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Amateur Boxing, Photo by Carl Mydans, 1955

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Propaganda pamphlet from the Korean war trying to convince American soldiers to defect, early 1950s

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Maxwell Q. Klinger // Conscientious Objector by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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@achangin mailed: boy, that gripes my cookies.

gay army surgeons.

" took the words right out of my mouth. " no exaggeration, coming from a man who's been known to call irritants dirty stinkers. (being pretty handy with his dukes, notwithstanding.)

his eyes look sidelong at the young man, then he fully turns his body once he registers the particular flavor of surprised on his features. arms uncross, loosely attaching to his hips, instead. " even priests grow weary of army regulation meatloaf. "

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@soulmissed mailed: that’s for me to know and for you to find out.

gay army surgeons.

the wording threatens a ripple of mirth in the back of sidney's throat, held back with the teeth that chew the side of his tongue, though one corner of his mouth quirks.

" usually how my job works, yes. you're a smart cookie. "

he's not here for the boy. that's not his area, but if it is witty repartee he wants, he's certainly found the right psychiatrist.

he presses the puzzle piece into its rightful spot, completing the cottage's window. a glance is spared at the section august has decided to put together. " how's it going over there? "

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M*A*S*H taken from the tv show.

look, stop snowing me.

i’m so tired, my eyes keep slamming shut.

honestly, when you live in a cruddy situation like this long enough, you get to love a few people, and even hate a few.

just come inside and let yourself heal for a few days.

for me to do my job, i’ve got to know what’s bothering you, if anything.

come out of the sun. your brain is getting a tan.

your bruises. you’ve been brawling.

if this hurts, you’ll be the first to know.

boy, that gripes my cookies.

watch your language, or i’ll wash your mouth out with soap.

how’d you like a nose full of nickels?

i’ll thank you to mind your P’s and Q’s.

you’re the only one who ever comes to sunday services.

these monthly check-ups are a pain.

i’ve watched you around the hospital. you care about people.

you waited too long. now you’ve got a fever on your hands.

it’s my job to say no.

you can’t talk to me like that. not and get away with it.

guess i’m your bunk buddy for tonight.

why don’t you have some food first? best medicine in the world.

listen, the only thing G.I. about me is my athlete’s foot.

you look like an ad for death.

look, if you want to be a hero that much, you go.

that’s for me to know and for you to find out.

you just go back there and become the best possible “you” you can.

is that what you said, or do we have a bad connection?

this is the first time i’ve cried since i came to this crummy place.

just don’t talk to me for the rest of the war!

you know what a hero is? ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’s somebody who’s tired enough and cold enough and hungry enough not to give a damn. i don’t give a damn.

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his shoulders lock up, and he nearly trips and falls at being brought close so adruptly. a part of him wants to squirm away, but he reluctantly remains underneath xeno's arm. he's been in this situation before, usually with captain pierce.

(captain mcintyre, too, when he was still here, and not back at home like the luckiest dog in the world. uncle trapper and aunt hawkeye--)

he really does need to introduce him to hawkeye. radar takes a glance at his profile, then back to the road, then back again. he even looks like him, a little, with his dark hair and skinny limbs and easy grin.

radar gulps. " zombies? " he's blanching, now, a total one-eighty from red-faced and miffed. " don't be dumb. they don't -- " he thinks about the kids brought in, most of them no older than him and xeno, and how some really do look like zombies, shambling and bloody and pieces of their bodies dangling -- he sounds halfway to throwing up: " exist. "

deliberately, he stomps into rosie's and sits down at the bar. " grahi nehi. " he grumbles, even though rosie knows his order. in an effort to sound serious: " on the rocks. 'n put rocks in it, this time! "

her brows raise, and then she sees xeno, and she slowly grins.

" what d'you want, fresh meat? " she asks in her typical rough parlance.

another laugh escapes before he can reign it back inside his throat. it's just, well, xeno's not sure he's ever seen anyone flush as badly as radar is flushing right now.

without warning, he throws an arm over radar's shoulder, attempting to recover some sort of camaraderie from the trouble his own mouth always lands him in. "c'mon, man, i respect it. swear on my life. you got your likes, and i got mine."

his head, though, maybe that's already gone.

"why?" he smiles, forgetting where he is for one blissful second, and teases, "you scared of zombies?"

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mulcahy shakes his head, checks to see if his glasses aren't snapped, or the lenses aren't shattered. he doesn't feel any hurts. nothing beyond having a bruise or two tomorrow, maybe. nothing anybody would see.

he peers up at her as her hand reaches his periphery. " oh, thank you, " and his hand clasps the young woman's own, hauling himself up and brushing dirt off his clothing once standing.

while situating his off-white panama back on his head, he takes a closer look at his company. she's young. lord, isn't everybody out here young? younger than him, almost always. younger and younger, it seems, in a way that makes his chest tight. the last patient he'd given the last rites to hadn't even lost all the roundness to their cheeks.

steady, but gentle: " i'm father francis mulcahy. i serve at starfleet medical auxiliary surgical hospital 4077. spiritual advisor. " the adrenaline of the moment has passed, and he reaches a hand out, hovering over her arm in concern. " are you hurt anywhere? "

"... You did catch them off guard though, and that was to our advantage," she notes. Why's she so concerned for this priest? Well, it's simple. She would have done the same damn thing. It's a blue moon she's not swearing up a storm...

"As long as you're not hurt," she sighed, offering a hand to help him up. "Where—" she almost asked where he came from, but hesitated and rephrased, "Who's your uniform for? Who are you?"

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I love how character-driven Mash jokes usually are

the ways the characters joke generally aren’t interchangeable, they all have differing senses of humour, and the jokes are usually less situational and more ‘characters reacting in particular ways to a situation’ (or creating a situation)

take the pegging joke in Carry on Hawkeye. it’s not an objective ‘lol inadvertant role reversal due to their positioning that highlights their dynamic’ joke. Hawkeye plays it up on purpose, and then dies of laughter when Radar walks in and thinks something sexual is going on. it doesn’t feel like a conveniently funny misunderstanding, it feels organic because the characters are in on the joke.

imo Hawkeye (and whoever else) laughing during funny moments tends to elevate the humour of those moments, making them funnier and also more realistic and grounded. it’s not a bunch of witty characters deadpan riffing off each other to make the audience laugh - when they riff off each other it’s to make each other laugh. and Hawkeye, Trapper, and BJ are regarded in-universe as funny guys, it’s a deliberate aspect of their personalities. whereas, say, Radar’s funny moments usually come from his naivete, Henry’s came from his awkwardness, Frank’s from his idiocy, Klinger’s from his audacity, Potter’s from deadpan reactions, Charles’ from dry wit, Margaret’s from hypocrisy or later on, just her vibe since she’s rarely deliberately funny, Mulcahy’s from earnest awkwardness and the occasional cute joke he makes…

it also, yk, suits the premise of the show very well, in which the characters aren’t in an objectively funny situation, they have to create their own levity just to stay sane.

like this isn’t every joke ofc, eg the dark satirical jokes can be more objective and situational rather than character-based, but yk, when it comes to the jokes the characters themselves make I really love that it feels like people actively trying to entertain each other or make fun of each other and find humour in a dark situation, rather than the sort of writing where it feels like we’re in an alternate universe where people are always witty, or where funny things happen but the characters seem blind to it.

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“I was drafted, sir.”

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he can feel a flush rising up his neck, creeping like a million-legged crawler across his cheeks and all the way between his ears. xeno can try and hide his mockery all he wants, radar is perceptive, even without the supposed clairvoyance.

" what'd i just say! " he raises his voice, strained, offended, but not quite a full-blown shout. " a fella's allowed to have his likes 'n dislikes, ain't he! " his voice gradually drops back to a decibal appropriate for polite conversation throughout that rhetorical.

his frowning expression quickly cracks and breaks into something bordering concerned. entirely serious: " you better not take it off for a second here. "

well — at least he's not alone in wanting to escape the suffocating clutches of sobriety. clearly radar won't be following him to the bottom of a bottle, though. sounds like he'll need to hunt down the captain instead.

"grape nehi?" a snort of amusement escapes, but xeno tries to cover up a larger laugh behind his hand with a faked cough. come on, he can't be expected to keep a straight face at that, can he? "damn," another laugh-cough, "you really know how to party."

a second later, he holds up his hands in surrender, nodding obediently. "sure thing. i got it. hell, it probably makes you way smarter than me. you got a good head on your shoulders. pretty sure i leave my head off my shoulders, most days."

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it's through the steam of his coffee fogging up his lenses that he peeks over at lance. he swallows, and it is -- absolutely awful, but he keeps a shiny face. " i'm certain you'll be a great help around here. " lord knows we need it.

hopeful grin fades once he notes the seriousness girding the young man's speech. he leans in, as they'd been choreographed. " hated you, son? " he questions, particular stress on the repeated verb.

@4o77th, sc

lance pokes his spoon around his applesauce. it is the sole food item on his tray. (meat and vegetables are no longer part-and-parcel of his diet. given his fickle stomach, the young priest has learned to exercise caution.)

“ i will try my best to be of help, father. ” here, he eats his applesauce. two small bites. the young priest leans forward, voice a taciturn whisper. “ you should know, sir, my last flock hated me. ”

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@riiese as hilda mailed: "you almost got yourself killed!"

twister.

remarkably chipper, considering that. a mischevious simper starts to play with the corners of his lips, turning into a fully-fledged grin, not long afterwards.

" i will admit, i did act quite rashly! " one thing's for sure: nobody expects a priest. that statement applies to many things, and he uses it to his advantage.

he doesn't sober, exactly, but his voice does turn more introspective. " but i'm fine, child. i appreciate your concern. " his smile gentles, as do his eyes. " really. "

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@curiosityshop as hawkeye mailed: what could i possibly need a therapist for?

twister.

he's got that expression. the one exemplifying priestly patience and care. he feels like he's failing miserably, so it has a bit of a tight edge to it.

" hawkeye, " his mouth thins, indignant at himself for being unable to help his friend understand, " a therapist could help in ways i -- we -- might not be able to. doctor freedman is a great man. "

sympathetic, as he always is, rain or shine, hellfire or land flowing with milk and honey, mulcahy reaches across and softly pats hawkeye's knee. " it's just a suggestion. "

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@curiosityshop as bj mailed: we tried. there's nothing we can do.

twister.

" nothing? " his hands stay in his pockets, and he bends ever so slightly at the knees, eyes ballooning. " nothing? " charles sneers, looking at him with a soul-torching glance.

" bee-jay, " he enunciates each syllable of the name with extreme delicacy, " need i remind you, you and pierce always find an alternative. " he unfortunately sounds like he means it favorably, ever-present sarcastic undercurrent be damned.

" i'd offer to throw my hat in the ring, if you'd be so complaisant as to take it. how does becoming a sort of a -- doctor cerberus sound to you, then, hm? "

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@soulmissed mailed: i find this kind of interesting, i’m gonna tag along!

twister.

" that's the spirit. " he grins around his cigar, and it rises and falls with his accent. " you got guts, kid. "

the kid himself him of himself. running around with a pack of kids, being holy terrors together -- that's not much different than what he's doing now with his colleagues.

he takes it out of his mouth, using it as a pointer, shaking it for emphasis. " you stick with me, and you'll be able to beat even the best of 'em. "