A Futile and Stupid Gesture Page #6

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That is what's going on with me.

This is what you left me with.

Well, it wasn't

a completely wasted breakdown.

I finished the novel.

- You want me to read this now?

- Would you?

Teenage Commies From Outer Space.

It's...

- It sucks.

- Yeah.

It's done. It's not worth talking about.

It's good to have you back, Doug.

And then February can be

the Strange Sex issue.

Yes. The Strange Sex... And we should

do an issue within the issue,

The National Lampoof.

Instead of Our Bodies, Ourselves,

Our Bodies, None of Your Business.

None of your business.

A magazine, Playdead.

Erotic photos of women's corpses

hanging from nooses, head in the oven,

- maybe one of them fell down the stairs.

- Jesus Christ.

I was thinking

we could write up Nixon's resume,

you know, now that he's back

on the job market?

Yes, like the piece PJ has

in the current issue,

which is available on newsstands,

if you want to buy a copy,

- you could use it as research.

- Okay, Tony. Yeah.

We had something like that

in the last issue. It's not important.

- I think "play dead" is the way to go.

- We'll let Brian get all the dead bodies.

- A braille version of The Joy of Sex.

- Oh, my gosh.

Hey, where's my tennis racket?

I used to keep my tennis racket

behind the filing cabinet.

Hey, Doug.

Doug. One second.

Glory hole page

and have an illustration

of a lavatory cubicle on the back.

- A lavatory cubicle.

- And...

Is this about the tennis racket?

Uh, no.

Um... listen, I was thinking maybe

you could do another special project.

- You know?

- Yeah?

Away from normal deadlines.

You'll get out of the office.

You could do it with PJ.

What do you think?

- Sound good?

- Do you need smokes?

- Yeah.

- He's gonna go get smokes.

What about a map

to glory holes in your neighborhood?

- It just says, "Your house."

- What'd I miss?

These people don't need encouragement.

A cartoon, "Jewish Moon Landing."

Sort of a differently-shaped helmet.

I'm not sure if Henry was trying

to save me from embarrassment

or if he truly believed

I could still create the great American...

I don't know, something.

But either way, we found it.

An idea full of paranoia and nostalgia,

the meaningless cruelty

of being young in America.

The high school yearbook.

They're all the same.

It's like every single shop teacher went

to the same barber.

It's authoritarian government, man.

It's like we're living

in an oppressed nation.

Yes, it is.

Salute to the seniors.

Yes, this is exactly...

They make you salute these people.

They all have thousand-yard stares,

you know what I mean?

You wonder why Nixon's the way he is,

it's because he went to high school, man.

Chess club, glee club, future homemakers.

Everything screwed up about our culture,

it all begins right here.

All these forced smiles.

You know, whether we know it or not,

every high school sorts us

into the same exact types.

It's Nazi social engineering.

Bully,

introvert,

teacher's pet,

delinquent,

foreign exchange student,

virgin,

perfect perky princess,

Spazzy McSpaz,

wacky class clown.

There's a type for everyone.

Whether you're the rich dick,

future homosexual,

beatnik, tramp,

overlooked black kid,

the dictator,

the nobody,

and, of course, the kid who died.

This was the best Senior Year ever,

except for the tragic deaths

of Howard Havermeyer

and President Kennedy,

and the car accident after prom.

All right, ready, girls?

Three, two, one.

"The Lampoon's hit parody

of the high school yearbook,

now on track

to sell over one million copies,

is the greatest example of group writing

since the King James Bible."

- And you didn't write a word of it.

- I'm in the group.

We all work together. I mean,

I gave everyone credit for "Lemmings."

- I must have missed that.

- Matty.

Those two look armed for battle.

Well, it's been five years.

Matty has to buy them out.

Time to feast on the fatted calf.

Matty, we need to talk about this now.

Look, I know why you're here.

I know what day it is.

Let me explain this.

You boys are victims of your own success.

I don't have the cash

to pay you ten times earnings.

We got too much earnings.

I can't cover it.

My apologies for making the yearbook

such a hit. I'll aim lower next time.

You signed a contract.

He didn't fulfill his contract, did he?

He disappeared on us.

I still put out the f***ing magazine.

Every month.

We just want to be paid what we deserve.

I know. Here's what I can do now. Okay?

More stock. A lot more stock,

and I pay the entire sum off

in ten years. Okay?

I mean, doesn't that sound better

than f***ing Matty over a barrel?

I knew it.

I had to get Henry what he deserved.

And the only way to change Matty's mind

was a well thought out argument,

delivered clearly and calmly.

No, no, no, no, no!

We want our money!

I f***ed up, fine.

But Henry kept it going.

And we want our money! Now!

Henry.

Come on. Let's go! Do it!

- Hey!

- We want our money!

I think it's going well.

I'm going for the checks.

You two are pirates.

Here's a pen.

You a**holes.

Do you know what you've done?

You've ruined me.

You've ruined this company. You know that.

We made this company.

We should celebrate, huh?

Come on, let's go buy you a new pipe.

Henry?

Tempting?

They're all expecting a slice of the pie.

It could get rather awkward.

I don't get it. What's the bit?

You might need those.

I'm digging the commitment.

You said if it ever stopped being fun...

So...

We just got the money.

I just got us the money.

No, you got Matty

to write us a check, Doug.

I earned that money.

- I'm done.

- Okay, look, we can hire more editors.

- We'll focus on the writing.

- I don't want to go back.

- Just you and me, like it used to be.

- I want to move on.

Wait. What's that supposed to mean?

You want to move on from us?

It means I'm tired of taking care of you.

What are you gonna do all day, huh?

Come on.

You can't leave.

You did.

You'll be fine.

Don't forget to feed and water them.

Henry.

Good luck. F*** you. Goodbye.

Who gets his office?

PJ, this Esquire parody's a mess.

I gotta run into a meeting.

Can you do a quick rewrite?

Does this sound familiar?

I feel terrible.

Oh, honey. Just a few days ago

you were feeling swell.

Gee, Dad,

kind of like what happened to Doug Kenney.

Exactly, son. I feel just like

that piece of garbage Doug Kenney.

Feeling like Doug Kenney,

a chronic condition with no known cure.

Symptoms include loneliness,

uselessness

and a crushing sense of regret.

I heard Matty Simmons,

you know, the publisher?

Sure, I know Matty. Great guy.

Well, he put PJ O'Rourke

in charge of the magazine

because Doug couldn't handle

something like that.

It could happen to you or someone

in your church or Masonic Lodge.

Feeling like Doug Kenney.

Seek treatment before you become

permanently, irreversibly unlovable.

- It's hereditary!

- I'm telling you.

- Have you ever heard of anybody like this?

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