“Jenkins!”
“Here, sir.”
“You wanted to see me?”
…
“Not all of you, sir.”
“I am clad in sky, Jenkins. I am clad in sky. Oh, the breeze! Salutary on my niblets!”
“At least sit on a towel, sir.”
“The couch gets what I give it. Why are you here? Is this about the petty cash?”
“Oh, no, sir. Have you been dipping into the petty cash again?”
“Dipping? Never.”
“Good.”
“More like diving! I bought an oscilloscope.”
“Why?”
“They were out of Geiger counters. I’m getting into retrofuturism, Jenkins. Dials and knobs and what-have-you. And I’m thinking about carpeting the bathroom.”
“Ugh.”
“The retrofuture isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Lot more filthy than you’d imagine. Remember conversation pits?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The air can’t escape! Nothing but miasma. We’ll all be malarial within days.”
“No, sir. Bad air does not cause malaria. It is spread by mosquitoes.”
“Yes, yes. I also bought some skeeters with the oscilloscope.”
“Why?”
“Incredible deal, Jenkins. BOOGAMM.”
“BOOGAMM, sir?”
“Buy One Oscilloscope, Get A Million Mosquitoes.”
“I simply do not know where you’re finding these websites, sir.”
“Dark Web.”
“I’ll be on the lookout for a package that is both beeping and buzzing, sir. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, you’ve seen my schlong and abetted my embezzlement. What else is there to our relationship?”
“This new National Anthem you’ve penned, sir.”
“Ah! You’ve heard it! I call it America The Beautiful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I had always thought it was written in 1900 or so by some religious fruitcakes, but it turns out I wrote it this weekend after eating a handful of loosie-goosies.”
“I thought you ran out of those, sir.”
“Found a stash. Ohhhhhh, did my goose get loose!”
“That makes a lot of sense, sir. I wanted to talk to you about the song.”
“Symphony.”
“It’s only eight lines, sir.”
“Symphony for the common man.”
“Fine, sir.”
“You’ve come to praise me?”
“Partially.”
“Then you’ve come to bury me!? Et tu mama, tambien, Jenkins?”
“I truly need you to let me change the language on your teevee back to English, sir.”
“Nunca!”
“What do you think that word means, sir?”
“I assumed it was the name of a killer whale in a sombrero.”
“You have an ear for language, sir. Speaking of which, that was what I came in for. To discuss the lyrics of America The Beautiful.”
“Well, why haven’t you brought it up until now!? It’s like we’ve just been bantering for 400 words.”
“As so often happens, sir. Getting back to the lyrics, sir: They make very little sense.”
“Explain yourself. And prepare your eyes.”
“For blasting.”
“You got it, buster.”
“Yes, sir. Let’s look at the first line: O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.”
“Miraculous word placement, Jenkins.”
“No, sir. None of the words are in the right place. It’s not even backwards. It’s…sideways.”
“Well, you’re not the target audience.”
“Who is?”
“Patriotic aphasics.”
“Sir?”
“People who love America and who are currently undergoing a mild stroke.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit niche for a National Anthem?”
GUN BEING COCKED NOISE
“Go ahead. Speak French in my office again. I dare vous.”
“Where were you even keeping that thing?”
“It was with the loosie-goosies. When I stash, I stash.”
“Excellent, sir.”
“I’m like a squirrel with custom-made shoes, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Staaaaaaaaash.”
“May we move on to the second line of the song?”
“Do what you want, baby. Goosie?’
“Maybe later, sir. For purple mountains majesty, above the fruited plain.”
“That’s some good America-loving, Jenkins. Haven’t loved America like that since I was in Iraq.”
“You have never been to Iraq, sir.”
“Iowa?”
“Nor there.”
“Ingersoll-Rand.”
“That is a company that makes scientific equipment, sir.”
“Such as oscilloscopes?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, there you go. We brought it back around. Bully for us!”
“Huzzah, sir. About the mountains.”
“Mmm?”
“Mountains are not purple, sir.”
“Not the poor person mountains you’re allowed to look at, no. But I have access to far more mountains than you, and spiffy ones. You know K2?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m allowed to view K’s 3 through 8. Soooooooo purple, man.”
“Moving on once more. Above the fruited plain?”
“I meant San Francisco, Jenkins.”
“Ah.”
“Fruits!”
“You snuck a gay joke in there.”
“Wouldn’t be a National Anthem without some homosexual-needling. Healthy senses of humor on the gays. The male ones, at least. Not so much with the ladies, although who can blame them? Always burying golden retrievers.”
“I have no response to that, sir. America! America! God shed His grace on three.”
“Good stuff.”
“Don’t you mean thee, sir?”
“Nunca! I meant three! Me, you, and Evel Knievel.”
“Evel, sir?’
“Commies sabotaged the Rocketcycle, Jenkins.”
“How big was that goosie stash, sir?”
“So loose.”
“Uh-huh. And crown thy good with brotherhood. Seems like we’re leaving the women out, sir.”
“They’re busy.”
…
“Burying the—”
“Lesbians and their dead dogs, Jenkins!”
“–golden…I’m not even arguing with you on that point. I do like the bit about Sea to shining sea.”
“Wraps it up in a nice, wet bow. Big sloppy salty bow. Say, Jenkins–”
“Have you talked yourself into wanting saltwater taffy, sir?”
“You betcha.”
“I’ll get the car.”
“Atlantic City, here we come!”
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