2007-Eleven Page 2
Suddenly, Christopher Walken, wearing a red hunting cap, leaps out of the elevator shaft, holding a nail gun to Julia Roberts’s head. He confesses that he started killing people shortly after the end of the first book, when Holden rejected him. (Remember?) Ever since, he’s considered the world to be full of phony, hypocritical, impolite morons. Holden shouts, “Why kill the girl, Antolini, when it’s ME you’re after!” As Christopher Walken mumbles a response, Holden knocks the nail gun out of his hand. They wrestle, and Holden throws Christopher Walken into the path of an oncoming school bus. He’s dead—or SO THEY THINK!
In fact, Christopher Walken clings to the bumper, smashes through the windshield, savagely kills the driver, and takes control of the bus. Holden chases him on a motorcycle through the streets of New York, overturning cop cars and fruit carts. The bus crashes into a fast-food restaurant. (Endorsements?) They wrestle, and just as he’s about to be strangled, Holden thrusts Christopher Walken’s head into a bubbling French fryer. The red hunting cap floats to the surface.
As for that concluding scene where Holden returns to torch his old sanitarium, we keep it—BUT, IT’S A DREAM!
Or is it?
One last thought: What if we were to say Macauley Culkin would absolutely KILL THE POPE to play Holden Caulfield in a flashback sequence? Not that we care. But think about it. Culkin? Caulfield? Is this fate or what?
We KNOW this can’t miss! Then again, we’re not married to it. If you’ve got a better idea, PITCH US! We can’t wait to hear from you. But this time, could you try and get back to us sooner?
GlenGarry Glen Plaid
Excerpts from the new Land Ho! catalog,
as it might be written by David Mamet.
OUR FLANNEL SHIRTS ARE WARM AS A CUP OF COCOA!
The great flannel shirts you had, what do you remember about them? Not the pattern. Not the sleeves. Maybe it was the collar, the way it caressed your neck. Maybe it had a smell. Maybe it was the easy way it hung on you, like a drunk temp at an office party. Friend, this is a flannel. Most flannel shirts weigh eight ounces, they’re crap. This weighs ten ounces. When it’s so cold outside your balls shrink up like croutons, those extra two ounces are ounces of gold.
But you can’t have these shirts.
They are not for the likes of you. These shirts are for preferred customers. If you called last year, you could have bought one, maybe, but not now. It’s too late, they’re sold out. They won’t be avail—huh? What’s that, Gladys? We do have a few in stock? Tonight only? Well, pal, you just got lucky. You’ve got eight hours to get in on the ground floor. Of course, you can talk it over with your wife. How many should I put you down for? Seven? Nine? AND THE ALL-COTTON FABRIC GUARANTEES COMFORT!
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!
The Clintstones
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.
HILLARY, 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.
Nuclear Family
Explosions! Collisions! Teeth-grinding interpersonal relations! Kids, this holiday season bring home the Warheads, new from Yasbo! With this high-tech extended family of lifelike action-assault figures, you can battle to the death over bedtimes, force your enemies to do household chores, and rule the remote control! Collect them all!
DADDY DOWNSIZED ($19.95): Biggest of the clan, with a little less confidence and a lot more free time! Featuring Falling-Out Action Hair and Six-Pack Power Booster. Push Dad’s Hot Button and activate his Pounding Headache Reflex, Lumbar-Pain Fury, and Empty-Threat Lecture Voice—ready to let foes know they’re in “serious trouble.” Don’t make him have to say it twice! Also available, in a special limited edition, ROAD-RAGE DAD ($29.95), who comes complete with his souped-up highway war machine, the Winter Rat.
STRETCH MOMSTRONG ($19.95): She’s everywhere at once! At home, at work, at PTA meetings! Go ahead: Pull her every which way until she snaps. Comes with Hair-Trigger Guilt-Trip Action and Icy-Stare Laser Eyes. She’ll duel Dad over that mess in the basement or carve up the yardman with her Carpal-Tunnel Talons.
EVIL COUSIN GARY ($19.95): The long-lost Warlord of the Truck Stop has returned, seeking a host family to move in with! Featuring new Hawk-and-Spit(™), plus Tank-Top Body Armor and Pop-Up Babe Antennae. He’ll fight Dad for the NAUGAHYDE BATTLE RECLINER (sold separately) or make Mom blow her stack with his five prerecorded Comments about Women. Also available: GARY’S “BORROW A FEW BUCKS BEFORE PAYDAY” VOICE MODULE ($6.99) with Removable Memory. Or collect the limited-edition DWI GARY ($29.95), with Stagger-Action Walk and Vomit Cannon (accessories include Gary’s Beat-Up Pickup).
TIMMY TATTLE ($19.95): With his terrifying Sonic Scream, he always gets his way, and he always wants more! But that’s not all! Insert a Sugar-Turbo Pellet, and he morphs into Triple-Trouble Timmy, with Twelve-Hour Insomnia Energy and Whirling Helicopter Arms. He needs a nap. He needs a spanking. But who dares?
MEGA-MEGAN, AGENT FROM G.O.T.H. ($19.95): She’s old enough to drive, old enough to date, and old enough to tell everyone how stupid they are. Use her Princess Phone, and face her Verbal Assault Vortex. Question her makeup, and watch her flee to her CHAMBER OF ANGST (sold separately), where she marshals support from G.O.T.H. (Goddesses Of Teen Hell, also sold separately) and commands her secret Disney-on-Ice Stuffed Army.
MUTHER OF ALL IN-LAWS ($19.99): The immortal terror has arrived, and this time she’s here all winter! No one can escape her Acid Tongue. With Hip-Replacement Torpedoes, Grime-Detection Radar, and MUTHER’S WAR WALKER (sold separately). Once inside her Walker, she becomes the Grim Weeper, Matriarch of Passive Aggression. She won’t accept help. She won’t eat. And she definitely won’t baby-sit the kids, not even for one night! With choice of hair: Azure, Cerulean, or Cobalt. CAUTION: SMOKE HAZARD.
And to Think That They Landed on Mulberry Street
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.
The 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.”
“But you can’t turn your backs!”
Said the Guy with a yelp.
“The folks up on Maple Street
Sent me for help.
They said you would come.
They said, ‘Be persistent,
’Cause a person’s a person
No matter how distant.’
I never thought you folks
Would be so resistant.”
“Go away!” cried McPhee.
“This is for your own good.
You’re really not welcome
In this neighborhood!
Everybody go home!”
Yelled McPhee with a sneer.
“Go home to your TVs,
Your couches, your beer!
To your cars, to your dogs,
To yo
ur burgers and fries.
’Cause this Beezle-Nut eater
Is telling you lies!”
So the Guy shook his head
And he walked out of sight
And I wondered right then
If we’d done what was right.
Soon, the crowd had dispersed
’Cept for Sally and me,
And the man of the hour,
Old Mr. McPhee.
And he patted our heads,
And he let out a sigh,
Then he took off his glasses
And winked his third eye.…
Tonight’s case in point,
For approval submitted,
Concerns simple earthlings
By Martians outwitted.
So this word to the wise:
If a stranger comes through,
And the TVs are off,
And the telephones, too,
And he tells you of death
And destruction so near,
And his tie shows a bit
Of red Beezle-Nut smear,
Consider this thought—
It could happen right here!
Scooter at the Mike
Let’s relive baseball’s most infamous moment,
as called by Yankee announcer Phil Rizzuto.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play;
Hey Murcer! Who’s got play-by-play? No? Really? I do?
Those last two outs I was sitting here, thinking it was you.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
Time out. A fan running out on the field. You hate to see that.
They’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.