[Blue hair is, sorry, pretty shocking. He wants to comment-- finds he can't find what to comment on-- and huh, would you look at that. Cotton candy colored hair. His was salt and pepper. He's stupidly put out by having boring hair.
He's pretty sure this girl hadn't been his intended target for sloppy latching on, and it's either some sliver of dignity or shame (or that he's trained to look at bodies as language and the girl hadn't been... expecting a drunkard to just fall on her) that has him try and shift most of the weight back to himself. Fine, so he'll lay off of the laying on and he'll sway on his feet like he's just dismounted the shrimping boat for the first time in a dozen days.
And he'll hum a well you're not wrong sort of noise, and drinks his beer.] No, no, I'm not. I'm well on my way to getting there. [Which makes his rambling come around in a neat lil circle if he thinks on it. Anyway, did she think he can't hold his liquor? Listen, toots, there's a lot more to--
oh, Christ. They pass a live band, nestled besides stalls and vendors and which clearly isn't one of the main attractions. Hawkeye hears rock and roll, and he's in Maine, and he says] Never mind, I take that back, it's making me hallucinate the devil's music; I don't know what th' hell I'm drinking. [Like it's all been one, big run-on sentence and one coherent process of thought, like everything makes sense the way it should. But he furrows his brows a little, and thinks back, and] What? Lobster ice cream? It's citrus-y!
[There's a lobster ice cream stand right next to them, in fact! Hawkeye makes to get a sample cup, but woe- his hand is preoccupied with his booze and it refuses to trade one for the other and he can't not at least slightly lean on the girl, so he settles for uselessly gesturing to a paper cup with proudly displayed lobster bits.] Go on, go on, just try one. [One, or both, of them will be in for a surprise when learning this is an everyday conversation with Hawkeye Pierce.] It won't bite.
how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop
He's pretty sure this girl hadn't been his intended target for sloppy latching on, and it's either some sliver of dignity or shame (or that he's trained to look at bodies as language and the girl hadn't been... expecting a drunkard to just fall on her) that has him try and shift most of the weight back to himself. Fine, so he'll lay off of the laying on and he'll sway on his feet like he's just dismounted the shrimping boat for the first time in a dozen days.
And he'll hum a well you're not wrong sort of noise, and drinks his beer.] No, no, I'm not. I'm well on my way to getting there. [Which makes his rambling come around in a neat lil circle if he thinks on it. Anyway, did she think he can't hold his liquor? Listen, toots, there's a lot more to--
oh, Christ. They pass a live band, nestled besides stalls and vendors and which clearly isn't one of the main attractions. Hawkeye hears rock and roll, and he's in Maine, and he says] Never mind, I take that back, it's making me hallucinate the devil's music; I don't know what th' hell I'm drinking. [Like it's all been one, big run-on sentence and one coherent process of thought, like everything makes sense the way it should. But he furrows his brows a little, and thinks back, and] What? Lobster ice cream? It's citrus-y!
[There's a lobster ice cream stand right next to them, in fact! Hawkeye makes to get a sample cup, but woe- his hand is preoccupied with his booze and it refuses to trade one for the other and he can't not at least slightly lean on the girl, so he settles for uselessly gesturing to a paper cup with proudly displayed lobster bits.] Go on, go on, just try one. [One, or both, of them will be in for a surprise when learning this is an everyday conversation with Hawkeye Pierce.] It won't bite.