The Summerounds Trilogy: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3!

From the dark hollows of Appalachia to the steamy bayous of Louisiana, Austindale Crocket has spent a lifetime hunting the largest and most ferocious beasts ever to roam the backwoods of his beloved South. Possumzilla (seen above), King Coon, even the dreaded Saber-Toothed Squirrel --they all met their fate at Crocket's mighty hands. Among his fellow outdoorsmen, he is known as a hunter of singular skill and courage, a man who once, bereft of his trusty Winchester rifle, laid low a one-ton, 200-point buck deer with little more than a machete and his own gleaming incisors.

Only last month, the intrepid hunter spent a week in the wilds of the Everglades tracking the Skunk Ape, finally bringing about the creature's demise with a shot from his crossbow, followed by a deathly submission hold that even his mighty, malodorous adversary could not overcome. Soon after that adventure, Crocket returned to Evenfall, his stately manor in the Shanandoah Valley, and it was there on the porch that his traditional Sunday afternoon of whiskey and selected passages from the Iliad was interrupted by a call on his satellite phone.

"Good lawd," he said softly, when he heard the news. The fair city of Pensacola, Florida, was under attack. And this creature would be his greatest challenge yet: More fearsome than Ol' Cerebus, the vicious, three-headed bloodhound, and more vile than the Chewbacabra, the mysterious and grotesque creature of the Okeefenokee Swamp, known for a glandular discharge redolent of rancid chewing tobacco. Crockett quickly packed his hunting implements and a fresh pair of Summerounds and headed south in his hot-air balloon to face off against none other than the Manateedon.

As he floated over Pensacola, Crocket soon caught sight of the horrible abomination as it waddled down the heart of the city, entire families impaled on its gigantic tusks, city buses crushed beneath its mass of blubber. Crocket strapped on his parachute and dove from his balloon, streaking through the humid summer morning until he landed squarely on the back of the megafaunal monster! The Manateedon bellowed terribly and tried to slash at Crocket with its razor-sharp whiskers, but Crocket, nimble in his airy, lightweight Summerounds, easily parried the vile cryptid's blows and then responded by climbing into its mouth and scorching its innards with his trusty flame-thrower.

Well, the beast cried mightily and with its last remaining strength, it made its way to the beach, where it collapsed in Pensacola's powder-white sands. A huge, bikini-clad crowd cheered Crocket as he emerged from the Manateedon's mouth, he and his Summerounds none the worse for wear.

"To all the beasts who walk the Earth, swim in the sea, or fly in the air," Crocket cried, "know that I am your master!" And then, as if to assert his dominion over the world's wildlife once and for all, he snatched a pelican from the air and gobbled the bird whole.

Posted by cordarounds at 06:49 PM | Permalink

SAN FRANCISCO, April 16 — Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, but a tourist recently discovered that you can leave your arm there as well. That is, when local fashionistas convince you to stick your arm into a dark and foreboding grotto – a grotto that happens to be occupied by a large and remorseless sea lion, whose insatiable appetite for human flesh is exceeded only by his remarkable capacity to accurately predict the onset of the summer fashion season!

Perpetually shrouded in a thick fog, San Franciscans have for years employed a most unusual method for figuring out if warm, summer weather is in the cards, a time-tested ritual that has drawn comparisons to Punxsutawney Phil, the famous weather-predicting groundhog. Each April, Bay Area designers dupe an unsuspecting visitor to reach into the bone-strewn lair of Frisco Frank, an impossibly ferocious sea lion, and attempt to feed him a crab. If the sea lion takes the crustacean, then chances are the summer swelter will be late. If, however, Frank rips the person’s arm off with his powerful jaws, then – rejoice! – white-pants weather is just around the corner. Indeed, the sight of a horrified tourist stumbling along Fisherman’s Wharf as his or her bloody stump flails in the cool morning breeze means it’s time to start buying the latest summer fashion – like Summerounds horizontal seersucker pants and shorts.

“Clearly, the long, hot summer is upon us,” said Cordarounds founder Chris Lindland, coolly observing Frisco Frank devour tourist Todd Murphy’s left arm. “Time for cold, refreshing beverages and cool, seersucker pants and shorts like these."

This year’s Summerounds come in new colors, with new linen liners and more pucker. They’re stylish and also surprisingly high-tech – reportedly at least 90 degrees cooler than traditional seersucker pants.

Historical note: Few doubt Frisco Frank’s powers of prognostication or sense of style. Legend has it that Levi Strauss, another notable San Francisco pant maker, would con hapless gold prospectors into feeding the sea lion with arms swathed in different fabrics. Frank’s extraordinary appetite for denim inspired Straus to design jeans, particularly in the color blue.

Posted by cordarounds at 10:57 PM | Permalink

 

The last time riverboat gambler Beauregard P. Delacroix faced the mechanical man in a game of cards, he had lost his money, his home, and his prized Appaloosas. Worse, he had lost his cool – falling for the gambling gadget’s bluff when he could least afford to.

He blamed his pants.

“These pants, these accursed seersucker pants!” he cried after the devastating loss. “They do make my loins sweat so! How may a gentleman stay fresh and tidy during sizzling games of chance when his holy unmentionables do boil like the crawdad in a kettle!” As Delacroix descended the gangplank, he stripped off his heretofore lucky seersucker s and tossed them into the turgid waters of the Mississippi River. “To hell with you, stifling cloth!” he announced.

And then he heard the laughter. Above him, the dastardly iron contraption and its flesh-and-blood masters from the University of Mississippi Engineering Department were taunting him from the poop deck. Delacroix spat in disgust. He vowed they would meet again.

With time, Delacroix rebuilt his fortune to even greater heights than before. By 1879 he had more horses and hogs than any man in the state. He owned turpentine warehouses, a gin distillery and even the Vicksburg Snuffatorium, which he had won in a game of whist. But all of it was meaningless without a rematch against his nemesis.

His chance came one sweltering August, when the heat was so fierce that livestock stood rendering in the fields, beards spontaneously caught on fire, and the streets ran thick with lava-hot molasses. In this hellbroth, Delacroix faced off again against the mechanical monstrosity at the Magnoliaville Annual Poker Tournament, putting on the line everything that he had worked hard to reacquire.

The contest lasted into the wee hours of the morning, until only Delacroix and his metallic opponent remained. They had bet nearly everything they had, then the metal man placed on the table the deed to Farthington Manor. The sweating crowd gasped, and the contraption let loose with a triumphant puff of steam from its exhaust portal.

“If the action is too hot for you,” the machine chirped and whined, “best you stay out of the kitchen!”

Had Delacroix been wearing ordinary pants, the action would have indeed been too hot, but not this time. Not when he was wearing a new pair of light and airy horizontal seersucker Summerounds, which kept him cool despite the furnace-like heat of the moment.

“I see your bet, you despicable mechanical cur!” he ejaculated, laying down the deed to the Snuffatorium. The machine was nervous now, and almost hesitantly it laid down its cards, revealing a full house.
“Oh my stars, how I shall enjoy summering in fair Farthington Manor,” Delacroix said coyly, showing his royal flush.

Unable to process the defeat, the machine overheated and exploded, maiming its devious masters with searing shrapnel. Delacroix, meanwhile, was deluged with winsome young lasses, who begged to make his acquaintance in the most human of ways.

And with that, his Summerounds were removed far more quickly than he had anticipated.

Posted by cordarounds at 10:38 AM | Permalink

The White House today announced a partnership with the online clothier Cordarounds to develop updated guidelines for the Presidential Physical Fitness Award, a move administration officials say will mirror the military’s newly relaxed age and fitness requirements.

“Whether on the front lines of the War on Terror, or the front of the line at one of this country’s many fine all-you-can-eat buffets, Americans simply can no longer measure up to traditional standards of fitness,” an anonymous White House source said. “Therefore, we are encouraging all citizens to get active in this new, reduced capacity.”

According to administration officials, Cordarounds, the San Francisco pant manufacturer, was chosen as a strategic partner of the new fitness initiative based on its strategic 25-45 demographic and the aerodynamic features of its horizontal-corduroy trousers, skirts and jackets.

“It is our hope that Cordarounds will help Americans move faster than they could on their own,” the source said. “Even the illusion of improved physical fitness will be victory for freedom-loving people everywhere.”

In a recent speech to workers at the McLaughlin Wind Chime factory in Charleston, West Virginia, the President reiterated his desire for the revamped Presidential Physical Fitness Program to be another way for citizen-soldiers to “defend the homeland against those who would do us harm.” He went on to praise Cordarounds for their hip good looks and what the Commander-in-Chief referred to as “an overwhelming victory in the war against crotch-heat friction.”

Cordarounds founder Chris Lindland notes that the Presidential Physical Fitness Award program dates back to the Eisenhower administration, when it was conceived as an anti-Communist youth group known as “Ike’s Red-Alert Rangers.”

“We at Cordarounds are proud to take part in the rich tradition of the PPFA,” Lindland said. “And I hope that each and every one of our customers puts on their Cordarounds and accepts this fitness challenge as their patriotic duty.

“May our eagles soar to new heights of fashion and fitness!” Lindland concluded, before leaping aboard Cordarounds’ Stars-and-Stripes-bedecked Hummer and roaring off into the sunset.

 

Posted by cordarounds at 11:53 AM | Permalink

Why are Cordarounds the preferred pant of secret agents, ninjas and justice-seeking vigilantes like the indomitable Ted Fist (featured below)?  That’s easy: The meshing wales of these wonderpants allow for effortlessly swish-free sneakabouts -- no vrrt-vrrts, woosh-wooshes or other onomatopoeic tip-offs that you’re on the prowl.

Most of our customers are, in fact, employed in professions requiring the utmost stealth as well as a high degree of proficiency with throwing stars.  So we thought it was time to make a pair of trousers just for them: the PAYBACK Cordarounds.   These black, thin-wale classic Cordarounds are styled with black paisley pockets and liners.  They’re very, very black. They mean business.  And yet they’re our most fancy-pants pants to date, equally at home in the VIP room or the interrogation room.


But we didn’t stop there.  Oh no.  In our never-ending quest to properly outfit our daring and deadly clientele, we went one step further.   Sure, PAYBACK pants are dashing when paired with our reversible smoking jacket, but why just think outside the box when you can silently shoot it from 2,000 meters?   To wit: the Urban Jungle Sniper Coat!

Since Cordarounds lives on the bleeding edge of fashion, we felt duty-bound to urbanize the sniper’s trusty ghillie coat.  Designed to make you look like a mound of moss wherever you go, the Urban Jungle Sniper Coat is perfect for any occasion when discretion is paramount.  (It’s mesh woven, so you can insert local flora and blend into any environment, like quiet bouquet of ill-tidings.)

You can find these and other fantastic new items in the Cordarounds store --your #1 online destination for Valentine’s Day gifts.   For Him.  For Her.   For Adventure.

 

Posted by cordarounds at 12:10 AM | Permalink

Cordarounds Adventurer Emeritus Wellington Stack has always been ready to take his Cordarounds to the limit, whenever and wherever duty calls.  Recently, we asked him to subject our trousers to a grueling test of gluttony – and report back in time for the Thanksgiving holiday.  The question at hand:  Could Cordarounds survive a stomach-expanding meal of Thanksgiving-like proportions, without its button rocketing forth from its stitching?  Mr. Stack’s dispatch follows.

BY WELLINGTON STACK

A crisp, October morning found me in a somnolent tavern in the meat-weaving district of Kathmandu, utterly exhausted, a flagon of rakshi in hand.  I had arrived from the Nepalese hinterland only days earlier after one of the most difficult Cordarounds field tests yet.  It had left me bloodied, concussed and in need of an appendectomy – to say nothing of my Cordarounds, which were dusty and redolent of soot and yak dung.  But that’s the price one pays for two days of nonstop breakdancing with angry Gurkhas to assess the durability of our zippers.  Now, I was recuperating with strong drink and an indomitable will to survive another day – and put another pair of Cordarounds through its paces.

Be careful what you wish for!  No sooner than had I taken off my boots and curled up for a nap that the satellite phone rang.  It was headquarters, instructing me to catch the next flight to Atlanta, Georgia, where, in advance of Thanksgiving, I would subject a fresh pair of Cordarounds to the rigors of a greasy, gluttonous meal.  If I failed, horizontal corduroy would have no place at the dinner table on Turkey Day!  And the ghost of Miles Standish would surely haunt me forever.  I quickly gathered my rucksack and souvenir “Kat Man Dude” tee-shirts, bade Chhongba a tearful farewell, and headed for the airport.

Two days and 8,000 miles later, my Olive Cordarounds and I arrived at venerable Mulligans Bar to take on the Ultimate Hamdog.  (Lindland scientists had concluded that with a side of tater tots and several cans of beer, the Ultimate Hamdog was the caloric, if not aesthetic, equivalent of a full Thanksgiving meal.)  Soon, the mélange of hot dog, hamburger, bacon, cheese, onions, chili and egg arrived at the bar in a formidable, steaming heap.  This would not be an easy task, certainly no less challenging than my last unicycle dash across the DMZ while eating a sack of kimchee.  I took a deep breath, and drew my first forkful.

Seemingly disinterested in my gustatory adventure were the precious few bar patrons – just a small group of very short men drinking Schnapps and throwing darts, and a gentleman in a waist coat and baggy breeches, who had introduced himself as an adult-diaper salesman.  This was lonely work indeed.  At times like these, my old friend Chhongba used to say that it is good to fight like the leopard, but it is also good to run like the hare, and, sometimes, it is wise to sit like a melancholy bull and say nothing.  I used this thoughtful but ultimately inappropriate piece of wisdom to distract me from a growing feeling of suffocation.  So much meat, and in so many forms!  I’ll admit that I thought about quitting.  But each time I felt my mouth filling beyond its natural limits with fat and oozing cheese, I thought about the Pilgrims.  I thought about America.  And I looked down at my lap and thought about my Cordarounds.  

So I pressed on.  After what seemed like an eternity, a gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder.  It was the adult-diaper salesman.  “A job most well-done, my friend,” he said, motioning toward my empty plate.  Empty!  As if emerging from a dream, I realized that I had somehow managed to eat the entire Ultimate Hamdog.  And my pants had weathered the strain without so much as a loose stitch!  Yes, Cordarounds had passed the gluttony test.  As I dialed headquarters to deliver the good news, I couldn’t help announcing to everyone in the bar that horizontal corduroy was now officially Thanksgiving-approved.

“What the hell does that mean?” one of the dart throwers barked.  The adult-diaper salesman slowly turned to me and winked.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he said, with a hearty laugh.  “You’ll know soon enough!”  And then, incredibly, we watched him don a black-buckled hat and vanish into thin air.

“My God!” the dart thrower yelped, spilling his Schnapps everywhere, “That was the ghost of Miles Standish!”

If you have any questions for Wellington Stack, pant adventurer,  don’t hesitate to leave them in the comments section of the Cordarounds Mailbag  (after Wellington’s story).   He’s certain to reply.

Posted by cordarounds at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Cordarounds loses control of brand image.

As any self-respecting fashion maven will tell you (and often in a snooty Alsatian accent), it's not only what you wear, but how you wear it. So now, after 21 glorious months of existence, Cordarounds is curious to find out all the interesting ways our customers like to wear our trousers.

The results are already coming in and, frankly, they're a bit disturbing.

Consider Orlando O’Shea, of Hollis, Texas, who wears his Cordarounds as after-karate attire. This urbane, action-oriented look hasn't caught on with other residents of Hollis, perhaps because O'Shea's post-combat couture includes a mink vest and fez.

Thanks to a tragic, pant-related hazing in high school, coupled with near-constant inhalation of various solvents over the last 10 years, Teddy Sandwich of Green Bay, Wisconsin, is manically obsessed with keeping his pants on at all times. Thus, he only wears his Cordarounds inside-out, figuring that the corduroy wales will hold fast against his legs and impede the untimely descent of his trousers, just in case his Kevlar suspenders and system of belts and pulleys fail. (It should also be noted that Sandwich is equally obsessed with cotton candy, taxidermy, and this.)

We are quite alarmed by the goings-on at the Thrushberry School in rural New Hampshire. Normally, of course, a venerable New England prep school is a great place to start a trend, but this is not the kind of trend that Cordarounds condones. What began as a friendly difference in opinion over the best-looking horizontal corduory trousers has devolved into a violent turf war between the so-called "Olives" and "Khakis." What began as a series of food fights and wedgies quickly escalated to drive-bys and massive, blood-soaked rumbles. Folks wearing Cordarounds on Fall color tours of the Northeast are now advised to carry firearms.

If you have equally disturbing stories or photographic evidence of folks desecrating our beloved brand, please send 'em our way . You can add them to the comments field below.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

STRANGE BUT TRUE : Cordarounds Now Popular with Cartoon Characters.

Cordarounds customer and culture hawk, Andy Cunningham, today alerted us that khaki horizontal corduroy pants are worn in today's Blondie cartoon. I can't reprint copyrighted materials, so you can click to see them in Dagwood action.

To return the favor, we now will send millions of Cordarounds newsletter readers the Sacremento artist's website.

Posted by cordarounds at 10:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)