(no subject)
Hawkeye Pierce sits at the bar, martini carelessly dangling from one hand and microphone from the other. The microphone, it should probably be mentioned, is attached to a big old-fashioned-looking (brand new) reel-to-reel tape recorder.
"Dear Dad," he says in the general direction of the microphone. "Business has been slow lately." A glance down the bar. "It's getting so I'm considering taking up a side practice in cesspool sailboat racing."
It's a glib remark; he's not that desperate for something to do.
Yet.
"Dear Dad," he says in the general direction of the microphone. "Business has been slow lately." A glance down the bar. "It's getting so I'm considering taking up a side practice in cesspool sailboat racing."
It's a glib remark; he's not that desperate for something to do.
Yet.