Tuesday, December 28, 2010

"Down to Business"

Mr. Dixon and Mr. Rodriguez shook hands and their cufflinks sparkled. This would be the biggest merger in recent memory in their industry and both CEOs were excited to get to work. Mr. Rodriguez walked towards the door and turned the handle.

“One minute, Mr. Rodriguez,” said Mr. Dixon. “There’s just one more thing.”

Mr. Rodriguez looked over his shoulder. Had he forgotten to sign something? The air was still in the office. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Mr. Rodriguez’s neck. Surely the paperwork was sound. Had he made a mistake? Every piece of mahogany furniture stood in anticipation.

“What is it, Mr. Dixon?”

“Well, Mr. Rodriguez. I believe it’s time for us to get down to business.”

Mr. Dixon slid his finger down the wall and the lights dimmed to an erotic glow. He removed his suit to reveal the neon-yellow bikini he wore underneath and in an instant the heels of his loafers grew towards the ceiling until they morphed into stilettos.

Mr. Rodriguez was stunned for a moment, but he knew what to do. He had his MBA, after all. He kneeled to the floor and opened his briefcase. A three-foot long Komodo dragon slithered out and uncurled its tail to unleash a small bag of opium.

The two men ingested the opium and high-fived one hundred times. A Ducati 1100 EVO motorcycle lowered from the ceiling. Each of the men thought the other was responsible for the bike and each made mental notes to compliment the other on the electric-hot ride. Mr. Dixon’s desk sprang to life, revealing its true nature as six Taiwanese men dressed to look like drawers. The Drawermen waxed the Ducati and bowed to Mr. Dixon, who was holding Mr. Rodriguez’s legs and running him around the room like a wheelbarrow.

As soon as the two men noticed the glaring shine of the motorcycle, they nodded in unison. They climbed aboard, Mr. Dixon behind Mr. Rodriguez. Mr. Dixon whispered “Take me to the moon, my prince,” into Mr. Rogriguez’s ear.

Mr. Rodriguez pulled the throttle as hard as he could and sent himself, the Ducati, and Mr. Dixon, still wearing his bikini, off a twelve-foot high ramp and out the fifty-sixth story window. The merger couldn’t have been smoother.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

"Children Raised by Wolves Score Better on Standardized Tests"

Education researchers at Princeton University announced today the findings of a year-long study that shows children raised in the woods by wolves score, on average, better on standardized tests than children of the same age attending public schools. “This will revolutionize the way we educate our children,” said project head Kimberley Schilling. “We’re not talking Ivy League wolves here. These children were raised by run-of-the-mill wolves, eating a diet of elk, moose, and grasshoppers in the woods behind major highways.” These children scored in the 52nd percentile in reading and the 59th in math, putting them ahead of students in states like Mississippi, Vermont, and Alabama. “We think this sends a clear message to school superintendents. Hire more wolves.”

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

"Whoopie Pies"

I’m not entirely sure how it all happened; it was so fast. I had been the lucky one chosen out of the audience to go up to the stage and taste the Whoopie Pies that Paula Deen was showing us how to make. I was watching her mix the frosting and salivate when all of a sudden there were gunshots and the lights went out and the next thing I knew, Paula Deen was holding me against her body, her burly, sweat-slick arm choking my throat, as a human shield. I tried to free myself, but I was powerless against her bear-like hold. I noticed then that she smelled extremely sour. She started yelling, “I don’t owe you nothing, Alexei! Nothing! Vlad is a goddamned liar! He said it would be at the docks and there wasn’t shit there!” and then she shouted louder in what sounded like Russian, but I’m not sure. The guys who broke in started yelling at her and firing their AK-47s into the air and Paula Deen whispered into my ear, “Fuck this,” and dove out of the window, which shocked me because we were on the fifth floor. The robbers ran away and the audience and camera crews stared at each other and I got this surge of adrenaline and I just started mixing the frosting like it was up to me to save the world by mixing that frosting. My arm went at about a thousand RPMs and all of a sudden it was mixed, and right then the cakes were done cooling, and I whipped them together and in this moment of pure serendipity I handed out samples and they were a real hit with the crowd.

"Distressed Jeans"

We supply you with a pair of medium rise double spun cotton medium blue washed relaxed fit denim. Slightly bleached in the thrashed areas. Distressed like you were attacked by a wolverine. These jeans are primo distressed, ripped and torn and worn like they’ve been through some serious trauma. But we don’t stop there. While most other companies stop after superficially distressing their jeans, we go the extra step to emotionally torment our pairs so the distress goes beyond the surface. Sometimes we take a pair aside and tell it that it was adopted. Once we chatted with a pair on AOL Instant Messenger for two months, masquerading as a sexy woman who also enjoyed the science fiction television shows he watches and wanted to meet up in person, and then at the meet-up spot it was just all of us and we’re like “Psych!” and, man, that will seriously distress a pair of jeans. Total wear-and-tear. Once we told a pair that its parents had been in a serious helicopter crash and the phone number we gave it for the hospital was disconnected, so it could never get in touch to find out if its parents were alive. Extreme distress! That pair is still a wreck! A wreck that will make you the coolest guy in the club. Don’t wear lame jeans from other companies that just rip up the denim. Buy from a company that truly distresses the jeans, from their seams to their hearts.