Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (29 page)

M
ARV
A
TLAS
(
owner and master acting coach of the Magic Johnson Actor’s Technique Studio
): She certainly wasn’t the first to notice Magic’s innate smoothness and natural sense of drama and climax. But she was the only student, male or non-male, I didn’t have to explain the no-look-pass principles to.

I’ll never forget the first day she walked into the studio. Heads were popping. It was clear she was the type to get bored very easy. She was a girl who really liked boys, and you could say I was beguiled by her desire to shock, but I get bored easy myself. All women should be so blessed. If I was a god, which I’m not, I would create all women in her image.

D
OC
(
card shark
): It’s no exaggeration to say people have lost everything of meaning in a card game with me and then, without ever a hope of winning back what they’ve gambled away, begged me for one more round. When I ask, “Another hand?” I make them feel like it’s their own idea, when in fact from the moment they sat across from me at the table they gave up any freedom they may have thought they had. And don’t believe for a minute there’s a person out there, man or woman, and I will emphasize “woman,” who can refuse me. The slicker they are, the quicker they are to deal with. Hell, she’s so easy it’s almost not even sporting.

C
ASPER
F
INN
(
owner of Casper’s Survival Outfitters
): You’ve got your Uzi. Then there’s the mini-Uzi and, shrunk even more, you’ve got your micro-Uzi. The micro has a cyclic rate of fire of 1250 rounds per minute. An itchy trigger finger can really wreak some destruction. Say your magazine holds twenty rounds, the micro can empty that in zero-point-nine-five of one second. Guaranteed respect when you’ve got a little buddy like this at your side. Course, you’ve got your rival machine guns. The Sterling L2A3—dependable, and I think the design is uncommonly graceful. The Beretta Model 12—smarter than it looks. Probably the most accurate baby is the Heckler & Koch MP5. Sophisticated weapon, intricate weapon.

There is a real selection, and almost every day the options widen—the MP5, the Spectre, the Steyr MPi 69 and 81. But I’d say for a woman of her calibre the Uzi is a good bet. A first-class piece of artillery for close-quarter combat.

C
AROL
(
of Charlie and Carol, two people who committed murder together
): We were in a bad mood. Charlie’s dad wouldn’t let him use the car, and we were both broke. Charlie never had money, because he spent his going to all the movies. My allowance had been suspended, because I slightly rearranged a letter my principal sent to my parents. He wrote them I had skipped school, and I slipped the words “ahead in” between “skipped” and “school.” So what.

So anyway, you know how couples can get to taking things out on each other. Charlie and me, we’d been doing that for a while. Then there we were one day, just peckin’ at each other, and it made me remember hearing how if you commit murder together, it’s like the tightest thing you can do. So that’s what we did. And now Charlie won’t let me out of his sight, because he’s afraid I’m unaware of my impact.

Some days I look back at what it was that got me to where I am right now. In an abandoned farmhouse with nothing but snakes and grasshoppers for outside company . . . except when Charlie eats the grasshoppers . . . just to make me mad. I try not to have regrets, but sometimes, usually when I’m hungry, I find myself wondering things. Like if Charlie had only been born with red hair. Then I never would have liked him to begin with, and I wouldn’t be here now. Or if I really had been skipped ahead in school, then I would have been too old to go out with Charlie, and I wouldn’t be here now. What if Charlie’s dad had given him the car that day? Then Charlie would have gone on about with his regular plan, which was to two-time me with Ariel Stillwater. If only murder wasn’t a love cure.

A
NGEL
P
IñERO
(
phantom featherweight
): I used to see her at the matches. She couldn’t see me—no one could see me, but after the bouts, when all the lights were out, they could hear me shadow-spar, an eerie echo in the ring. She didn’t come to the fights before about a year ago. Then she started comin’ regular. Usually always she was with these soft-bellies. That’s standard quo for dolls type her. She would whistle at my boys when they’d derobe for the open. One time she was carryin’ on, distracting the focus—added with the fact she was dressed in such a manner as to provoke undue attention. . . . So I made her spill her popcorn. She thought it was her date’s fault, and she knocked him clear across the crowd. I felt sorry for the guy till he walked back over to her and said, “Sorry.” Then I just felt like the dude got what was comin’ to him. You don’t let no woman treat you thataway.

Man! What a condition these folks are living in. I’ve been haunting these rings for thirty-some years, and I have seen a lot pass by. There are things you notice more when you’re a phantom. So I see there is a definite shift in women’s attitudes. You never used to see no unhaltered lady wearing a tight T-shirt with “I am for sure a broad” across it. Makes me glad to be nothing but a shadow of a man.

1992

DAVID OWEN

HERE’S A REALLY GREAT IDEA

I
F
you’ve been married for a really long time, as I have, you probabl don’t need me to tell you that marriage can get a little boring after a while. Oh, boy, can it get boring. But it doesn’t have to! There are quite a few little tricks and other things you can do to make it a lot more exciting and just plain fun. Here’s one of them: having sexual intercourse.

One of the things I like best about having sexual intercourse is that it really is an awful lot of fun. How much fun? Flying a kite, going to the circus, riding a horse, going out for ice cream—add all those things together and multiply by two. Seem like a lot? Sure does. But you’re not even halfway to sexual intercourse. Go ahead, think all you want—you’re just not going to come up with anything more fun than this.

Getting in the mood for sexual intercourse is easy. Drinking a lot of beer or going to a movie can do the trick, especially if the movie is rated R or higher. Popular fiction usually contains scenes that put one in a sexual-intercourse frame of mind. Sometimes a walk downtown or a trip to the beach can make you suddenly think, Whoops, I know what I want to do! (Or have.)

Don’t worry—there’s no right or wrong way to have sexual intercourse. Just start having it, and then take it from there! I like to have it this way, that way, any old way. And the more of it I have, the better—it’s that much fun. You’ll probably think of different ways to have it. If so, be my guest!

When is the best time to have sexual intercourse? How about any day of the week with a name that ends in “d-a-y.” (See what I mean?) Try having it at night, before you go to sleep. You’re already in bed and not wearing very much—so why not! Feeling bored? Having sexual intercourse is the perfect change of pace. Worried about work? Having sexual intercourse will take your mind off your job. Lost your keys? You don’t need keys to have sexual intercourse.

And later that same night, if your keys are still lost . . . well, you get the idea!

But don’t take my word for it. Try having sexual intercourse yourself and see if you don’t agree. After all, it’s more popular than ever. And I really think you’re going to like it, too. If you don’t, though, you’d better keep it to yourself, because I can tell you right now that I am honestly not going to believe you.

1999

THE
WRITING
LIFE

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

A SHORT AUTOBIOGRAPHY

(WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO NATHAN)

1913

The four defiant Canadian Club whiskeys at the Susquehanna in Hackensack.

1914

The Great Western Champagne at the Trent House in Trenton and the groggy ride back to Princeton.

1915

The Sparkling Burgundy at Bustanoby’s. The raw whiskey in White Sulphur Springs, Montana, when I got up on a table and sang, “Won’t you come up,” to the cowmen. The Stingers at Tate’s in Seattle listening to Ed Muldoon, “that clever chap.”

1916

The apple brandy nipped at in the locker-room at the White Bear Yacht Club.

1917

A first Burgundy with Monsignor X at the Lafayette. Blackberry brandy and whiskey with Tom at the old Nassau Inn.

1918

The Bourbon smuggled to officers’ rooms by bellboys at the Seelbach in Louisville.

1919

The Sazzarac Cocktails brought up from New Orleans to Montgomery to celebrate an important occasion.

1920

Red wine at Mollat’s. Absinthe cocktails in a hermetically sealed apartment in the Royalton. Corn liquor by moonlight in a deserted aviation field in Alabama.

1921

Leaving our champagne in the Savoy Grill on the Fourth of July when a drunk brought up two obviously Piccadilly ladies. Yellow Chartreuse in the Via Balbini in Rome.

1922

Kaly’s crème de cacao cocktails in St. Paul. My own first and last manufacture of gin.

1923

Oceans of Canadian ale with R. Lardner in Great Neck, Long Island.

1924

Champagne cocktails on the Minnewaska, and apologizing to the old lady we kept awake. Graves Kressman at Villa Marie in Valescure and consequent arguments about British politics with the nursery governess. Porto Blancs at a time of sadness. Mousseux bought by a Frenchman in a garden at twilight. Chambéry Fraise with the Seldes on their honeymoon. The local product ordered on the wise advice of a friendly priest at Orvieto, when we were asking for French wines.

1925

A dry white wine that “won’t travel,” made a little south of Sorrento, that I’ve never been able to trace. Plot coagulating—a sound of hoofs and bugles. The gorgeous Vin d’Arbois at La Reine Pédauque. Champagne cocktails in the Ritz sweatshop in Paris. Poor wines from Nicolas. Kirsch in a Burgundy inn against the rain with E. Hemingway.

1926

Uninteresting St. Estèphe in a desolate hole called Salies-de-Béarn. Sherry on the beach at La Garoupe. Gerald M.’s grenadine cocktail, the one flaw to make everything perfect in the world’s most perfect house. Beer and weenies with Grace, Charlie, Ruth, and Ben at Antibes before the deluge.

1927

Delicious California “Burgundy-type” wine in one of the Ambassador bungalows in Los Angeles. The beer I made in Delaware that had a dark inescapable sediment. Cases of dim, cut, unsatisfactory whiskey in Delaware.

1928

The Pouilly with Bouillabaisse at Prunier’s in a time of discouragement.

1929

A feeling that all liquor has been drunk and all it can do for one has been experienced, and yet—
“Garçon, un Chablis-Mouton 1902, et pour commencer, une petite carafe de vin rosé. C’est ça—merci.”

1929

FRANK SULLIVAN

THE CLICHÉ EXPERT TAKES THE STAND

Q—Mr. Arbuthnot, you are an expert in the use of the cliché, are you not?

A—Yes, sir, I am a certified public cliché expert.

Q—In that case would you be good enough to answer a few questions on the use and application of the cliché in ordinary speech and writing?

A—I should be only too glad to do so.

Q—Thank you. Now, just for the record—you live in New York?

A—I like to visit New York but I wouldn’t live here if you gave me the place.

Q—Then where do you live?

A—Any old place I hang my hat is home sweet home to me.

Q—What is your age?

A—I am fat, fair, and forty.

Q—And your occupation?

A—Well, after burning the midnight oil at an institution of higher learning, I was for a time a tiller of the soil. Then I went down to the sea in ships for a while, and later, at various times, I have been a guardian of the law, a gentleman of the Fourth Estate, a poet at heart, a bon vivant and raconteur, a prominent clubman and man about town, an eminent—

Q—Just what is your occupation at the moment, Mr. Arbuthnot?

A—At the moment I am an unidentified man of about forty, shabbily clad.

Q—Now then, Mr. Arbuthnot, what kind of existence do you, as a cliché expert, lead?

A—A precarious existence.

Q—And what do you do to a precarious existence?

A—I eke it out.

Q—Have you ever been in a kettle of fish?

A—Oh, yes.

Q—What kind?

A—A pretty kettle of fish.

Q—How do you cliché experts reveal yourselves, Mr. Arbuthnot?

A—In our true colors, of course.

Q—And you expect to live to . . .

A—A ripe old age.

Q—What do you shuffle off?

A—This mortal coil.

Q—What do you thank?

A—My lucky stars.

Q—What kind of retreats do you like?

A—Hasty retreats.

Q—What do you do to hasty retreats?

A—I beat them.

Q—Regarding dogs, what kind of dog are you?

A—A gay dog.

Q—And how do you work?

A—Like a dog.

Q—And you lead?

A—A dog’s life.

Q—So much for dogs. Now, Mr. Arbuthnot, when you are naked, you are . . .

A—Stark naked.

Q—In what kind of daylight?

A—Broad daylight.

Q—What kind of outsider are you?

A—I’m a rank outsider.

Q—How right are you?

A—I am dead right.

Q—What kind of meals do you like?

A—Square meals.

Q—What do you do to them?

A—Ample justice.

Q—What is it you do to your way?

A—I wend my way.

Q—And your horizon?

A—I broaden my horizon.

Q—When you buy things, you buy them for . . .

A—A song.

Q—How are you known?

A—I am familiarly known.

Q—You are as sober as . . .

A—A judge.

Q—And when you are drunk?

A—I have lots of leeway there. I can be as drunk as a coot, or a lord, or an owl, or a fool—

Q—Very good, Mr. Arbuthnot. Now, how brown are you?

A—As brown as a berry.

Q—Ever see a brown berry?

A—Oh, no. Were I to see a brown berry, I should be frightened.

Q—To what extent?

A—Out of my wits.

Q—How fit are you?

A—I’m as fit as a fiddle.

Q—How do you wax?

A—I wax poetic.

Q—How about the fate of Europe?

A—It is hanging in the balance, of course.

Q—What happens to landscapes?

A—Landscapes are dotted.

Q—How are you attired in the evening?

A—Faultlessly.

Q—What kind of precision are you cliché-users partial to?

A—Clocklike precision.

Q—And what kind of order?

A—Apple-pie order.

Q—When you watch a parade, you watch it from . . .

A—A point of vantage.

Q—And you shroud things . . .

A—In the mists of antiquity.

Q—What kind of threats do you make?

A—Veiled threats.

Q—And what kind of secrets do you betray?

A—Dark secrets.

Q—How about ignorance?

A—Ignorance is always abysmal.

Q—Times?

A—Times are usually parlous.

Q—What kind of succession do you prefer?

A—Rapid succession.

Q—When you travel, what do you combine?

A—I combine business with pleasure.

Q—And you are destined . . .

A—To go far.

Q—What kind of purposes do you have?

A—Express purposes.

Q—And what is it you save?

A—Wear and tear.

Q—What goes with “pure”?

A—Simple.

Q—The word “sundry”?

A—Divers.

Q—What are ranks?

A—Ranks are serried. Structures are imposing. Spectacles are colorful.

Q—Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot. What kind of beauties do you like?

A—Raving beauties.

Q—How generous are you?

A—I am generous to a fault.

Q—How is corruption these days?

A—Oh, rife, as usual.

Q—What are you shot with?

A—I am shot with luck.

Q—When?

A—At sunrise.

Q—What time is it?

A—It is high time.

Q—How do you point?

A—I point with pride, I view with alarm, and I yield to no man.

Q—What do you pursue?

A—The even tenor of my way.

Q—Ever pursue the odd tenor of your way?

A—Oh, no. I would lose my standing as a cliché expert if I did that.

Q—As for information, you are . . .

A—A mine of information.

Q—What kind of mine?

A—A veritable mine.

Q—What do you throw?

A—I throw caution.

Q—Where?

A—To the winds.

Q—As a cliché-user, have you any pets?

A—Yes, I have pet aversions.

Q—Any tempests?

A—Oh, yes. In teapots. In china shops I have bulls.

Q—What kind of cunning do you affect, Mr. Arbuthnot?

A—Low, animal cunning.

Q—And when you are taken, you are taken . . .

A—Aback.

Q—I see. Well, Mr. Arbuthnot, I think that about covers the ground for the time being. I’m sure we’re all very grateful to you for your co-operation and your splendid answers, and I think that everyone who has listened to you here today will be a better cliché-user for having heard you. Thank you very, very much.

A—Thank
you,
Mr. Steuer. It’s been a pleasure, I assure you, and I was only too glad to oblige.

1935

FRANK SULLIVAN

THE CLICHÉ EXPERT TELLS ALL

Q—Mr. Arbuthnot, when you write a story for a newspaper in your capacity—

A—Pardon me, Mr. Dewey. My
official
capacity.

Q—To be sure. In your official capacity as a cliché expert, from what kind of source do you get your information?

A—From a reliable source.

Q—What kind of rumors do you deal in?

A—Persistent but unconfirmed.

Q—What do you do to rumors?

A—I noise them abroad, or bruit them about.

Q—What has been received?

A—Word has been received.

Q—How do you reply?

A—Either in the negative or in the affirmative.

Q—When a parade takes place, what do flags do?

A—Flags flutter.

Q—And what kind of steeds are in the parade?

A—Prancing steeds.

Q—What kind of scene is it?

A—It is a colorful scene, and a gala occasion. Bands blare, guns boom, treads are martial, uniforms are resplendent, the city roars a welcome to the returning hero, and police estimate that fully 750,000 spectators line the curbs along the route.

Q—What kind of spectators, please?

A—Cheering spectators.

Q—If the President is there, what do the police take?

A—Extra precautions.

Q—And what is it rain does?

A—Rain interrupts the festivities.

Q—Mr. Arbuthnot, what happens at railroad stations on holidays?

A—Well, there is what our Society of Cliché Experts likes to refer to as a holiday exodus. I mean to say, fully 1,500,000 pleasure-seekers leave the city, railroad officials estimate. Every means of transportation is taxed to its utmost capacity.

Q—I see. How are flowers arranged at a wedding?

A—Tastefully.

Q—And what does Society do?

A—Society turns out
en masse.

Q—Why?

A—Because the bride and groom are popular members of the younger set.

Q—How about the first marriages of the bride and groom, if any?

A—They terminated in divorce.

Q—What kind of couples get married?

A—Happy couples.

Q—What kind of parents have children?

A—Proud parents.

Q—To what point do happy couples often come?

A—To the parting of the ways.

Q—Mr. Arbuthnot, tell me, to whom are testimonial dinners given?

A—Pardon me, Mr. Dewey, but testimonial dinners are never given. They are tendered.

Q—Thank you for setting me right on that.

A—I hope you don’t think me rude or overprecious.

Q—Quite the opposite. I—

A—You see, I feel rather strongly about the cliché because I have devoted a great deal of time to perfecting myself in its use. I do think that if one is going in for them one might as well get them right, down to the last detail, mightn’t one? You know the old saying, “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.”

Q—And a world of truth there is in it, too.

A—You said a mouthful, Mr. Dewey. So that what I mean is, a testimonial dinner is tendered, and it is tendered to a valued guest of honor. At the testimonial dinner the guest of honor receives what our society calls a token of esteem, suitably inscribed. The guest of honor tries to express his appreciation, but is overcome by emotion.

Q—Thank you for a concise summary of the testimonial-dinner situation, Mr. Arbuthnot. Now, how about meetings? What happens at meetings?

A—Oh, plans are formulated, arrangements are made, initial steps are taken.

Q—How many kinds of citizens are there, Mr. Arbuthnot?

A—Our society recognizes only one kind—prominent. Of course, there are also well-known residents and outstanding figures.

Q—How many friends has a prominent citizen?

A—He has a host of friends.

Q—Why?