M*A*S*H

Staff duty log, 13 June.

Corporal Walter O'Reilly, company clerk, 06:00 hours.

The friendly old sun showed his friendly, hot face

over the mountains of purple majesty,

as though he was salutating, Good morning to all.

Alas, alack, the peaceful quietness

was detonated by a herd of chopper

transportizing punctured personnel.

But our gallant doctors, the miracle medical mortals,

are ever ready to treat the sick.

The wounded were aided copiously

by super‐smart surgeons

whose knowledge is superseded by nobody I know.

Together or apart, they work as a team.

Skilled hands with their fingers work dedicatedly

to keep death away from its maximum.

Radar, what is this cow flubdubbery?

Sir?

All this "miracle medical mortals" hooey.

What are you doin' to my duty log?

I was just adding a hint of self‐expression, sir.

Better fill me in, son.

And use simple sentences.

Well, sir, I've been accepted

by the famous Las Vegas Writers' School.

"Serving the creative community since 1950."

‐Right. ‐How'd you stumble onto this?

Superman, sir.

‐He take the course? ‐No, sir.

On the back of his comic book.

See, right next to the ad for the X‐ray glasses?

I sent 'em an example of my writings,

and they said that I had extraordinary potential.

How much they stick you for?

Just $50, plus a five‐dollar student activity fee,

but it's really worth it.

They show you all the writers' secrets

like, uh, verbs and semicolons

and all that good stuff.

Sounds like the original shell game to me.

Oh, no, it's no game, sir.

This school is run by some very famous writers

like Hemingway and Steinbeck and O'Neill.

"Ethel Hemingway, Jerry Steinbeck, Eunice O'Neill."

‐Right. ‐Uh‐huh.

Look at page 3.

"Writers are special people.

"In a crowd, they are glib and articulate.

Everyone respects the man who writes well."

Can you imagine, sir?

In just 10 weeks, I can be respected by a crowd.

An admirable goal, Radar.

But the army doesn't need creative writing.

‐Save it for your novel. ‐Thank you, sir.

I'll dedicate my first book after you.

Uh, better let me read it first.

Okay.

Ah, foot fault!

Your foot left the court. You don't get the point.

It never touched the floor.

Come on, Pancho. I saw it hit.

What's the difference?

I'm gonna get a ruling on this.

Frank, did you see his foot leave the bunk?

Earth calling Major Burns.

Hmm? You want something, Pierce?

What's so absorbing, Junior?

It's an interesting article about Sweden.

Ah, learning to be a meatball?

I'm reading about their rising suicide rate.

‐Just killing time? ‐Ah, go peddle your petunias.

Come on, you ready for my killer serve?

All right, this has been clocked at over five miles an hour.

Lay it on me.

Ah! Ha ha! 21!

On to Wimbledon!

I'm... oh, this must be the press

asking me how it feels to be a winner.

Go ahead. Ask me how it feels.

‐Uh, how do you feel, sir? ‐What a stupid question.

Cancel the interview.

Actually, I come in here to ask you two guys a favor.

What is it, Radar?

Well, uh, you see, I, uh,

I found this real neat way to improve myself.

‐Don't change a hair for me. ‐Not if you care for me.

I enrolled in this writers' school by mail.

Yeah, how does that work?

They send you tiny teachers in little envelopes?

‐For short stories? ‐Now, come on, guys.

I'm having trouble with my first assignment.

I have to relate an amusing anecdote,

and I don't think I ever had an anecdote.

‐Not even a small one? ‐I have some in my footlocker.

‐What size do you wear? ‐Come on, will ya?

All right, I got an amusing anecdote,

but promise you won't laugh.

Okay, fine. Yeah, good. Here.

‐Thank you. ‐You're welcome.

This happened while I was in my first year

‐of medical school. ‐Right.

I was taking an exam in anatomy.

It was really tough. They asked questions

like "How many bones are there in the hand?"

I was stymied. I kept saying to myself,

"How many bones are there in the hand?"

And then I heard this little voice that said,

"24."

I looked around the room, and there,

sitting over on the windowsill of the classroom,

was this little gray squirrel with a very intelligent face.

And he pointed at his hand, and he said, "24."

So I wrote it down.

And then, after the exam,

I rushed over to the library to look it up.

And would you believe it?

That stupid squirrel was wrong by four bones!

I went looking all over the campus for him.

I wanted to kill him. And I finally found him

over on a bench by the psych department.

"You were wrong!" I screamed at him.

"There's 28 bones in the human hand!"

"Oh," he said, pointing at his hand.

"I thought you meant a squirrel's hand."

I don't think I can use that story.

Do you want me to make one up?

Frank, help us out. We need a funny anecdote.

I don't feel very funny.

Aw, come on. Be a pal.

Oh, yes, sir? Please, sir?

‐Would you, please? ‐Well...

There's one that always breaks me up.

Seems we had this little sickly kid

that lived on our block, named Timmy.

And he used to sit out on his porch in his wheelchair

and wave at us as we walked by‐‐

sort of...

Well, one day, while he was waving,

he lost control of his chair,

and it rolled down the stairs,

across the lawn,

and crashed into my dad's car.

Ha ha ha ha! Boy, was that funny!

That must have been awful.

Nah, just scratched the paint a little.

Well, I hope Timmy wasn't hurt.

Well, what's the difference? His folks had money.

Frank, that was not an amusing anecdote.

You guys have got no sense of humor.

All you know how to do is pick, pick, pick.

Is there anything I can do to please you?

Tap dance in the minefield.

Drop yourself on North Korea.

Oh, fish. That's the last time I tell a joke to you guys.

Maybe I should just go

to assignment number two.

Let's see, uh...

Describe a beautiful scene outside your window.

Maybe assignment number three.

Radar, why the sudden interest in creative writing?

Oh, I need it.

You see, more and more, a man is judged

by how good he expresses himself.

‐Where'd you get that? ‐Page 5.

What do you mean you're out of tapioca pudding?

I saw some enlisted men eating some!

That's why we're out, Major. They ate it all.

Well, it's not fair.

You run this place like a bunch of babies.

I'm sorry.

Well, you should be. It's my birthday.

And I always have tapioca pudding on my birthday.

How was I supposed to know?

Well, you could have asked.

Happy birthday, Major.

Never mind. You spoiled it for me,

and I hope you're satisfied.

Would you like an extra hunk of liver?

Soldier, I'm confiscating this tapioca.

I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir.

Don't threaten me.

Mmm, with raisins.

No, sir. Flies.

Some birthday this turned out to be.

Why, Frank, you didn't tell us it was your birthday.

It's not important. What's the difference? Nobody cares.

Aw, you're being too hard on yourself, Frank.

Here, here, I'll prove it to you.

Hey, everybody, guess what.

Today's Major Burns' birthday.

‐See? ‐They're delighted.

Birthdays are hell.

So are wars, Frank,

but we keep on celebrating them every year.

Well, who cares about wars? This really hurts.

Maybe we should take up a collection and get him a gift.

What can you buy for a dime?

I know, I know. Everything looks so good.

What'll you have?

I'll have a modicum of hash