Hilfiger. Tommy. I don’t know who this guy is, but I just attempted to kill myself for the sixteenth time because of him. What’s wrong with Tommy, you ask? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with Tommy: he’s everywhere, and for no reason. He has no function. To him, designing clothes means stitching your name on a shirt that people have been wearing for years, sans Tommy. I know. I have one. A perfectly nice plaid shirt (no, I don’t wear plaid pants, at least, not since 1969) except for the fact it has a tiny “Hilfiger” stitched over one pocket. Right over my heart, in fact. I saw a guy today walking across the parking lot wearing a gray sweatshirt with one word emblazoned across the front: “Hilfiger.” He paid fifty-bucks for that fifteen-buck sweatshirt. Putting “Hilfiger” on a clothing item makes it cost several times more than it’s actually worth. Why didn’t I think of that, though with my name, Gaylord Shoehammer, it might not have worked. I think it all started back in high school. Young Tommy was the guy who always had his name written in magic-marker on every clothing item he owned. This was usually done by everyone on those school gym uniforms you had to buy at the beginning of the year: the shorts, t-shirt and jock that, combined with a wet towel, could ferment into an ugly beast in a locker over the Christmas break. But Tommy, no doubt, took his home during break so he could write his name on them with fresh marker. It was only a matter of time before the local hoods, who ripped off people’s lunch money and gym shorts, ripped off Tommy’s locker. Thus began the wearing of Tommy clothes by other guys. You didn’t mess with a guy like Butch Peabody even if he was wearing a shirt that said “Hilfiger” on the back. Soon, to be cool, cheerleaders and football jocks probably started to write “Hilfiger” on the backs of their own shirts. Hence, eventually the school name was changed from Martin Luther King High to Hilfiger High. He’d already written his name on it anyway. Martin hadn’t. By the time Tommy went on to college, everyone in the town of Hilfiger, formerly known as Bedford Falls, was wearing clothes that said “Hilfiger” on them. Some even wore undergarments so marked. In college things deteriorated rapidly. Tommy, instead of taking handball or bowling like normal freshman looking to enhance their learning experience, took home economics and learned how to handle a sewing machine. No longer needing magic-markers, Tommy could now stitch “Hilfiger” on just about any darn thing he wanted. The magic-marker company soon filed Chapter Eleven, but the Singer Sewing Machine company stock split two for one. Soon, anyone who was anyone on campus was sporting a “Hilfiger” on at least one clothing item, if not everything they wore. There was the “Hilfiger” brief, the “Hilfiger” boxer, the socks, shirts, pants, sweaters, shorts, dog collar and football helmet. In fact, the college would change its name to Hilfiger University. Yes, Tommy had written his name on that, too. Tonight I was watching the news. Anchorman Dan Rather, sporting a “Tommy” cardigan sweater, was showing exclusive footage of Osama “Bin” Laden, wearing a robe with “Hilfiger” stitched over the heart. “Bin” was condemning, through his translator, the decadent, capitalistic pig, American way of life, and in particular, the fact he could no longer buy a robe and hood that didn’t have “Hilfiger” stitched somewhere on it. This was a violation of his religion, he said, and he was launching a “Jihad” (Muslim for “Tommy”) to put an end to it once and for all. Too bad for him those “Hilfiger” bombs keep pushing him deeper and deeper into his cave. Even his pals the Taliban (Hilfiger written backwards and viewed in a mirror) have surrendered and run into the hills firing their six-shooters into the air. In other news, Defense Secretary Donald “Tommy” Rumsfeld announced a humanitarian drop of “Hilfiger” food packets in Afghanistan, though the parcels, when dropped by B-52’s at 30,000 feet, tended to destroy entire villages. He apologized in advance for the carnage, but stated the CIA (secret code meaning “Tommy”) would launch an investigation if enough complaints were filed through proper channels. Meanwhile, President Bush, announcing the army would be dumping the black beret in favor of the plaid “Hilfiger” model, admitted his wife wore “Hilfiger” pajamas, but added, “they’d been left behind by the Clintons.” He’d found them under his desk. I can’t live in the world of Hilfiger any more. Hence, there I was, perched atop the Hilfiger Bridge, ready to end it all. The police, wearing Hilfiger flak vests, were closing in on me, but I was ready to jump. Just as I was about to launch myself, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a billboard in the distance. I paused just long enough to glance at it and then the cops had me. Struggling, I screamed for them to let me go, let me jump. On the billboard was a shapely young lady wearing skintight jeans, with “Calvin” stitched across the butt. Tommy’s brother. With super human strength I broke free and leapt over the railing into the air. Below, they’d already stretched a net out to catch me. Stitched across it in red, white and blue: “Hilfiger”. I had a feeling I wasn’t the first to jump. .

2001 Jim Driesen