Note and Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own the storylines and characters of M*A*S*H (as always, we know we wish we do). I just write silly stories, especially about Klinger lately, because he's just a fun character to write for. Enjoy!

Dammit, Radar's gone now and I have his job as company clerk. Being in charge of all of the paperwork is boring as hell and makes my old sewing fingers hurt. Also, getting things for the camp, especially that new generator, is harder than I imagined, but this old Klinger has got imagination. Not to mention, he has another escape plan, before things get worse in this camp.

The way I see it, I still can't get the hang of this job, no matter what I do and say. And with no Klinger around to do something, nobody complains about anything. And, with a Klinger who can't mentally do anything, everybody thinks he's crazy and they send him home.

This idea just sings a Section Eight! It's the perfect escape!

Except, of course, I can't get the hang of this diaper changing thing. I'm a grown man who uses the latrine whenever possible, so I can't see myself going back to being a baby with the violin in the crib and a rattle in one hand. But, with the idea that an incompetent Klinger equals a ticket to Toledo, I just can't help myself. Now, I just need to get myself so low that I can –

The door suddenly opens and in comes Father Mulcahy, for some reason. "Oh, Klinger, I was hoping – oh, oh, m-my son, I'll t-t-talk with you later."

And out the old Padre goes. I just hope that he doesn't tell anyone. After all, with so many escape attempts from this camp under my belt (without adding in the in-camp schemes), I just don't think that I can take punishment from our great Chief of Chiefs anymore. He's been confining me to camp and making sure that I have MPs on me and everything. He even went through with his threat and burned the Klinger Collection after I dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, its remaining ashes sent to North Korea! And the whole camp danced around the flames as my beautiful accessories burned!

Barbarians! I shall always mourn the old Klinger Collection. Alas, though, life goes on and newer schemes have to be stewed. This baby thing will surely help get me to Toledo and –

"Klinger, what in the devil's domain are you doing in those clothes?" And there is our Chief of Chiefs, Colonel Potter, coming in and yelling at me, more paperwork in his hands.

I had this one chance to convince him. It was a long shot, but I just had to do it.

Holding up my old rattle and putting my thumb in my mouth, I giggled childishly and said, "Ga ga, goo goo?"