Did I Mention That John Smith Cares to Tango? and Other Thoughts Triggered By a Brass Nameplate Thought Thomas Lipschultz, 12/3/00 As I was drifting off to sleep last night, I found myself thinking, "man, this is as comfortable as a brass nameplate from 'Nam." I then laughed a bit, because it was so preposterous, and this prevented me from sleeping -- laughter woke me up. My wife was out playing a midnight Bridge game with her good buddy Fondlous McFurry (I think he was Roman and Scottish, but I could be wrong), so I didn't have to worry about waking her up, and this upset me: if the damage is done, it should be done to everyone. Oh well, life can't be perfect. Anyway, I climbed out of bed and wandered around our house, which was very stereotypical. Our trash can was full of banana peels and coffee rinds, nothing but banana peels and coffee rinds -- because every trash can is always full of banana peels and coffee rinds -- and our kitchen table was piled high with newspapers from 1970 -- because every unkempt household is always piled high with newspapers from 1970. Everything was so very normal with us -- did I mention my name is John Smith? My wife's name is Esmerelda Cantessa and my son is some sort of rat creature we always unsuccessfully try to kill, but that's beside the point -- I'm John Smith, goddammit! Anyway, I began to ponder my bizarre bedtime statement, which got me laughing again. Brass nameplates from 'Nam? What the hell was I thinking? Until it dawned on me: how great of a military move would that be, if every soldier who went into battle wore a brass nameplate! That way, soldiers could call to one another -- instead of "hey you soldier, this way!", they could say "hey Johnny, c'mere!", and we'd be all personified and stuff, and feel like real men. And we could install some sort of voice chip or something that monitored the soldiers' life signs, so that if the soldier is killed, it would activate this loud voice which would announce "You have just killed Johnny!" or some such thing, only in Vietnamese or something, so the killer could say "Damn, he had a name! Now I feel bad." In fact, it would be cool if the brass nameplate blared this statement over and over again, endlessly, to annoy the crap out of everyone in the surrounding area, maybe getting the enemy to focus on destroying the damn nameplate instead of killing more people. What a great detriment that would be, if the enemy knew that every time someone was killed, an annoying voice would keep repeating their name! To protect our soldiers from going insane, of course, we'd have to give them earplugs, which I guess would prevent them from hearing orders and stuff, so I guess they'd have to be Walkie Talkie earplugs or something. Man, this is getting complicated. Anyway, when I was never in 'Nam, I would always go with my soldier buddies to the local Vietnamese McDonald's, which we could recognize because of the roof since the name was all weird, and we'd somehow order a chocolate shake, which we'd then take home and put in a bucket, cup and all, and smash with a meat mallet. The chocolate would ooze out of every pore of the battered cup, into the bucket, and we'd all dip our hands in and pretend it was cow dung, and then we'd all flick our hands at Earl Sleepston, who was always asleep, until he woke up, and then we'd all laugh and yell "Cow Dung Head, Cow Dung Head, we woke up Cow Dung Head!", and then he'd whip a straw from his bedsheets and drink the milkshake off of himself, pat his tummy, and go back to bed, and we'd all be grossed out because we all had short attention spans and thought he just drank cow dung! Eeeew, gross! So from then on, we avoided him. I kept pacing around the house, laughing about my 'Nam nameplate idea, until I found that framed photo of the opera that we had on the wall near our cryogenics unit. Damn, that place was sooooo boring! The best part was when we took the picture, 'cause we had a really loud camera with a really bright flash. We were watching Der Wienerschnitzel or some other piece of garbage, and the fat lady in the Viking helmet was singing (and, consequently, everything in the world was over then), so I lifted up my camera and pushed the button, 'cause I thought I could use PhotoShop to make her naked and start my own Viking porn site. The flash was as bright as two thousand suns, and some big voice from the camera announced, in a deafening roar, "YOU HAVE JUST TAKEN A PICTURE. CONGRATULATIONS!". After a moment had passed, it continued to talk: "YOU HAVE USED UP THIS ENTIRE ROLL OF FILM. I WILL NOW REWIND WITH A DEAFENING WHIR. LISTEN AS I GO, EVERYONE!" It then proceeded to rewind with a deafening whir. The fat lady's head burst open and sprayed us all with strawberry syrup. We later used old Earl Sleepston's legendary cow dung straw to drink the syrup from her Viking helmet. It tasted like blood, but that's OK, I like the taste of blood. I've been known to periodically stab myself in the gums so I could drink blood for a while. I figure, who cares if I drink it? It's going right back into my body. If I know my anatomy, which I do, food and drink travel through the heart to get to the stomach. That's why we have to chew it into mash before we swallow, and that's why people who are choking usually explode. So my heart is probably smart enough to make the distinction between blood and, say, strawberry syrup, so when it encounters blood, it says "ooh boy, now I don't have to pump as much" and opens the floodgates and lets it seep through into my bloodstream. If any food residue is with it, it's pretty fun, 'cause that seeps into my bloodstream too, and fouls the whole thing up, and then I get to see Dr. Manicotti, my neurosurgeon, who's a really nice guy, but he hates me. I wonder if this is how vampires work. Anyway, the police wanted that photo from me for some reason, but I just bashed their heads in. More and more police came by, but I just kept bashing their heads in. Then the FBI and SWAT teams came around, and I bashed their heads in too. So now people just leave me alone, and I got the film developed and blown up, and framed it and put it on my wall. Esmerelda Cantessa loved it -- it was an anniversary gift for her. Anyway, I was beginning to get a little tired, so I went to the fridge and drank some warm milk out of the mayonnaise jar, then went up to bed. I was pooped! I had lots of sweet dreams about sugar plums and bashing heads in, and when I woke up I felt all refreshed. And I haven't seen my wife since.