Everlasting Gobstopper

In light of topical humor, may we present you with some recycled material?

"Wonka'ed" by Geoff Wolinetz

& Recently . . .

Judy and Jim in Paris by Teddy Wayne

Woody's Sketches for His Next Four Pictures by Will Layman

Will the Real Alvy Singer Please Stand Up (Please Stand Up)?

Overheard in the Brainstorming Meeting for the Sequel to Million Dollar Baby by Matthew Tobey

Signs That Internet Dating Is Not Going Well for You by Jon Stahl

Interview with an Interview with Ann Coulter by Ed Murray

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Quoi-ques; évidemms; ainsi bourdonnz.
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Thursday, July 14, 2005   |    Fiction

Judy and Jim in Paris

by Teddy Wayne

Ooh, Jim, take a picture. No, not of the Tower, you dunce—we already have a million of those. Turn around. All the way. Use your eyes! Well, I’m not going to point it out for you. Yes, finally. Isn’t that just the most adorable little beggar gypsy boy you’ve ever seen?

Give him a euro, Jim, then take a picture when he plays that precious organ-grinder of his. No, I don’t want to get too close to him—I’ve got our passports in my fanny-pack. And ask him to play … I don’t know, “God Bless America”? Wait, that might offend his religion. How about our song?

I can’t believe you don’t know what our song is. I suppose you don’t remember what happened the night of February 18, 1979, either. I’ll give you a hint … the Foxy Mama Discothèque, you were out with the other junior partners, I was with my Kappa Kappa sisters, and I came up and asked you to “take a chance on me.”

Yes, you idiot, our first kiss. Now, tell him to play some Abba.

Of course he’ll know it—everyone knows “Take a Chance on Me”! So, if he doesn’t, hum it and he’ll pick it up. Those people are so musical.

“We can go dancing, we can go walking, as long as we’re together …” Now I’m in the mood for some dancing tonight—and maybe a little merlot! For God’s sake, live a little, Jim—we’re on vacation. Look in the Rick Steves for where the good nightclubs are. You left it at the hotel? What do you mean, you wanted to “explore on our own”? Um, O.K… . answer me this. Do we know our way around Paris? No. Do we speak French? Non. Smart thinking, Flaubert. I just can’t understand for the life of me how Bob won the promotion over you.

I’m chilly. Gimme your anorak.

Jim, don’t turn around now, but—I said “Don’t turn around,” you moron … O.K., now. A real prostitute! We must be in the red-light district. Bob and Suzy are going to be so jealous when we tell them! Ugh, look at that cellulite. You’d think she’d cover herself up a little—they look like Suzy’s thighs. I may have three kids under my belt, but I do my Pilates and Atkins. Jim, stop staring.

Oh, look at that cute top! The green one! I’ve been looking for one like that all over San Diego. I should’ve known—only in the Gap in Paris! Give me the MasterCard, Jim. I know I just bought pants this morning—this matches with them, dummy. And how do you think we got the frequent-flyer mileage for this trip, anyway?

Wow. Do you think that salesman is also a model? I bet he is. He looks like Marco. Oh, just some guy I dated my J.Y.A. in Florence. He just looked in my direction! Boy, if I weren’t married … I’m kidding, Jim, lighten up! Are you jealous-wealous of all the attention your pretty wittle wife is getting in Paris? Hmm? What’s the matter, a little ticklish?

Eww. Nothing. Just … you should probably lay off the cheeses and desserts while we’re here, honey. And think about switching back from golf to squash. Then wear a knee brace, you wimp.

Let’s see, we can shop for another half-hour, then we’re meeting Bob and Suzy at the hotel for lunch at two … or, should I say, “fourteen”! Yes, it’s a late lunch—remember, we’re in Europe, you caveman? I don’t care—grab a frappuccino at Starbucks or something. The kids are dying for McDonald’s. The bellhop told me that here they call it “McDos.” Isn’t that wild? It’s like a different world. Coming here was my best idea yet. Give me a kiss, you big, useless lunk. Of course you should ask the salesman to take a picture—why else would we do it? God, sometimes you’re really so fucking stupid.

Teddy Wayne is a writer living in Manhattan. His work has also recently been published in McSweeney's (here, here, here, here, and here). He runs a 4.3 40 and was a Southwest Conference First-Team selection at cornerback.