To Dye For

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“It’s been so long since we’ve spoken.”

“It has, sir.”

“Are your children still ugly?”

“They were never ugly, sir.”

“Oh, no. Wretched looking beasts. A hundred years ago, you would have sold them to the first carnival that came to town. And gotten good money for them, too!”

“I know you didn’t call me in here to talk about my children, sir.”

“I saw the shirt for Summer Tour and couldn’t help thinking of their mangled, disfigured faces.”

“Sir.”

“Montgomery Clift had a better face.”

“Sir.”

“I’m talking about after the accident, Jenkins.”

“Obviously, sir. We were discussing the shirt.”

“Shirt!”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s just terrible, Jenkins. I believe the human torso would reject it. Like a baboon’s heart. Your skin would puff up and slough off, and I won’t even bring up the nipples.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“They won’t know what hit them! They’ll flee! Like a Spaniard from soap, they’ll flee.”

“I had hoped we could get through this tour without the overt racism.”

“Hope in one hand and trust a Laotian with your wallet in the other. See where that gets you.”

“What could you possibly have against Laos, sir?”

“They’re Gummo! They’re the Gummo of Southeast Asia, Jenkins. Thailand is your Groucho, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Vietnam and Cambodia are Harpo and Chico, respectively. But Laos? Those bastards are the Gummo. Won’t abide a Gummo, Jenkins!”

“Sir, the shirt.”

“Shirt!”

“The design is influenced by a fashion movement called Streetwear.”

“Yes, it looks like something a street person would wear.”

“No, sir. Streetwear. This specifically is douchecore.”

“You’re confabulating again, Jenkins!”

“Oh, Douchecore is an offshoot of schmuck couture. It’s fashion that only complete tools would buy. $800 sweatpants with giant crotches. Genuine authentic reproductions of 1994 Charlotte Hornet shell jackets. Chipmunkers.”

“Chipmunker?”

“A chipmunker is a shirt that goes down to your knees with your first initial on the front.”

“Let’s suicide, Jenkins. You and I. We’ll suicide together. This world is broken and sad, and your children are shoggoths. Let’s finally do it, man.”

“No, sir.”

“Fine. I’ll go it alone. Drive me to the nearest pit of quicksand, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”

“And make sure there are no low-hanging vines, or long snakes that could be mistaken for vines. No escape for me this time.”

“Sir, the shirt.”

“Shirt! Oh, I can’t bear to look at it. Jenkins, get over here and blast my eyes. I know you usually blast your own, but this is a special occasion. I won’t fight back. Come and blast my eyes.”

“I couldn’t do that, sir.”

“Ha! Excellent reaction, Jenkins. It was a trick. Had you approached me, I would have stapled your dick to your leg. You’re not as stupid as your children look.”

“Sir–”

“In addition to being ugly, your children are also stupid-looking.”

“Sir–”

“They’re thick-lipped, and wary of both fact and theorem.”

“Shirt.”

“Shirt! Fooey Jenkins. I call fooey on the whole enterprise.”

“So noted, sir.”

“At least jack the price way up.”

“We’re charging $65 for them.”

“Well, then, I think they’re beautiful!”