a whole history there.”

What the fuck is he talking about?”

No idea, sir.”

We both speak English, right?”

Quite well, Mr. Putin.”

Well, that’s not fucking English.”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Putin appreciates your interest in Russian culture.”

“Very interested, yes. This is great, much better than Washington. Nothing gets done there, zip, nothing at all. Slow place, but that’s not why I won the greatest election of all time. I go fast, get it done, look what I’ve accomplished, so much more than any other president in the world. I do it like this, negotiating one-on-one. We can get things done, Vladimir. We can make deals.”

My mind wandered. What did he say?”

He thinks he is your peer.”

Jenkins, I’m having the best fucking year.”

“Everything’s coming up Putin. You want me to make him give you his pants?”

No. His phone.”

Gotcha, boss.”

“So, Vladimir, can we make a deal?”

“Ve already have, Donald.”

“Wonderful.”

“Da.”

Working Undercover With A Black-Glassed Eye

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come out of the bathroom.”

“I look ridiculous, sir.”

“You always look ridiculous, Jenkins.”

“Oh, yes. This is a new low for you.”

“Can’t I at least wear sneakers, sir?”

“No room in the budget. Spent everything on the Audioperambulator 3000.”

“Audioperambulator?”

“You can walk around with it!”

“And 3000?’

“Cool-sounding number.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, we’ll have no more boo-hooing. Don’t you boo, boy, and don’t you hoo, hoss. You’re going undercover and that’s final.”

“But, sir, is this really the best way to stop the illegal bootlegging?”

“Of course, Jenkins. You’re going to infiltrate their ranks and take the whole filthy lot of them down at once.”

“Can’t we just keep sending roadies into the crowd to cut wires and break tape machines?”

“Liability issues. Remember that bootlegger that snuck all of his equipment into the arena hidden within a wheelchair?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, the crew started dismantling wheelchairs at random.”

“Oh, that’s not good.”

“No. It turns out that people need those.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m up to my left nut in lawsuits.”

“Just the left?”

“That’s the one that hangs higher! Righty was swamped days ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nope, no more treating the symptoms. We shall attack this problem at its roots.”

“But I don’t look right, sir.”

“Nonsense. You look just like a Deadie.”

“Deadhead.”

“Deadite.”

“Deadhead.”

“Oh, pish and tosh, Jenkins! You know what I mean! Whatever those noodle-dancing snotbags call themselves.”

“But I don’t look like them at all.”

“Of course not!”

“Oh, please don’t say–”

“They’d be expecting that!”

“–that they’d be expecting…sir, no.”

“You’ll be narcing in plain sight.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Everyone will assume you look so much like a narc, that you couldn’t possibly be a narc. The plan is half-genius.”

“What’s the other half?’

“Core exercises. The Audioperambulator 3000 weighs 55 pounds.”

“Is there any way to quit this job, sir?”

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

Sign Your Name, Sign Your Name With Ink And Quill

“President Hancock!”

“What is it, Jenkins? We’re signing the Declaration of Independence.”

“Is it August 2nd already?’

“Its July the 4th, you nincompoop.”

“Ah. We’re using the children’s story version of events.”

“Of course, Jenkins. We’re Americans.”

“Not yet, sir”

“Jenkins, you scruffy buffoon, what is the meaning of your interruption?

“Well, sir, here’s the thing: are we sure this a good idea?”

“What?”

“Maybe we’re not ready to be on our own.”

“Balderdash, Jenkins!”

“What if we make terrible decisions, sir? I’m not saying we shouldn’t be an independent country, but perhaps we should wait a little bit.”

“How long is ‘a little bit?'”

“Let’s give it another 300 years.”

“Jenkins, are you a dipsomaniac?”

“No, sir.”

“Enslaved by St. Vitus’ Dance?”

“No, sir.”

“Dropsy?”

“I have no old-timey diseases, sir.”

“Then what in the name of the Father are you on about? We’re signing this declaration today. I brought my special quill with me. Look how big it is.”

“Very big, sir.”

“Plucked it off the ostrich myself.

“It is an enormous quill, President Hancock.”

“Sam Adams brought beer for everyone. Bitter-tasting bullshit, but still: free beer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Plus, we have to get Ben Franklin out of here. That pervert’s knickers are coming off any second.”

“WHO WANTS TO SEE MY POOR RICHARD?”

“And they’re off. Jenkins, you are a bothersome little nitwit.”

“Yes, sir. Are you sure we can’t just wait out King George?”

“He doesn’t die until 1820, Jenkins. Have you eve heard of Ye Olde Wikipedia?”

“Sir, maybe we can be a Commonwealth. Like Canada or Australia.”

“Neither of those places exist yet, dummy.”

“Think twice about this, sir.”

“We left the thinking up to Jefferson, Jenkins. Now shut up and help me lift my quill. I’m going to sign my name so large that King George will be able to read it with his testicles! Write that down and tell people I said it, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe clean it up a bit.”

“Will do, sir.”

This Is Not How Baseball Works

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“We’re back in 2017, aren’t we?”

“It appears so, sir.”

“The horror. The horror. I liked it back in 1973.”

“It was a simpler time.”

“Lot more bush.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Men, women, carpets: much bushier.”

“Grooming standards were different, sir.”

“Had to do a lot of poking around trying to find what you were looking for.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I got my hump on in ’73, Jenkins.”

“I know, sir. You made me watch.”

“Men, women, carpets: I was a boffing boy.”

“You boffed, sir.”

“I stuck it in there. Or up. Don’t forget up. Did quite a bit of sticking it up there. Sometimes I slapped it against there. It makes a dull, wet noise.”

“I can’t get it out of my head, sir.”

“My bell-bottoms were so flared you’d think them nostrils.”

“They were capacious, sir.”

“You’d think them nostrils!”

“Sir, we’re back in 2017 now. Let’s just deal with that.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Definitely an option.”

“I would murder you.”

“I assumed, sir.”

“Just so that’s straight. In our relationship, you are the murder and I am the suicide.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How was the last one we made?”

“Weirdly beautiful in a spare kind of way.”

“There you go, then. This one should be common, ugly, and cluttered. I am the decider!”

“You’re quick with your rulings, sir.”

“Dubya said that. The decider business. George W.”

“I recall, sir.”

“Let’s go back in time to 2004 and laugh at all the people calling him the worst president ever.”

“That sounds depressing, actually.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Or we could go to the hibachi place.”

“Where they throw the shrimp in your mouth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have decided to go with your idea.”

Good decision, sir.”

Fabulous

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did reality just hiccup?”

“I think we may have had a Time Blip, sir.”

“Y’know, just because you capitalize a thing doesn’t make it a thing.”

“Regardless, sir.”

“When are we?”

“1973.”

“Nice. Let’s go get Quaaludes.”

“Maybe later, sir.”

“1973. Ooh, this is exciting. Jenkins, you have no idea how sexist I’m going to be.”

“I think I do, sir.”

“Probably. But I won’t be yelled at for my actions in ’73. Good God, am I going to honk some boobies. Also systemic oppression, but I’m more excited about the honking. Gonna lude up and grab strange titties, and if she gets mad, everyone will tell her to stop being hysterical.”

“I’m still not seeing a difference between the eras, sir.”

“Can’t get ludes any more.”

“I was talking about the sexism, sir.”

“No sexism anymore, Jenkins. We elected a black man, so therefore women are equal. That’s science.”

“No, sir.”

“Political science.”

“Sir, don’t honk strange women’s boobs.”

“How else will the women know they’re attractive?”

“Sir, despite the chrono-shift, we still have work to do.”

“Boob-honking isn’t work, Jenkins. Not how I do it.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Now, you’re sure we’re in ’73?”

“Do we have a newspaper?”

“WUXTRY! WUXTRY! Read all about it!”

“There’s a paperboy right there, Jenkins.”

“How fortuitous. One, please.”

“Here ya go, mister.”

“Thanks.”

BANG!

“Sir, you didn’t need to shoot the paperboy. I had the dime.”

“But now you have the paper and the dime.”

“Ahem. Yup, we’re in 1973. Just look at these stories: President of the United States is an amoral, dangerous lunatic in serious legal trouble; racial tensions are high; Prince Charles is sitting around waiting for his mom to die. Yup, 1973.”

“Such a different time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, as long as we’re not in 2017, the posters don’t have to be hideous, do they?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then. Hire an artist.”

“Gladly, sir. Any ideas?”

“Not ugly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And figure out a way to work the word ‘fabulous’ in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

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