Peterman Employee

J. Peterman. J. Crew.

But not to worry. I'll tell the maître d' it'll just be the three bulls.

Well, George...we dine.

And there, tucked into the river's bend, was the object of my search...the Guangia River Market. Fabrics and spices traded under a starlit sky. It was there that I discovered the Pamplona Beret. Sizes seven and a half through eight and three quarters. Price, $35.

You know, this is very nice, but I really could take a cab, really... Nonsense, George. Besides, it gives me a chance to tell you about my trip to Burma. I discovered a very unusual corduroy.

It's my mother. She's at death's door. What? I just pray to God...we can make it there in time.

I'm here for you, Mama.

Bosco. Mama? Quiet, quiet. It's a secret. Bosco! Bosco! Shut up. It's a secret. Mama, what are you trying to say? Bosco. She's gone.

When Mama said 'Bosco'...she must have been communicating something. Her legacy. A dying wish, perhaps.

Perhaps Bosco was this man's name.

It's your urine, Elaine. You've tested positive for opium. Opium? That's right, Elaine. White Lotus. Yam-yam. Shanghai Sally.

The Dark Continent is no place for an addict, Elaine.

I feel like I got bugs crawling up my skin! Now, you gotta help me out. Not on my watch! I won't have you turning my office into a den of iniquity!

It was 1979. I was traveling the Yangtze in search of a Mongolian horsehair vest. I had got to the market after sundown. All of the clothing traders had gone. But a different sort of trader still lurked about. 'Just a taste,' he said. That was all it took.

The toll road of denial is a long and dangerous one. The price? Your soul.

Elaine, according to your urine analysis, you're menopausal. You have the metabolism of a 68-year-old woman.

Oh, and one more thing: You may have osteoporosis.

Do you realize how short the Kalahari Bushmen are? I'm gonna look like a giant to those guys.

It appears you will not be accompanying me to Africa. What? Why not? I'm afraid it's your urine, Elaine. You've tested positive for opium. Opium? That's right, Elaine. White Lotus. Yam-yam. Shanghai Sally.

The Dark Continent is no place for an addict, Elaine.

Not on my watch! I won't have you turning my office into a den of iniquity! Get your fix somewhere else! Go on, beat it!

It was 1979. I was traveling the Yangtze... in search of a Mongolian horsehair vest. 'Just a taste,' he said. That was all it took.

The toll road of denial is a long and dangerous one. The price? Your soul.

Elaine, according to your urine analysis, you're menopausal. You have the metabolism of a 68-year-old woman. Oh, and one more thing. You may have osteoporosis.

Could you repeat that? / Why don't you handle all the copyediting? / I'm... I'm sorry. What? / Copyediting. / Uh, never mind. / Elaine, you do it.

I heard every word you said. And I know you wouldn't be just having fun with his handicap. Ooh, that kind of cruelty would be grounds for dismissal.

The Peace Corps gave me my start in this business. Clothing the naked natives of Bangtubesh. The Pygmy pullover.

To me, they capture that indefinable romance that was Camelot. -Whatever.

I wanna bite into a big hunk of cheese, just bite into it like it's an apple.

My mind is as barren as the surface of the moon.

You most likely know it as Myanmar. But it will always be Burma to me.

You there, on the motorbike, sell me one of your melons.

Whoa, whoa. Please stop. This...thing. It's dancing. No, no. That ain't dancing, sally. I dance fine. You stink.

You speak Burmese? No, Elaine, that was gibberish.

Are you an assassin? I work for your mail order catalog.

You're an errand girl sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill.

This is the urban sombrero. I put it on the last catalogue cover. The horror.

Who's Mr. Fancy?

And so I made an explosive out of chickpeas.

Your place isn't quite what I imagined. Oh, it's just a place to flop.

Oh, damn, they changed the cable stations again just when I finally memorized them. Two: CBS. Three... I don't know what that is. Where's my damn preview channel?

But that didn't happen to you. Well, so we pay off your friend, and it becomes a Peterman.

Oh, damn, I forgot to buy plant food again. I'll bet I got a coupon for it.

Kramer, my friend, that is one ripping good yarn.

You know, if you liked that one, I got more. What are you looking for? Romance? Comedy? Adventure? Erotica? No, Kramer, I don't think...

My whole life? Name your price, man. $1500. I'll give you half that. Done.

It just seems so clichéd and obvious. It's not interesting writing.

The very pants I was returning. That's perfect irony. Elaine, that is interesting writing.

Nonsense. I have Benes' wonderfully imaginative mind to spin my stories. You take back your tales, you vagabond.

And by the way, when you get to that chapter about romantic escapades... feel free to toss yourself into the mix.

And between you, me and the lamppost, and the desk...

We don't have to name names or point fingers... or name names.

Me and her have had our problems. She and I have had our problems. You and I and she and you.

Elaine and Susie, Susie and Elaine.

And most of all, I will never forget that one night... working late on the catalog... just the two of us, and we surrendered to temptation. And it was pretty good.

I'm Susie. She's me. / I feel the same way.

Suz!

It was extraordinary. It ravished me.

Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? You're fired.

You're that gangly fellow we bought the stories from.

I am smack-dab in the middle of a good old-fashioned catfight.

Crazy for feeling... So lonely

I'm reading the fascinating article... on the most fascinating people of the year. And done.

Unfortunately, I am also disgusted.

That reminds me of the Haitian voodoo rattle torture. You haven't gone over to their side, have you?

Because if I hear one more rattle, just one, you're out on your can. And if you are undead... l'll find out about that too.

I'd like to see that complaint get rectified.

It's a Ziggy! Some charlatan has stolen a Ziggy and passed it off as his own.

Who among us hasn't snuck into the break room to nibble on a love newton?

Smack. White palace. The Chinamen's nightcap.

That wasn't Zach. That was the yam-yam.

Better bring a poncho.

Oh, what a stirring little anthem of wellness.

Poor old Walt has a polyp in the duodenum. It's benign but, oh, still a bastard.

A slice of cake from the wedding of King Edward VIII to Wallis Simpson, circa 1937. The price? Twenty-nine thousand dollars.

Back to the wedding of one of the most dashing and romantic Nazi sympathisers of the entire British royal family.

I'd say about 219. / Two hundred and nineteen thousand dollars. / No. $2.19. It's an Entenmann's.

Do they have a castle in Windsor? / No, they have a display case at the end of the aisle.

But it also caught this.

Do you know what happens to a butter-based frosting after six decades in a poorly-ventilated English basement?

I have a feeling what you are about to go through is punishment enough. Dismissed.