Monday, November 11, 2002
Visit a gun show or tune in to the Flag Waiving Channel any hour of the day or night and you’d be led to believe that America is the truest of all democracies, guided gently by elected leaders who do all of the hard thinking and caring for us. Sleep tight in that delusion, my friends. For every American not victim to this mass hysteria can see the boot-cut truth: This is Perry Ellis’ America.

We just live in it.

I ask you: What better guise than a fey, girlish fashion queenpin from which to pull the puppet strings of World Domination? And when I say that, I don’t mean the fun kind of leather and latex domination you read about in Harper’s. I refer to something much more cruel and non-sexual; think Hulk Hogan subjecting Andre the Giant to a Polynesian Nipple-Ripper at Wrestlemania IV. That kind of domination.

Rile not, my friends, for the battle has already been lost. Ellis ripped the nipples of America long ago, and it’s his show now. The story of how it happened is not so hard to follow: Small town boy makes good… or so they’d like you to believe. It’s easier for all involved if you buy into the fiction of every fashion magnate coming from some stagnant repressed backwater, rather than genetically engineered ubereggs surgically grafted onto Kathleen Turner’s uterus. But for the sake of brevity let’s say Ellis grew up in some tobacco-spit nightmare of a small town, then parlayed a Home Ec revelation into a fashion empire. As they say, power corrupts and fashion power corrupts fashionably, and so from his new position Ellis took hold of the seat of American governance. Literally. He boldly advertised his coup by stitching “Perry Ellis’ America” onto asses all across the land, like the all-too-real modern branding of human cattle.

Some would issue a call to arms, a battle cry to rise up and tear down the Ellis regime. But even if Ellis’ storm troopers would not easily crush us all like a midget at the Ultimate Fighting Championship, which they would, I would still urge caution. After all, is life so bad under the Ellis regime? Many of us are prosperous, and our asses look great in these pants. True, a revolution is always fun in the beginning, but would it seem like such a good idea when we’re all moping around in dumpy-assed Dungarees? I doubt it very seriously.

The time has come for Americans to realize what the Illuminati discovered years ago: That Ellis rule is good for America. And before you flood my offices with email and symbol-rich deliveries of seafood, know that I’m talking about the secret World Government here, not the progressive rock group from the 1970’s who had their one hit, “New Age of Innocence” ripped off by the theme from TV’s Silver Spoons.

True, it may seem at first Un-American to accept the Perry Ellis dictatorship in our supposedly democratic society. But ask yourselves this: Ten years ago, were you any better off under the rule of Mariah Carey? I thought not, and your stunned silence speaks volumes. The foreign policy gaffes, not to mention her “chart-topping hits,” were enough to make you pray for the cold, iron fist of a real dictator. Well dreamers, you got your wish. Enjoy the pants.

Those Guys From Cribs Were Just Casing My Penthouse
It was luck that they had the camera (a Hi-8, and five tapes) with them, so we were off right away. I opened my doors and my fridge to these frauds, and I must say they drank some very expensive foreign beer known as Dos Equis.

The Music Industry Should Eat My Balls
But all of this is a moot point, for moots only, as long as the record companies press on in their fight to kill file trading in its sleep, like Marvin Gaye’s dad heading into Marvin’s room.

I Will Not Accept My Party's Nomination for President
The tireless, thankless job of running for president itself would be more than I could bear at this time. I need constant reassurance and reward for everything I do.

Lawsuit Settled, Advantage: Bagel
Apparently, M-TV and Dunkin were a poor match from the get-go and even the coveted 3-5 a.m. timeslot couldn’t make him a star. He pink-slipped that job and ended up writing plays off-off-Broadway, specifically the Vlanch Community Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania.

I Want Compensation for the Play Based on My Life
First off, and this is so obvious it doesn't bear pointing out: Fred Scarsdale? It rhymes with Red so plainly I needn't go any further. The judge will hear that and throw the book at the playwright, and it will be a Michener book, I can tell you that much.