M*A*S*H

Here you are, Radar.

Hey, mail call!

Oh! Oooh! Ohh!

Ah, come on, guys.

Radar! Come on, Radar!

‐RADAR: Come on, guys. ‐Ruba!

Hey, hey, hey! A bonus.

My two girls, Hawk. Kathy and Becky.

"Dear Daddy, We hope you like these cookies.

"We made them ourselves. Nobody helped us."

I wish somebody had.

Wow. I can't believe it.

How they've changed.

They must be a head taller.

And where have I been?

You won a free trip to Korea.

All the slop you can eat

and this suite at the Waldorf Toilet.

From my sister and her ten dancing fingers.

For the man who has everything:

a sweater with a guest room.

Mail call, sir.

Ooh, good‐oh.

Regimental Headquarters.

"For your eyes only. Top Secret."

Is it?

I didn't think so.

"On your next leave in Tokyo,

"remember Madame Wank's Casa de Massage.

Special prices on back‐walking this month."

Back‐walking, sir?

Yeah.

This girl takes her sandals off

and walks on your bare back.

Oh.

Hey, this is from my wife.

Yes, sir.

Oh, boy, I hope it's a cake.

Lorraine makes a sour cream and chocolate job

that you could take intravenously.

She stirs in the sour cream with the melted chocolate.

The topping is about two inches of frosting,

and that cake is as light as air.

With their bare feet?

She's kidding!

Check stubs, bank checks, canceled checks.

20,000 miles from home,

and she wants me to balance her checkbook.

Here's a vet bill. $236.

For treating a 15‐year‐old cat.

What'd she do, give it a facelift?

Wow.

Look at those beauties.

I guess I'm boring when I talk about my kids, huh?

No. As a matter of fact,

that's the only time you're not boring.

I knew you'd understand.

‐Hi, Frank. ‐Hello, Frank.

That'll be the day.

Had a letter from the little woman, Frank?

More important than that. From my stockbrokers.

Henderson, Landers, and Flynn.

I bet they'd fit in my sweater.

"Dear Major... inform you... portfolio..."

He got a letter written in mumble.

Ha! Hot‐diggity‐dog!

They're sending him his Captain Midnight ring.

You're looking at a man who is $2,000 richer

than he was a month ago.

What happened, Frank?

Did you die and leave yourself a lot of money?

Unlike some people, I don't waste my time

drinking and chasing women.

We're thinking of chasing only drinking women.

Eliminates one process.

Quiet, will you?

The man is trying to be dull.

Go ahead, Frank. Dull away.

All I want to say is that my stock portfolio

has just about doubled since the war started.

Which war, Frank? I've been in two.

I just can't get enough.

I'm talking about the Korean conflict, smarty!

If you had any brains, you'd know war

always increases stock prices.

He's right, you know.

Oh, yeah? Then what happened to my 10,000 shares of Gestapo?

Oh, I can't talk to you guys.

Promise?

You're so dedicated, so noble.

Wouldn't dirty your hands with money.

Are you cereal, Frank?

I come from a long line of money‐grubbers.

My great‐grandfather Tombstone Pierce

made his fortune selling whiskey and hors d'oeuvres

to the Indians.

Whiskey and hors d'oeuvres, Gracie?

He always said "What's a drink without a nosh?"

Aaw.

Well, Frank Burns is gonna look out after number one.

I'm not gonna be a surgeon forever.

Or for that matter, even ever.

Oh, go soak your head!

I wish somebody would tear him down

and put up a human being.

He's not worth the trouble.

No, no, I think he is.

As a matter of fact, I think he's ready

for a little humility therapy.

If you will notice, I take pen and ink in hand,

and soon, gentle reader, Frank will discover

a letter which may well change the course

of his mean little life.

How can you be sure he'll find it?

Quite simple. I'll hide it.

Who is it?

Major Burns. It's about that, uh,

exploratory we mentioned earlier.

Just a minute, Major Burns.

Come in, Major Burns.

Margaret, I want to talk to you.

Talk to me, Frank.

I got a letter from home today.

I got something in mail call today, too.

Oh, Margaret, your toe‐straighteners came.

Frank, sometimes you can be such a stupe!

I sent away for these sheer hose

and these spike heels

just to make myself more attractive to you.

You didn't have to do that.

I'd find you attractive if you were naked.

Thanks a whole bunch, Frank.

What's your news?

My investments are beginning to pay off.

Before long, my ship will be coming into Easy Street.

Mrs. Frank Burns.

Where?

I was just trying it out for size.

Beg your pardon?

Well, you always said, Frank,

if ever you were rich enough,

you would think about getting a divorce.

Now, hold it. Just a minute, fella.

Nobody said I was rich. I said I was doing well.

What's the difference between rich and well, Frank?

Well... well is okay, but to be rich,

you've gotta be a lot weller than only well,

no matter how swell well is.

Frank... Frank, you're double‐talking.

I can always tell. Your upper lip disappears.

Margaret, I swear to you, I'm not rich enough

to afford a wife and an ex‐wife.

That's a pity, Frank.

You see, these shoes also come in clear plastic,

and you can see what each little toe is up to.

‐Really, Margaret? ‐Really.

Just think, Frank, when the war is over,

you can go back to your wife and her sensible shoes.

I'll get rich, I promise you.

I will! The first chance I get.

Sir, Corporal Klinger wants to see you.

Oh, no, not Klinger. Not today.

Uh, I think you should see him, sir.

He's got a new dress.

Well, if he's fussed, okay.

Klinger!

Sir.

Klinger.

Klinger...

Is that it?

Yes, sir.

Uh, Klinger, the rifle makes me nervous.

Actually, the purse does, too.

Just sit down, take a load off your heels.

What's your problem,

which I may have tattooed on my forehead?

Got this in mail call today, sir.

What is it?

A letter from my mother.

"Dear Son..."

You obviously haven't sent her a recent picture.

"I hate to bother you in the middle of a war,

but I have some terrible news."

Your father is very sick."

"If he knew I was writing to you,

"he'd be very angry.

Fortunately for us, he's in a coma."

‐Klinger... ‐Sir, please.

"We know your colonel has a good heart,

"and surely he'll let you come home

"for your father's funeral,

"or his 65th birthday, whichever comes first.

"I will close this letter now, son of my heart,

"because my tears are making the paper soggy

"and hard to write on

Your loving, aggravated, brokenhearted mother."

Uh‐huh. Here we go.

Father dying, right?

Yes, sir.

Father dying last year.