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I can picture Brick Mantooth, sitting in his sunken living room, perusing these pages and chuckling. The phone rings and he picks it up. His self-satisfied smirk is replaced with a look of abject horror as his agent describes the next day's catalogue shoot and the wardrobe he will be required to wear.
"But Dave, I can't possibly...", Brick stammers.
"You can and you will. It's in the contract."
"Then I need a new contract! And a a new agent!",
Brick shouts as he slams down the phone.
Brick's agent leans back in his upholstered chair,
brushing lunch from the giant lapels of his checkered jacket.
"Man, Brick really does rhyme with P****," he mutters to no one in particular.
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