The Epilepsy Foundation needed a new look for their fleet of trucks and The Carney Group contacted me (via telepathy) to see if my brain was available to think of ideas. I'm not just a brain. Geez.
I rescheduled my ice-pick lobotomy and put on my thinking cap.
What if the trucks were bright red and had big white letters with a line like, THIS TRUCK CONTAINS TWO TONS OF HOPE??
Yes?
Okay.
Do I have to write the script myself? The script that tells the tale of an experiment gone horribly wrong — a pharmaceutical company hot on the heals of developing a drug that ends all pain and suffering forever??
The drug, nicknamed "Bozo" does so well in animal testing... So well, in fact, it is released to the general population of prison inmates.
Death row no longer feels like a death sentence, cold concrete cells feel like a day spa, "relationships" feel special.
Until... The unexpected "side effects" begin to develop... Oh, it's too sick. Just imagine a zombie movie but replace the zombies with clowns.
Here's a birthday card:
Some kittens are sociopathic — everyone knows that. Do not be fooled by their charm! Beneath that furry, purring coat lies a circuit board of complex manipulation.
I've heard some successful rehabilitation stories but if you, or someone you know, lives with one of these creatures, it might be better to abandon it on the side of a highway.
[maw-kish] adjective sentimental in a feeble or sickly way • archaic having a faint sickly flavor : the mawkish smell of warm beer
I don't think I understand the definition. Or, maybe I do. Aren't a lot of greeting cards mawkish?
Who would give that card? Wait, who made that card? Probably a very nice person. A person who loves hearts and roses and rhymes and sparkles.
I tried to make a mawkish card.
That's Hugh Beaumont, the kindly father from Leave it to Beaver.
Hugh hated that he was typecast and later opened a Christmas tree farm in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I don't think he opened the Christmas tree farm because he hated that he was typecast. But I don't know - he was obviously a complicated man.
The New York International Gift Fair (NYIGF) wrapped up (sans blizzard). I wasn't there (I never am) but it must have been a huge success because our rep is faxing orders to us
faster than we can pull them.
Fax machines work just like Wonkavision and every day I hope to find a chocolate bar instead of an order. But for now, I must be satisfied with ink on paper.
I don't know why my friend and I did the Haunted Walking Tour of Barnstable Village.
We were led, single-file and stuffed into the Oldest Jail in America.
Of course it was night and of course it was as dark as the time I wore two eyepatches — we stood, clutching each other and trembling in fear, our backs to the open cells. Our guide was a good storyteller and I wondered why I was there. Wasn't life full of enough excitement? I decided that it was but not before I wet myself a little bit.
It was really dark in there and I think a ghost-prisoner touched my beautiful locks but it might have been my friend's umbrella.
The moral of the story is something about using the toilet before haunted walking tours.
Also, and again, life is full of excitement and plentiful goodness and that reminds me!
Here is a new thank-you card:
I complain about January, but secretly, I love it. In January, my skin returns to its natural pasty-white color. I know this because I disrobe weekly for a quick shower and pat myself down with a damp towel. That's not true, I also see my bare legs as I change from my pajama pants to my less-pajama-ish pants.
But enough about my enchanting facade, onto the chewy nougat:
Jen has almost finished printing the cards for our March Release.
I can't wait for her to be finished because then we can get back to all of our gabbing.
While I am forced to sit quietly with my own thoughts, I decided to be productive — I made two new cards: Guess which one will become an uncategorized orphan:
Jen is printing the new cards for the March release and I have decided to wear the off-brand Forever Lazy suit until April 1.
The following is a dramatization of me wearing the suit.