We Don't Need No Stinking Badgers

Eager for a promotion, still-acting-ensign Hatch has been kind enough to send in another submission. In three-hundredicate. Imagine my surprise when Ol' Gus, our venerable postmaster, tapped my door with his wooden leg, bent from the weight of his mailsack, full to the point of bursting with parcels, packets, and packages addressed front and back with my name, writ large in some very questionable fluids which surely push postal laws nearly as far as this overlong sentence is testing the very patience of you, our dear readers... Ahem.

And Gus Spake:
"This 'un's only the firs' load, Missur Dowd, sir. The boys'n me 'll be back directly with t'others."

Thank you, Gus. And Curse you, Rollie Everlovin' Hatch! Where will I sit?! My office is overrun with demos, though I do appreciate your exploration of the full media spectrum: tape, cd, minidisc, vinyl, reel-to-reel, what is this, an acetate? And jesus, an Edison cylinder? What are we paying you, anyway? Postage alone would have cost about four hundred dollars... although upon closer inspection the stamps appear to be... suspect.

The exceedingly rare "05¢ Happy Car."

Get_It_Faster.mp3


The end result isn't bad, though. Actually, quite good. Not good enough for immediate promotion, but definitely enough for a trophy or no, wait! A merit badge. The perfect little something to warm those pathetically bare epaulettes. Hold on a second, I'll see what we can do.

Did you bring enough trophies for the whole class?
...Oh, I see you did.

Okay, I think you're going to be pleased. I caught one of the DemoWAR seamstresses on break, and she was able to crank this out. Just click through for a printable copy, and um... staple it onto your shirt, or something.

General Suck-up had his name Americanized, from the Greek Sukupopolous.

Let this serve as a reminder, Hatch. No one likes a grade grubber.
...unless there are bribes involved. Or cookies.*

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*or bribes involving cookies.