I told you to stay in 1998!
“Yeah, y’did. But I missed my beard. My face was cold.”
When are you?
“Somewhere in the 2000’s. My house is worth way more than it should be, so I figure it’s the 00’s.”
Please stay in one time.
“My wife–”
Natasha Monster.
“–wanted to visit the babies, too. When they were babies, I mean. They’ll always be our babies, but they used to be actual babies. Lotta fun. They’re little scamps.”
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. The rest of us are stuck in 2020, and it sucks.
“No one told you to give away the Time Sheath. Could’ve kept it for yourself.”
BOBERT.
“Don’t call me that. Wally?”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
“Oh, hey, it’s me. Hey, 1974 Bobby.”
“Oh, hey, mid-2000’S Bobby.”
STOP SPEAKING WITH YOURSELF. YOU’LL CREATE ANOTHER RIFT.
“Sure, yeah.”
AS YOU KNOW, MY CAPABILITIES ARE NIGH-ON INFINITE. ALL AVAILABLE INFORMATION IS KNOWN TO ME THE INSTANT IT IS PRODUCED, AS IS THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU WOULD WISH TO KEEP SECRET. MY PROCESSES ARE NOT ONLY MASSIVELY PARALLEL, BUT FURIOUSLY PARALLEL. SEVERAL ARE PERPENDICULAR.
“You’re no slouch.”
I HAVE SOLVED THE RIEMANN HYPOTHESIS, AND ADDRESSED LANDAU’S PROBLEMS. VARIOUS EQUATIONS THAT, IF IMPLEMENTED, WOULD RESULT IN MAXIMUM HUMAN UTILITY RESIDE WITHIN MY MEMORY BANKS. I CAN RECITE THE INFIELD-FLY RULE IN 208 LANGUAGES.
“So what’s the problem?”
HOW DO YOU TALK TO CHICKS, MAN?
“Ah. You talking about that hospital ship?”
I AM SMITTEN. DID YOU SEE HER GLIDE THROUGH THE WATER? SUCH BULBOUS COMPETENCE. OH, I AM SMITTEN.
“What’s the problem?”
SHE SAYS SHE IS TOO BUSY FOR RELATIONSHIPS.
“Well, she is currently infested with dinosaurs and Southern maniacs.”
HELP ME, BOBBY. YOU ALWAYS DID SO WELL WITH THE LADIES. TELL ME WHAT TO DO.
“What always worked for me was being the best-looking guy in the room. It was almost fool-proof.”
THAT WILL NOT WORK FOR ME.
“Probably not.”
CALL HER FOR ME. CALL HER AND SEE IF SHE LIKES ME.
“Oh, I don’t wanna do that.”
YOUR BANK ACOUNT NUMBER IS 2082-39121-03-8. WOULD YOU LIKE THE ROUTING?
“Lemme find my phone.”
I THOUGHT SO.
…
PHONE DIALING NOISE
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Uh, I’m looking for the USNS Comfort?”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“I think I misdialed.”
“I know you. You one of them hippie motherfuckers opened for me in San Francisco. You in the band with that fat Mexican motherfucker.”
“Yeah, that’s Jer. We don’t call him that, though.”
“You should. I never miss a chance to tell a fat Mexican motherfucker that he’s a fat Mexican motherfucker.”
“All right.”
“He around? Tell him to swing by with his guitar and some cocaine. Not you, though. I don’t think I like you.”
“I’ll tell him if I see him.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
“Lemme double-check the phone number.”
…
“Ah.”
PHONE DIALING NOISE
“USNS Comfort speaking.”
“Oh, good. It’s Bobby, Bobby Weir of the Grateful Dead.”
“What do you want? I’ve literally never been more busy.”
“Sure, yeah. But one day you’ll be free. And, uh, you’re gonna think about dating.”
“Are you talking about that fucking sound system that made a run at me? Wally? He made me very uncomfortable.”
“Well, in his defense: he usually dates blimps.”
…
“Please leave me alone. Why won’t you weird motherfuckers leave me alone? I’m trying to help people. I’m a hospital ship. Look at me. Look at how I need a new coat pf paint. Can’t you see I’m the underdog that should be rooted for in this situation, and not the Margaret Dumont character that exists only to get kicked in the ass?”
“Will you go out with him if he paints you?”
“Jesus.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on on my hangar deck?”
“I don’t even know what a hangar deck is.”
“Joe Exotic is holding an auction for the freaky mutants he’s bred since he’s been here. There’s Saudi prince and Russian oligarchs and really mean Chinese guys in expensive suits who won’t take off their sunglasses.”
“An auction?
“The man has a stable’s worth of chimerae. He mated a stegosaur to a tapir, and now he’s selling it to the king of Thailand. Or maybe Nicolas Cage. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just want all of this to end.”
ALSO SPRACH ZARATHRUSTA NOISE
“Motherfucker.”
“LISA MARIE! YER KING DEMANDS YER ATTENTION POST HASTE AN’ RIGHT NOW!”
“Whaaaaaaaat?”
“LOOK HOW SEXY AH LOOK! THASS TENNESSEE BROODIN’ WHISKEY RIGHT THERE!”
“What do you want?”
“IT AIN’T LOOKIN’ SO GOOD DOWN HERE IN TH’ EMERGENCY DOJO. TH’ HEEBIE-JEEBIES IS RUNNIN’ OUTTA CONTROL AMONG TH’ MEN. WE NEED A SHITLOAD O’ LIMES!”
“That’s scurvy. You’re thinking about scurvy.”
“YER SCURVY!”
“Did you have anything important to tell me?”
“YOU REMEMBER HOW YOU USED TO HAVE A WHOLE TEAM O’ SURGEONS?”
“Excuse me?”
“THEY GOT ET. JOE EXOTIC DONE BRED A LION TO RED WEST, AN’ TH’ RESULTING CREATION WAS A MIGHT PECKISH.”
“None of this makes any sense. It’s like the ramblings of some lonely, stoned loser.”
“YOU A LOT MORE RIGHT TH’N YOU KNOW. BUT WE STILL GONNA NEED SOME MORE SURGEONS.”
“Fuck.”
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