2007-Eleven (3 page)
Authors: Frank Cammuso
ALL HAIL CHINOS! EVERYONE SHOULD OWN A PAIR!
You think chinos are queer? Let me tell you something: Everybody’s queer. So what? You cheat on your wife? Live with it. You own a pair of bell-bottoms? Deal with it. At least these chinos have a fly that stays up, and you’re not paying a hundred dollars for some piece of puke-colored polyester. Right now, you’re asking, What do I want from a pair of pants? Comfort? Durability? A name?
An investment?
Listen: When you’re in the accident, and they’re cutting off your bloodstained trousers in that emergency room, who cares if you’re wearing an expensive label? MACHINE WASHABLE, TOO!
OUR STIRRUP PANTS DON’T COST AN ARM AND A LEG!
You bitched about our Stirrup Pants. We heard you. Christ Almighty, everybody in the state heard you. We trimmed the legs, so even with your fat thighs, you won’t look like a Buick. We stitched up the back to prevent pulling. You guys know what
pulling
is? It’s when the pants pull down on a chick’s ass, because the things are strapped to her goddamn
feet.
Smart, eh? Like all anybody needed was a strap to hold pants
down.
Whatever happened to straps that held pants
up?
Ever hear of belts? Broads. Don’t get me started. Look, this isn’t about backstitching or yuppie fashions or why a nickel is bigger than a dime. It’s about
men and women.
Screw it. I need a drink. AND THE SEAMLESS STIRRUPS MEAN EXTRA COMFORT!
MEET OUR MOCK: THE TURTLE ALTERNATIVE WITH A LITTLE LESS “HUG!”
You don’t like turtlenecks? You say they’re too tight? What are you, some wussy? Can’t handle the pressure from a fifty-fifty blend? What do
you
know from pressure? You sit there in your chintzy
house, and
you can’t deal with a turtleneck?
Jesus Christ.
You know, this pisses me off. You don’t know squat about running a business or about publishing a catalog. You just sit there, looking at all the shiny, pretty pictures, and when you
do
finally call, you are the Customer, and the Customer Is Always Right, so the Customer can screw around and waste the time of men who bust their balls for a living, and it doesn’t matter that the Customer Is Full of Shit. Who taught you to buy clothes? You stupid, lard-assed deadbeat.
That’s it. I’ve had it. I don’t care whose nephew you are. I don’t care who you’re boffing. You drive everybody goddamn nuts. This catalog costs big money, but what do you care? You get it for free. That’s the problem. You don’t respect what you cannot buy. Well, buy
something,
asshole. AND IT’S MADE IN THE USA!
Clintstones, meet the Clintstones.
They’re the modern New Age family.
From the town of Li’l Rock,
It’s a place right out of history.
H
ILLARY, I’M HO-OME! WHAT’S FOR DINNER?
Your favorite, Bill. McBrontosaurus burgers. Why are you late?
Aww, I had a tough day at the Oval Cave. Old Man Dole was stonewalling again. Plus, I was in a presidential motorcade, and my feet are killing me. HEY, LET’S EAT!
Sorry, Bill, I’m late for a hearing on health-care reform. And you’ve got work to do tonight. You’ve got to bone up for tomorrow’s news conference. And it’s time that you balanced the budget.
But, honey, all that pebble counting is for the wonks. Nobody in Washington, B.C., expects a balanced
budget. Besides, nothing is ever carved in stone until—
See you later, Bill. I gotta go. Good-bye.
Yeah, too-da-loo. Well, I guess there’s no escaping work. But, sheesh, this thing must weigh a ton. Where was I? National Endowment for Cave Drawings … Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Fire … Tar Wars.…
Hiya Billy boy! What’s goin’ on?
Al! Well, it just so happens that I’m doing detailed, scientific calculations of the national budget, that’s all. What are you doing?
Same as usual. Nothing. Wanna go out on the town?
Not a chance, Al. I am too committed to focusing in on this economy like a flaming spear, and—
Everybody’s going: Dan Rockstenkowski, Bob Packstone, Howard Mastodonbalm.…
Sorry, Al, but my work is critical. If it’s not done just right, the deficit could skyrocket, and future generations will suffer. Therefore, it’s up to yours truly, Bill Clintstone, to—
We got backstage passes to see Barbra Streisandstone.
Hold it, hold it, HOLD IT! Did you say Barbra
Streisandstone? What are we waiting for? BUBBA-DUBBA-DOOOOO!
(
Meanwhile
): I’m awfully sorry, Ms. Rodham-Clintstone, but with the reform package stuck in gridlock, the hearing had to be canceled. But we have for you and Mr. Clintstone two passes to see Barbra Streisandstone tonight.
Oh, that’s nice, but I can’t bother Bill. He’s home, diligently balancing the budget. Gee, though, I’d hate to see these passes go to waste. Maybe I’ll call Tipper.…
(
Later, at the Whitewater Club
): … are the luck-i-est ape-men in … the … wo-o-o-rld.
ATTA-GIRL, BARBRA! WHOO-WHOO-WHOO!
Hey, Bill, better get down off my shoulders. I think I see Hillary and Tipper.
Oh no, Al! If my wife finds me here, I’ll end up extinct.
Quick, duck into this dressing room, and I’ll— OOOH, HIYA GIRLS, what are you doing here?
My hearing was canceled, Al, so I invited Tipper to the show. Unfortunately, some loudmouth over here ruined it. I could swear I heard Bill. You haven’t seen him, have you?
Me? See Bill? Bill Clintstone? Uh, no. He’s— home—balancing the budget.
Crash.
What was that, Hillary?
I don’t know, Tipper. There was a bang, then something that sounded like the grunt of a woolly mammoth. It came from Barbra Streisandstone’s dressing room. Yoo-hoo, Barbra, are you all right in there?
Mmm-mmm.
Do you need anything?
Uh-uhm.
Ex-cuze me, peeble, I love you, but who are you tawking to?
BARBRA STREISANDSTONE! But if you’re here, who’s in there?
Let’s see. Ex-cuze me, lady, but what are you doing in my room?
Uh, Ms. Streisandstone, this is—uh—Mrs. Bush! It’s a—uh—special evening for former first ladies, and I am—uh—her escort to the show.
Oh, Al, you’re such a gentleman. And how did you like the show, Mrs. Bush?
Mmmmm.
Well, nice to see you again, Mrs. Bush. We’ve got to go. Good-bye.
Mmm-mmm! Quick, Al, we gotta get me back to the White House before the girls!
(
Later that night
): Sorry I’m late, Bill, but I want you to know how proud I am of you, slaving over these numbers all night. Did you balance the budget?
Mmm-mmm—I mean, no, honey. It’ll take at least another night, but I did move the stone a little and—aww, it’s no use. Old Man Dole is going to have my hide in the morning. Honey, can I tell you a secret?
Sure, Bill, what?
I, uh, well, I didn’t work on the budget. Instead, I went out with Al tonight, and we went to a show, and nothing got done.
Can I tell you something, Bill?
Yeah?
You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.
Awww, honey.…
When you’re with the Clintstones,
Have a Bubba-dubba-do time
A Bubba-do time.
We’ll have a gay old time.
E
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The estates of writers Rod Serling and Theodor S. Geisel—alias Dr. Seuss—each recently announced the discovery of unpublished manuscripts. What they didn’t announce, though, is this collaboration.
T
he power went out.
We had no phones or light.
So we sat in the dark
On that hot summer night.
I sat there with Sally,
When something went
roar.
Behind old McPhee’s
Corner Five & Dime Store.…
The time is the present.
The town, it may vary.
The signpost ahead
Says the street is Mulberry.
Then a flash in the sky
Of a meteorite,
Calls the neighborhood out
To a zone of twilight.…
Then out from the alley,
There came a sharp cry.
We looked and we saw him,
The Guy with the Tie.
It was striped, blue and green,
With a knot like a noose
And appeared to be stained
With red Beezle-Nut juice.
“The Martians have landed!
They’ve killed fifty-three!”
Said the Guy with the Tie
To old Mr. McPhee.
“They razed Maple Street, sir,
They went door to door.
They’ve zapped everyone,
And intend to zap more.”
ZAP!
“By my estimate, sir,
It’s now fifty-four.
So we must warn the people,”
He said, full of fear.
“We must tell all Mulberry
The Martians are near.”
But McPhee said, “No! No!
All this talk makes me bored,
All this ranting and raving—
It should be ignored.
Now, listen up, people,
It must be a ruse.
’Cause if Martians had landed
It’d be on the news.
That zap we all heard
Wasn’t space-ray-gun fire,
Just the zap of the snap
Of a high-tension wire.
There’s no Martians, I tell you.
No monsters, I say!
And, besides, Maple Street
Is two miles away.”