2007-Eleven

by Frank Cammuso

  Copyright © 2000 by Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Villard Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cammuso, Frank

  2007-eleven : and other American comedies / Frank Cammuso

  and Hart Seely.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-50591-1

  1. American wit and humor. I. Title: Two thousand seven-eleven.

  II. Seely, Hart. III. Title.

  PN6162.S355 2000

  818′.602—dc21 99-044112

  Villard Books website address: www.villard.com

  Some of the essays in this work have previously appeared in National Lampoon, The New Republic, The New York Times, The New York Times Magazine, The New Yorker, Slate, and Spy Magazine.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Syracuse Newspapers for permission to reprint “Witch v. Dorothy,” which appeared as an editorial in the June 4, 1999, issue of The Post-Standard. The Herald Co. © 1999 The Post-Standard. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

  v3.1

  For Mom and Dad

  —FRANK

  For Whitcraft

  —SEELY

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Xmas Files

  Witch v. Dorothy

  Martha Stewart’s Last Supper

  Sequel in the Rye

  GlenGarry Glen Plaid

  The Clintstones

  Nuclear Family

  And to Think That They Landed on Mulberry Street

  Scooter at the Mike

  Interview with the Frenchfryer

  Oldfinger

  Voice-Mail Rage

  2007-Eleven

  Potomac Park

  The King and I

  Game to Den

  Pork Fiction

  Steinbrenner in Love

  Nineteen Ninety-four

  Captain’s Log

  Doctor Dosomething

  Patriot Games

  Dressing for Oppress

  Story Days

  The Electric Kool-Aid Antacid Test

  Raze the Titanic

  Sing Sing Danny Rose

  Away from It All

  The Six Degrees of Chuck Berry

  Trailer Trash

  Noel, My Lovely

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  The Xmas Files

  Elm Street

  Bethlehem, Pa.

  11:51 P.M. December 24

  We’re too late! It’s already been here.

  Mulder, I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Look, Scully—just like the other homes: Douglas fir, truncated, mounted, transformed into a shrine … halls decked with boughs of holly … stockings hung by the chimney, with care.

  You really think someone’s been here?

  Someone … or something.

  Mulder, over here—it’s a fruitcake …

  Don’t touch it! Those things can be lethal!

  It’s OK. There’s a note attached: “Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice.”

  It’s judging them, Scully. It’s making a list.

  Who? What are you talking about?

  Ancient mythology tells of an obese humanoid entity who could travel at great speed in a craft powered by antlered servants. Once each year, near the winter solstice, this creature is said to descend from the heavens to reward its followers and punish disbelievers with jagged chunks of anthracite.

  But that’s legend, Mulder—a story told by parents to frighten children. Surely you don’t believe it?

  Something was here tonight, Scully. Check out the bite marks on this gingerbread man. Whatever tore through this plate of cookies was massive—and in a hurry.

  It left crumbs everywhere. And look, Mulder, this milk glass has been completely drained.

  It gorged itself, Scully. It fed without remorse.

  But why would they leave it milk and cookies?

  Appeasement. Tonight is the Eve, and nothing can stop its wilding.

  But if this thing does exist, how did it get in? The doors and windows were locked. There’s no sign of forced entry.

  Unless I miss my guess, it came through the fireplace.

  Wait a minute, Mulder. If you’re saying some huge creature landed on the roof and came down this chimney, you’re crazy. The flue is barely six inches wide. Nothing could get down there.

  But what if it could alter its shape, move in all directions at once?

  You mean, like a bowl full of jelly?

  Exactly. Scully, I’ve never told anyone this, but when I was a child, my home was visited. I saw the creature. It had long white shanks of fur surrounding its ruddy, misshapen head. Its bloated torso was red and white. I’ll never forget the horror. I turned away, and when I looked back, it had somehow taken on the facial features of my father.

  Impossible.

  I know what I saw. And that night, it read my mind. It brought me a Mr. Potato Head, Scully. It knew that I wanted a Mr. Potato Head!

  I’m sorry, Mulder, but you’re asking me to disregard the laws of physics. You want me to believe in some supernatural being who soars across the skies and brings gifts to good little girls and boys. Listen to what you’re saying. Do you understand the repercussions? If this gets out, they’ll close the X files.

  Scully, listen to me: It knows when you’re sleeping. It knows when you’re awake.

  But we have no proof.

  Last year on this exact date, SETI radio telescopes detected bogeys in the airspaces over twenty-seven states. The White House ordered a Condition Red.

  But that was a meteor shower.

  Officially. Two days ago, eight prized Scandinavian reindeer vanished from the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. Nobody—not even the zookeeper—was told about it. The government doesn’t want people to know about Project Kringle. They fear that if this thing is proved to exist, the public will stop spending half its annual income in a holiday shopping frenzy. Retail markets will collapse. Scully, they cannot let the world believe this creature lives. There’s too much at stake. They’ll do whatever it takes to ensure another silent night.

  Mulder, I—

  Sh-h-h. Do you hear what I hear?

  On the roof. It sounds like … a clatter.

  The truth is up there. Let’s see what’s the matter.

  Witch v. Dorothy

  IN U.S. DISTRICT COURT, DISTRICT OF KANSAS

  WICKED WITCH OF WEST, a supernatural being and MBA (Mistress of Black Arts) licensed to operate in the merry land of Oz.

  Plaintiff.

  -v-

  DOROTHY G., a minor; EM and HENRY G., guardians; GLINDA, a self-proclaimed “good witch”; OZ, a wonderful wizard if ever a wiz there was; LOYAL ORDER OF THE LOLLIPOP GUILD, INC., a fraternal organization; EMERALD CITY INDUSTRIAL DEVELOPMENT AUTHORITY, et al.

  Defendants.

  I. INTRODUCTION AND SUMMARY

  Plaintiff seeks monetary and damage relief, resulting from denial of Civil Rights, as described under the United States Constitution, through broad-based conspiracy of high-ranking officials; including unlawful discrimination based on religious practice and crossing a rainbow with intent to commit a felony.

  II. UNDISPUTED FACTS

  1. OIQn or about June 5, 1939, following a dispute over local leash laws, Defendant DOROTHY G. ran away from home.

  2. Upon information and belief,
DOROTHY G. secured and piloted a thirty-four-ton farmhouse through a cyclone, relocating said dwelling onto property not zoned for residential use. Furthermore, said dwelling violated numerous codes requiring equal access for Munchkin Americans.

  3. Upon learning of fatal injuries to Plaintiff’s sister, Wicked Witch of East, DOROTHY G. told bystanders without remorse that “the house began to pitch, the kitchen took a slitch, and landed … in the middle of a ditch,” crushing to death said witch.

  4. After learning that victim was “not only merely dead [but] really most sincerely dead,” DOROTHY G. removed evidence in the form of the deceased’s bejeweled footwear, treasured family heirlooms. Defendant then fled crime scene, wearing said evidence, claiming immunity from prosecution because she was not “in Kansas anymore.”

  5. Through coercion and deceit, DOROTHY G. recruited as agent subordinate a mental incompetent (henceforth known as SCARECROW), who was employed in the agricultural industry as a security guard, despite displaying on repeated standardized tests an IQ of zero.

  6. Through coercion and fraud, DOROTHY G. recruited a robot (henceforth known as TINMAN), originally designed for lumber production, by offering said agent a surgical chest enhancement.

  7. Through coercion and intimidation, DOROTHY G. recruited an endangered species (henceforth known as LION), known to exhibit psychotic tendencies in a stated desire to make “the chipmunks genuflect to me,” by offering said predator “courage.”

  8. Blood tests later revealed in DOROTHY G. and LION excessive concentrations of a poppy-based sedative, a controlled substance under Class C federal drug-law statutes. Also, both later admitted receiving from GLINDA a stimulant known by the street name “snow.”

  9. Upon arriving in Emerald City, DOROTHY G. and said agents entered into a verbal contract with OZ to serve as mercenaries in a mission to steal Plaintiff’s broomstick, her lone means of transportation and a key to her livelihood in the field of commercial skywriting.

  10. During assault inside Plaintiff’s castle, DOROTHY G. threw an unknown liquid solvent upon Plaintiff, causing an immediate and acute allergic reaction.

  11. Plaintiff melted.

  12. Upon return to Emerald City, DOROTHY G. and OZ defrauded said agents:

  a) Instead of increased mental capacity, SCARECROW received an associate’s degree from Emerald City Community College.

  b) Instead of an internal organ from a compatible donor, TINMAN received a clock.

  c) Instead of “courage,” LION received a “Land of Oz” medallion from the Franklin Mint, valued at $6.99.

  III. CLAIM

  1. DOROTHY G.’s actions caused Plaintiff physical, emotional, and financial distress, including loss of income, castle, and surrounding real estate, and thirty-five trained flying monkeys, valued at $20,000 per animal; also loss through waste of 144 crates of Purina Flying Monkey Chow.

  2. Due to injuries sustained during meltdown, Plaintiff suffers chronic back pain and requires twenty-four-hour assisted mopping.

  3. Plaintiff seeks compensation in form of $20 million, representing the assets of EM and HENRY G.’s shopping-mall outlets, “Lions and Tigers ’n’ Things”; all Oz-copyrighted merchandise; and Toto, too.

  The Herald Co. © 1999 The Post-Standard. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

  Martha Stewart’s Last Supper

  You are cordially invited to a

  Going-Away Dinner

  for a truly Special Guest.

  Casual attire. Sunset.

  Please, no Romans.

  ·

  Cocktail hour starts at 6:30 in the Garden. For easier parking, I’ve parted the small lake next to my house, using common household trash bags and a hair drier. The forsythia has been sculpted into zoo animals, lined up two by two, leading to the ark. Although it’s April, I’ve removed the swimmingpool cover, just in case the Messiah wants to show off.

  I’ll have apostles arrive a half hour early. That way they can sign the “Good Luck” card and don their name tags, which I have shaped with everyday cookie cutters to resemble Easter bunnies. At this time we can set some important ground rules. (Smoking? Choice of music? Designated drivers?) Also, it will ease my mind to make sure no one intends to embarrass our Guest of Honor by hiring a surprise belly dancer or singer in a chicken suit.

  With twelve worshipers and just one Savior, occasionally you’ll find somebody off in a corner, feeling hurt. That could lead to betrayal. So I’ll spend time talking with each guest. What are his hobbies? How is his book coming? Aside from Jesus, who are his idols? And I’ll act interested, even if all he wants to talk about is the long, boring mule ride in.

  Believe it or not, I’ve found one way to liven any party is the video camera. I’ll ask the shyest disciple—Luke, I suppose—to play “talk-show host” and conduct interviews. (And I’ll write up some silly questions, such as, “Did you know we substituted your regular coffee with Folgers Instant?”) By speed-dubbing the original cassette, I’ll send everyone home with a souvenir. (Also, knowing he’s been captured on tape, Peter should think thrice before claiming he wasn’t here tonight.)

  I’ll serve red zinfandel, chilled with snowballs from last Christmas that I stored in my freezer for just this occasion. For appetizers, the men can feast on a tray of Alise-Sainte-Reine, Brie, and Camembert. I call it “Cheeses of Nazareth.”

  Whether it’s a plague of locusts or a hollandaise that has curdled, you can always expect some lastminute crisis. But no matter what happens, I won’t ask our Guest of Honor to intervene. This is His night off.

  At sunset, I’ll herd our flock into the dining room. For place settings, I’ve made three-inch-high slate tablets, engraved with each apostle’s name, hometown, and one of the evening’s wacky “Commandments.” (Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wine!) I’ve saved precious chiseling time by forging one iron template that says “Thou shalt not” and then adding the remaining words to each slate later.

  In keeping with the Guest’s low-key theme, I’ll bite my lip and forgo a lavish menu of culinary delights. Instead, I’ll simply serve Caesar salad and small specialty pizzas, baked in my wood-fired oven, garnished with each person’s choice of toppings (which is one of the first questions I asked when they arrived).

  But for dessert, let’s indulge ourselves with one last temptation: homemade strawberry tartlets, drizzled with a generous helping of chocolate fudge. They will come to us in a covered crib, floating on the small brook that I’ve built into the parlor.

  Of course, Jesus has indicated—against my better wishes—that He intends to gird Himself with a towel and wash everybody’s feet. So be it. But beforehand, I’ll run his terry cloth for five minutes in the dryer, making it toasty and soft. And into each water basin I’ll add a wedge of fresh lemon, which will have everyone’s souls whispering “Hallelujah.”

  Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’ll let the party run until “whenever,” making sure no one has had too much to drink before taking his ass home. See you all in heaven!

  Sequel in the Rye

  From: Top Shelf Productions

  To: JDS

  Regarding: “Final Catch”

  More than ever, we believe THE TIME IS RIGHT! This story begs to be told. Somehow, our last letter must have given you the wrong impression. There’s no need to involve lawyers. We’re your friends. We recognize your commitment to literature, history, etc. THAT’S WHY WE WANT YOU WITH US!

  Here’s the revised plan:

  Instead of Holden Caulfield as a middle-aged, disgruntled postal worker, he is a popular talk-show host who stands accused of strangling his wife with a red hunting cap. (We still envision Bruce Willis.) Holden escapes police custody during a train wreck, then enlists the aid of his sister, Phoebe. We’ve scrapped the idea of Phoebe as a high-priced call girl/CIA assassin. (What were we thinking?) Now, she’s a crime-solving preschool teacher. (Julia Roberts?) In search of the real killer, they head to New York City. (We dropped the “back-to-
Vietnam” bit; it works much better in our Portnoy project.)

  Yes, these ARE major changes. And, yes, we HAVE taken liberties with your characters. But RELAX! We still WON’T touch your original book’s message. Throughout the text, Holden and Phoebe will rail against phoniness and hypocrisy. But what they won’t know is that the actual murderer, Christopher Walken (Holden’s old, gay English teacher, Mr. Antolini), is stalking them from the shadows. He’s a serial killer who, when not preaching from the Bible on street corners, makes red hunting caps out of his victims’ skins. Talk about phoniness and hypocrisy!

  In Central Park, while brooding over the fate of the ducks and how the police are really immature jerks, Holden encounters the same nuns he met in the first book, the ones he gave all his money to. It turns out that they’re not nuns but a pair of wacky transvestites with hearts of gold. Through their crazy underworld connections, they help Holden find his long-lost son, Dylan (Mickey Rourke), a male prostitute/CIA assassin.

  They meet at Planet Hollywood, where Holden goes on and on about how TV viewers only want sleaze, so he must air sleaze to get viewers, but his ratings are down, even though he’s giving all the goddamn rotten bastards exactly what they want, and blah blah blah. It turns out that “the Company” has planted a microchip in Mickey Rourke’s brain, and when he hears the phrase “goddamn rotten bastards,” it triggers his CIA killer training.

  Confused, Mickey Rourke runs to the top of the Empire State Building and threatens to jump. Holden, on the street, shouts up that he always wanted to be a catcher in the rye, saving children from falling off a cliff, but he knows that’s impossible now, because if the kid lands on him from this height, they’ll both be paste. Mickey Rourke yells back that all people make him sick, but it’s hypocritical to kill them, which prompts Holden to ponder his own troubled youth, and through simultaneous flashbacks they have this incredible, insightful exchange of love, wisdom, etc. (This scene is ALL YOURS! Go to it; six hundred words, max.)