Excerpts from the new Land Ho! catalogue, as it would be
written by David Mamet.
OUR FLANNEL SHIRTS ARE WARM AS A CUP OF COCO!
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 made
a smell. Maybe it was the easy way it hung on you, like
a drunk temp at the 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 $100 for a 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 bloody
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 the 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. What ever happened to straps that held
pants up? Ever hear of belts? Broads. Don't get me started.
Look, this isn't about back-stitching, 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 squat-to-pee wussy? Can't handle the
pressure from a fifty-fifty blend? How would you know pressure?
You sit there in your chinzy house, and you can't deal with
a turtleneck? Jesus Christ.
You know, this pisses me off. You don't know shit 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 working 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 you don't
care, because 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!
Years
ago, the New Yorker ran this parody of a Land's End catalog
as though it was written by David Mamet (does anyone remember
this?). I found a copy of it online, but I'm not sure if this
is all of it. It was written by Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
and it's way better than anything I could possibly have to
share. Oh, Except for the fact that I got to witness the sad
tableau of Calvin Johson sitting all alone at a Mexican restaurant/Todd
P venue, pensively sucking on a Charms lollipop. But I really
shoulda taken a picture of that. Oh, and I should have taken
a picture of the dude who passed out in front of said venue,
but who was rousted by the lilting strains of Puttin' On the
Ritz. We later found him spread-eagle on the sidewalk near
the G train.
This
weather blows. It blows big time. Plus I seem to be experiencing
some kind of seasonal allergy/curse that I find as annoying
as when my cat puts his paws on my mouth while I'm sleeping.
As
if my inadequacy hasn't already been firmly established, the
band 
