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Exorcising chronic seasonal demons with inopportune formalwear since 1962.

–Tuxboy Mission Statement

It was the last of year, it was the first of year. An informal class struggle. Two parties, 12 hours apart, one headstrong Tuxboy.

Tuxboy the wayward exclamation mark. Carrot TopGallagherTurd-in-a-Martini. Slips on the salmon mousse, demands unwarranted tux-attention, tampers with the background and so on.

But Tuxboy sleek, Tuxboy crisp. Tuxboy drowns oil companies and terrorists in coffee and champagne, for New Year‘s Day has dodged bullets, managed to arrive safely . . . left, right, left . . . ten-hut . . .

PARTY: “Hey, Tuxboy! Did you just come from a gig?”

No. Tuxboy never leaves gig; everything is gig for Tuxboy. (French horn stinger.)

A week and three putty knives later, the salmon mousse refuses to surrender the meaty sole of Tuxboy’s right shoe, the clip-clop leather fashioned specifically for aristocratic tremors across hardwood floors. (Unless muffled by the death-oil of renegade aquatic hors d‘oeuvres.)

GAS STATION: “Hey, motherfucker! The fuck’s with the monkey suit? New Year‘s is over! You some kind of a limo driver? Musician? Parker? Bartender? Hey, tux-fuck! Talkin’ to you! The hell you think you are?! I smell salmon.”

Happy New Year to you, too, motherfucker. And tell ‘em Tuxboy told you. (Swagger, swagger, flounce.)

REFERENCE:

Pierre Lorillard IV, inventor of the tuxedo (http:web.mit.eduinventwwwinventorsI-Qlorillard.html).

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