M*A*S*H

Anybody open?

One buck.

‐I call. ‐I'm in.

‐Call. ‐I'm in.

All right. Cards?

Three.

A‐one, a‐two, a‐three to you.

Ha!

The great poker face.

Keep it up, you'll make Mount Rushmore.

Three.

Who deals these cards deals trash.

Father?

Two, please.

One, two, buckle my shoe.

Father, I thought you were supposed to trust your fellow man.

Not when there's eight dollars in the collection plate.

Woodruff?

Four.

Come on. You'll give it away.

Klinger?

Three.

A face card and a deuce, huh, Klinger?

Come on!

Your nose is the mirror of your soul.

I'd like to use that sometime.

Oh, I'd be flattered.

Dealer takes three.

Hee‐hee‐hee.

‐Uh‐huh. Radar? ‐One buck.

A dollar to you, uh, Father.

Without even a peek...

I will raise it two dollars.

Special glasses?

The Vatican PX.

Three to you, Woody.

Call.

Garbage.

Two to you, Smiley.

Full house. Threes over deuces.

Boy, I must be ahead about 12 bucks.

I can buy my mom some more electrolysis.

The gift for the woman who has everything.

Well, I gotta go.

Sit down, laughing boy. I'm out 85.

Deal!

Daddy needs a new garter belt.

Gee, I'd like to play some more,

but I gotta fill out the morning report,

the monthly report,

type four letters for Colonel Potter,

and massage my gums.

It's almost midnight.

Uh, I'll see ya.

Thanks a lot for all the swell money.

I hate a guy who quits early when he's ahead.

Woody, when Radar says he's got work to do,

he means it.

If it weren't for that leprechaun,

4077 would be a license plate.

Well, I should go.

I promised Finch I'd stop by post‐op.

He's in for dysentery.

‐Ah, my favorite holiday. ‐How much you out, Father?

Sixteen.

Well, unlucky at cards, unlucky at love.

Yep.

There goes my new garter belt.

I'll have to hold up my stockings with Band‐Aids.

‐Ingenious. ‐Stings.

Pulls clumps of hair off my legs.

That's what those were.

I thought they were wounded rats.

I'm ready to pack it in. Time for beddy‐bye.

As us butch guys say at the front.

‐See you at breakfast. ‐Not me. It's porridge.

‐I found two eggs. ‐Under a snake.

Well, what do you say, Woodruff?

You owe me 85.

Uh, get ya next time.

‐How's that? ‐I ain't got it.

You should've gotten out of the game.

You owe me 35 from last week.

Guys, I got obligations. I also play poker at H. Q.

Good, 'cause you're not playing here anymore.

‐Oh, come on, guys. ‐No, forget it.

You stiffed us twice.

Oh, okay, okay. Look, don't‐don't get sore.

I, uh, got something better than money.

Yeah, your health. But I can't spend your health.

Look, I'm in charge of the I Corps mimeograph setup.

And I'm in charge of spleens and small intestines.

You guys know what comes out of mimeograph machines?

Waste paper?

Promotions.

I can promote you.

How would you like, uh, Major Hawkeye Pierce?

I'd rather be Dr. Pierce,

with a liquor store in front and surgery in back.

How about you?

You wanna be Major B. J. Hunnicutt?

What's so funny?

Play this on your mimeograph machine.

Lieutenant Radar O'Reilly.

‐Don't you ever salute, Corporal? ‐(glass shatters)

Well, anything for me?

Uh, just your aftershave lotion, sir.

You little poop!

You planned that whole salute!

Come.

It's me‐‐ ooh.

What?

Mail call, sir. Uh, ma'am.

Uh, that's a package from Lieutenant Colonel Penobscott,

your beloved betrothed‐to‐be.

I know who he is.

Oh!

Oh, that thoughtful darling!

He knows I love fine leathers.

A‐ha! Wahoo!

Yahoo!

I asked for communion wafers, and they sent me Ritz crackers.

Gee, I'm sorry, Father. Supply's mostly Presbyterian.

Well...

did they at least send the Biblical bookmarks?

Oh, yes, sir.

Um, it's, uh‐‐ it's athletic equipment.

You know, slingshots.

With a slingshot like that,

I think David could have slain two Goliaths.

Yeah.

‐(knocking) ‐Come in.

Mail call, Lieutenant Baker.

Radar...

why do you always leave so quickly?

Hit and run?

Well, you know how the mail is.

It doesn't wait for hail or sleet or rain,

or bad spark plugs, or whatever.

I think I'm caught in your towel.

‐Radar. ‐Hmm?

What about us?

‐You mean you and me, and you? ‐Mm‐hmm.

When are you gonna make a real delivery?

I left the mail on your bed.

Radar, how obvious can I be?

‐You can kiss me, if you want. ‐Oh, no, no, no.

I‐I don't think that would be very fair.

All is fair in love and war.

No, I mean I think I'm getting a strep throat.

Besides, you're an officer. I'd be happy to salute you.

Whoa, that stang!

‐Klinger. ‐My colonel?

Knock off the "wah‐wahs."

Yes, sir, but it's a group arrangement.

Just cut. And watch my wart.

In my hands, your wart is sacred.

‐(knocking) ‐Mail.

‐Anything for me? ‐Just junk mail.

‐Wanna sell your house? ‐We rent.

‐Then you didn't get any mail. ‐How did I do?

Pretty good, sir. You got a letter from your granddaughter.

Oh! Open it and read it.

Well, it might be personal.

What could a five‐year‐old kid write that's personal?

‐Oh, potty stuff and‐‐ ‐Read it!

Yes, sir.

‐"Dear Grandpa"... ‐Bright kid, for five.

Made toast at three.

I put milk on my cereal at four.

Good man. Go on.

"Mama says, 'How are you'? Mama says, 'I am fine.'

"Mama says, 'I hope you are fine too'.

"Mama says, 'Don't play with ashtrays

"'cause they're furniture.'

"O‐O‐O‐X‐X‐X."

‐That's hugs and kisses. ‐Oh.

Anything else?

Uh, yes, sir. This came from I Corps.

Read it.

"From: R. J. Meighan. Commanding Officer, I Corps.

"To: Sherman Potter, Commanding.

"Mobile Army Surgical Hospital 4077.

"Regarding the pro"...

Well?

Take it easy, kid.

"Re: The promotion of O'Reilly, Walter, Corporal,

"3‐9‐1‐1‐8‐1‐0, to second lieutenant.

"U.S. Army Reserve."

Well, I'll be John Brown!

You've jumped from corporal, over sergeant,

to second lieutenant!

It must be a mistake. I'm just a kid.

No mistake. That's your serial number.

That's war. Crazy things happen.

Friend of mine was a plumber, one day,

and in charge of the Panama Canal, the next.

You son of a gun. Let me lay one on ya.

Aw, come on, Klinger. At ease.