The recipient of that cat stamp was the nine-year-old son of blogger extraordinaire Jilanne Hoffmann. The young man enjoyed my doodling efforts, I’m pleased to say, and, as a thank you, he sent me a hilarious, hand-drawn comic book and a “Celebrate Falling” stamp.
I was impressed and grateful. So I sent him a thank you note with another stamp drawing, “Celebrate Comics.”
I also bang out a couple of couplets in the comment sections of other blogs. At Catherine Johnson’s place, for example I penned this little gem:
Master Sculptor, bearing chisel,
Stopped his work to take a whizzle.
And so the marble had to wait,
For Sculptor to evacuate.
Wait! Where are you going? There’s more!
This next poem is out of season, but, hey, why not? In December, Sarah Wesson hosted a contest, asking her readers to write a poem. After a little cajoling on Sarah’s part, I wrote the following to the tune of Jingle Bells. Please feel free to sing it out loud at work:
Writing Christmas cards,
To those who do not care,
Like stupid Uncle Ted,
Does his still live there?
Oh, wait, I think he died,
Killed by a crazy tramp,
Gee, that really made my day,
I saved myself a stamp!
See how I brought the post back around to the topic of stamps? Pretty good, eh? This is why they pay me the big bucks!
But, seriously, Hoffmanns, you guys are going down.
I’m not a fan of Chinese food. Never was. Years ago, when my parents and older sister noshed on moo shu pork, I was served scrambled eggs with a side dish of threats:
“If you say our food smells like poop one more time,” Mom announced, “I’m going to make you eat it.”
But I always liked fortune cookies — not for the taste, which was, at best, meh, but for the secret message. Opening one always made me feel like a spy.
“Here is a message from my contact,” I thought. “Now I will know where to find the microfilm!”
So, poop smell or no, as least I could look forward to that.
I bring this up because there has been some fortune cookie news that has recently come to my attention. Some parents complained about the fortunes they received. These fortunes, they asserted, were “suggestive” and inappropriate for children.
Here is an example of one such suggestive fortune:
“One who admires you greatly is hidden before your eyes.”
Shocking, I know. I hope my blog dosn’t lose its “G” rating.
Complaints like this don’t surprise me. Some people’s lives are defined by being outraged. So this kind of stuff is par for the course.
Wonton Foods, the world’s largest fortune cookie baker and the target of this parental outrage, responded to the complaint. In a public statement, the company announced that, from now on, it would no longer print fortunes of a romantic nature.
This didn’t surprise me either. All things considered, who cares if the “You will meet a tall, dark stranger,” fortunes go missing?
But then Wonton Foods said something that did surprise me. The company vowed that its new fortunes “[will no longer] upset a single person.”
What bothers me about the above statement — aside from the fact that it is ludicrous and unobtainable — is that the company is giving itself permission to be bland. I offer as proof an actual fortune that will be found in the new and improved Wonton Foods cookie:
“You make every day special.”
Thanks, Barney the Dinosaur!
Oh, and congratulations, Wonton Foods, for you have already failed the Won’t-Upset-A-Single-Person Test, for I am offended by your fortune’s lameness.
*Sigh*
OK, I’m done with the snarkiness.
Listen, Wonton, I understand your position. I do. I understand why you decided to remove the romantic fortunes. I think it is absurd that you were pressured to do so, but I get it.
But you will never not offend all of the people all of the time. The world is full of nutty people and there is no way to anticipate what will set them off. Could you have ever predicted the firestorm that accompanied, “One who admires you greatly is hidden before your eyes?” See my point?
So please put that ‘not offending anyone” idea out of your mind right now. Instead, take solace in knowing that, by employing good taste and common sense, you can avoid offending most people. That’s good enough.
And when more complaints trickle in – and they will – deal with them on a case-by-case basis, apologize freely, and move on.
A real fortune I received. Food for thought.
That said, there is a silver lining here, Wonton. Why not use your new “No Romance” policy to try something different and exciting? The most creative solutions often emerge when creators are confronted with barriers and restrictions.
Your new fortunes could be enigmatic. They could offer genuine insight. Be witty and wise. Ask a soul-searching question that can serve as a conversation starter.
You could actually use your cookie to provide an after dinner morsel of profundity. How cool is that?
Please contact me, Wonton. I’d love to hear what you think. I’m easy to spot; I’m the guy eating scrambled eggs.
Commenters! My wonderful, creative commenters!
Do you have a fortune you would like to pitch to Wonton Foods? Write it below! Show the fine folks at Wonton how it’s done!
One afternoon, I picked up Alex from school to find him holding a small, stuffed dragon. “Oh, how cute,” I thought, as he approached. Then I got a look at Alex’s face. At once I recognized that the existence of this plushy pal was, at best, a mixed blessing.
So to lighten to mood, I put on my Happy Dad face.
“Well!” I exclaimed with a wide smile. “Who’s this cute little guy?” I pet the dragon’s head.
“Boris,” Alex replied with a level stare. The stare spoke volumes. The stare said, “Wipe that grin off your face, buddy! You think this is funny? You think you’re being funny, Funny Guy? Well, trust me; you, sir, are NOT being funny.”
It turns out that neither Alex nor I like Happy Dad all that much. Happy Dad is a phony. So I put Happy Dad away, hopefully forever.
“Boris is homework, right?” I asked.
It was as if I had lit a fuse.
“Yes!” he exploded. “I gotta take him on an adventure! And then I gotta draw a picture! And then I gotta write a story about it! AND I have to do it by tomorrow! AND I have a math sheet! AND I have to do classwork I didn’t finish!”
I’ll say it right now. My boy gets too much homework. The little guy is only in first grade. When I was in first grade I whiled away entire afternoons drawing faces on my toes and using them to act out elaborate kitchen sink dramas. Alex never has time for such foolishness. All he does is work, work, work.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s make this stupid thing as quick and painless as possible.”
On the car ride home, we kicked around possible Boris adventures.
“How about Boris hunts for buried treasure?” I said. “That could be fun.”
“How about he makes cookies,” said Alex.
“Or maybe Boris can get kidnapped,” I said. “Your essay could be a ransom note!”
“How about he makes cookies,” said Alex.
“Or, or, or, he could be accused of a crime he didn’t commit! Maybe your Bed Entourage thinks he killed Froggy and they put Boris on trial. But Froggy isn’t really dead, she’s just asleep.”
“How about he makes cookies,” said Alex.
Alex made other suggestions, too. Alex suggested that after Boris baked cookies, Alex could eat the cookies. Alex also suggested that there was NO WAY he was going to write more than three sentences.
“Well, if it’s an involved adventure, you might need to make it longer,” I said.
“I only have to do three,” Alex said.
“Yes, sure, but you might want to do more,” I said. “Oh! I have another idea for an adventure! How about Boris…”
And here I had my epiphany. At that moment I realized that I was the one who was preventing this assignment from being “as quick and painless as possible.”
Unlike me, my son is not a fan of writing. Not at all. For Alex, writing is something akin to torture. In my zeal, I forgot that Alex is not me.
Of course he doesn’t wanna do more than three sentences, why would he? And why, with his workload, would I suggest otherwise?
I had apparently replaced Happy Dad with Oblivious Dad. So I put Oblivious Dad away, hopefully forever.
“I like your cookie idea,” I said.
Ellen and Alex (and Boris) baked cookies. Then Alex and I worked on the Boris drawing and crafted three brief-and-to-the-point sentences. It wasn’t easy for Alex, but it was, as I promised, quick and painless.
Unlike me, Alex is passionate about math and science. Making up math problems and messing around with snap circuits is the Alex equivalent of my childhood’s Big Toe Theatre. So, once his homework was finally done, he went off to play with Ellen’s calculator.
Maybe Alex will learn to love writing someday. That would be nice. I sure would love to share that interest with him. But I’ll be fine if Alex takes his math and science interests to the next level, too. All I want to do is support him — and make sure I don’t force my own passions on him.
And who knows? Maybe someday Alex will find a happy medium between math and writing. After he went off to play, I heard him refer to the calculator as “Mr. Calculator.” And Mr. Calculator later began a spirited dialogue with Lamby, one of the leaders of Alex’s Bed Entourage.
Oh, yes, there’s a storyteller in that boy. I can see it. But I won’t force it. It’ll come when it comes.
Boris’s visit caused more than his fair share of trouble that day. Not only did he cause angst for Alex, he also kept me up that night. That rotten, little dragon switched on my storytelling brain.
“What if Boris…” I thought as I settled into bed.
“Or what if…”
“Or what if…”
On it went until I finally fell into a fitful sleep.
And, the very next morning, the world was forced to deal with Crabby Dad.
Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow! 