"You weren't the only one, were you?" He shifts in his chair; goes a little wobbly in terms of balance, but is in no danger of falling out of the seat. He makes a lackadaisical grab for the edge of the table, rights himself, and continues, head held low in one hand as he gestures with the other (which also happens to be holding his glass). "Always the worst jobs, when there's nobody around to wipe your forehead or pipe in the sound froma Jeanette MacDonald movie, or provprovide the unintentional O.R. entertainment."

The last several words require careful enunciation.

Discovery number -- well, Hawkeye has lost track, but it might be somewhere around ten, of the night: scotch (or whiskey, whatever exactly it is that they're drinking; Hawkeye has lost track of that too, though he hasn't lost appreciation) goes down pretty easily, after a while.