2007-Eleven (2 page)

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.

C
ocktail 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!

M
ore 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.)

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. Cul
kin
? Caul
field?
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?

O
UR 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!