We Need Some Fresh Ideas Here at Ramming One’s Head into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc.

By: Dirk Voetberg


As you know, we here at Ramming One’s Head into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc., have experienced fifty-eight straight quarters of declining revenue. Well, I was hired as your new VP of Marketing to snap that slump! But I know that we can only do it as a team! So I’m calling out to each and every one of you to contribute whatever marketing suggestions you have. Come on by! My door’s always open! And, remember, there’s no such thing as a bad idea! I mean that!

Here are some of my thoughts to get our brainstorm started:

From what I gather, the top brass here at Ramming One’s Head Into S’s at F S has understandably been leery about doing any kind of TV advertising. They’re concerned about the possibly scarring effect the image of someone ramming their head into a sculpture could have on the typical television viewer.

But they’re worrying up the wrong tree! Today’s consumers don’t even want or respond to advertising that’s overly literal. It just needs to be cool and/or hip. You know, we could have a spot that’s just some good looking 20-somethings hanging out at night in a sculpture garden, languidly looking at the stars. Nick Drake, REO Speedwagon, or some other kind of music like that playing. Girls snuggling up with their boys. Buddies talking handsomely by the fire. Maybe even some text messaging going on. Then, our logo softly materializing on the screen. And only as the ad is fading out do we hear even a slight crunch and scream in the background. Very subtle. Nothing too in your face.

Oh! I see that one of you is at my office door! And I haven’t even sent out this email yet! Great! I love proactivity! And this team member (it’s Geoff) has told me an idea he has!…Okay. He just said that no one’s going to pay to smash their heads against sculptures. Ever. Well, now, that’s not what I’d consider a great idea, per se. But it’s not a bad idea either because, remember — and this is very lucky for us — there’s no such thing as a bad idea! Anyway, again, the rest of you, please feel free to walk on over to my always-opened door and let’s chat about your thoughts!

By the way, here’s another one of mine: While we would likely decide to be fairly oblique on the TV front, I believe we should be more straightforward in other mediums. For example, I think we need some new FAQ on our website to dispel a disturbingly widespread perception that we’re somehow in the business of selling something called “Ramming One’s Head Into Sculptures at Full Speed” but not literally that. Now, I’m not sure what the reason for this confusion is, but after telling my friends and family about my new job, it became apparent to me that it exists. Why they think someone would name a product something other than it is, I haven’t the slightest. If I ran a restaurant, for example, and served something called “pudding,” it would be almost exactly pudding.

Oh! How about this? How about creating our own in-house sculpting department? That way, we’d be able to offer customers their own surfaces upon which to terminate ramming. They wouldn’t need to pay those pesky suggested museum entrance fees or deal with security at corporate parks. And, for our purposes, the sculptures we crank out wouldn’t even have to convincingly symbolize war or that kind of deep subject matter other artists fret themselves over. Our stuff could simply evoke something pedestrian like wanting a certain type of dessert or how hard it is to figure out TiVo sometimes. Heck, we may even be able to get away with sculptures that have no meaning whatsoever! (I’ll look into that with legal.)

Wow. Some of you others are also dropping by my office! Terrific! Proactivity in the hizouse! Still haven’t even sent this email yet! And now Sylvia and Trelnt (sp?) are telling me their ideas! Great!

Huh. Now, see. The ideas they just told me — that we can’t possibly make money off this product, we need to all quit our jobs, etc. — are unfortunately a lot like Geoff’s. If you really analyze them, they don’t actually seem to offer much in the way of solving how we can make money off of our product (and, frankly, keep our jobs). Again, I won’t call them bad ideas, of course, (no such thing) but for lack of a better word, I would have to say that they’re “bad” ideas.

Here’s the deal. Whatever marketing strategy we come up with, it needs to pass this simple test: will it convince people to ram their heads into sculptures, which, remember, is immensely painful and harmful?

Anyway, keep ’em coming, team. I know together we’ll figure out that one perfect game plan. And, when we do, our competitors will be eating our dust!


Senior VP

Ramming One’s Head Into Sculptures at Full Speed, Inc.



Satisfaction Guaranteed

By: David Martin

I believe it is inevitable that within five years, people will be having sex with robots,” [David] Levy told his audience…..”I believe that by 2050 people in large numbers will be falling in love with robots and marrying them in large numbers,” he said. — The Ottawa Citizen – June 23, 2008

New York Times – Weddings & Celebrations – July 10, 2050


Dr. Stephen and Louise Cruikshank of Stamford, Connecticut are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter Mary Ellen to “Robbie” RoboWorld-3000.

Ms. Cruikshank is a graduate of Swarthmore and is presently pursuing postgraduate studies at Yale University in early childhood psychology. The groom is a product of LeisureWorld Robotics Inc. of Cambridge, Massachusetts and a graduate of their advanced psycho-sexual assembly line.

The marriage ceremony was held last Saturday at the home of the bride’s parents. The bride wore a full-length dress with organza trim and a silver-threaded veil while the groom was decked out in his formalwear encapsulation package and spare battery pack.

The bride expressed delight at her marriage to Mr. Roboworld and touted his handsome appearance and ten-year parts-and-labor warranty. For his part, Mr. Roboworld stated: “Many customers have examined my features but I instantly recognized that Mary Ellen was the most compatible, asynchronous partner for me.”

The couple will be taking up residence in the bride’s New Haven, Connecticut apartment. Ms. Cruikshank will be spending much of her time studying at Yale while Mr. RoboWorld-3000 will be spending his days recharging in the bedroom closet.


Nymphette Model 601 was married Saturday to James T. Corrigan at the premises of Computer Pals Inc. in Passaic, New Jersey in a warranty replacement ceremony. Computer Pals’s COO Martin Gimlet officiated.

The bride is a top-of-the-line fembot with all of the available options including non-chafing skin and Pleasuralizer Plus. She is a recent product of Computer Pals’s state-of-the-art production facility in Singapore.

The bridegroom, 67, is a retired maintenance worker living in Newark. As Mr. Corrigan was previously wed to a Vixen 2000, an earlier Computer Pals product, this marriage was fully financed by the company under its robot replacement warranty.

“I’m so happy,” said the beaming bridegroom. “At first I couldn’t imagine life without my Vixen 2000 but when I saw the Nymphette Model 601, it was love at first sight.”

The Nymphette Model 601 was unavailable for comment as Mr. Corrigan opted to forego the voice module and the interpersonal conversation option.

“I’m pretty much a visual kind of guy,” said Mr. Corrigan.

The couple will reside in Mr. Corrigan’s Newark townhouse so long as his dog Rex can be trained to stop chewing on robots. Otherwise, the new Mrs. Corrigan will be taking up residence in the adjoining garage.


Thanks to recent changes in the laws of New York State, same-circuit marriages are now legal. First to take advantage of the new law were Android Man and Roboguy. The two male-programmed robots tied their power supplies together at a small, private ceremony last Monday in the assembly room of speciality manufacturer Advanced Homo Electricus Robotronics in Westchester, New York.

Plant spokesman Ed Entwhistle officiated at the ceremony which was attended by the plant foreman, six assembly line workers and the completed line production of gay robots from Monday’s first shift.

“I am programmed to like men,” said Android Man. “But none measures up to Roboguy. His circuitry is really dreamy.”

“I feel the same way,” said Roboguy. “My only disappointment is that we couldn’t have the ceremony in California.”


A Note From A Purveyor Of Spirits To His Underage Clientele

By: L. Burrow

Dear Sir or Madam:

Due to complications imposed by the current crackdown on underage alcohol consumption, I can no longer provide you with wine coolers, watermelon schnapps or dented cans of discount beer without valid identification. This is a harsh buzzkill, I know. But a new day has dawned, and I will no longer be a tackling dummy. As a matter of fact, I am a one-man riot squad; a bulwark between a thirty-pack of Keystone Light and your wanting funnels. If you are unconvinced; try me, imbecile.

The following types of identification are no longer satisfactory: library cards, documents declaring diplomatic immunity, pictures of “your” children or notes from your father on company letterhead demanding a bottle of Boone’s Farm Key Lime wine, a pack of Dutch Masters and a can of wintergreen chew.

From now on, everyone who walks through this door will be identified. This is how it’s going to go down. First, present your identification for my inspection; you will need to remove it from your wallet as I will be passing it through a messy chemical process. While I work my magic with a black light, feel free to sign one of the affidavits legally affirming your age. If you choose not to: get out. Finally, roll up your sleeves and submit your fingers, palms and forearms for printing. Lava soap and paper towels will be provided for your use.

For my of-age, law-abiding clientele, I hope that you will forgive the inconvenience of the new procedure, but I think everyone will agree that this is a minimal hassle considering you have the thirst and flavor for quality liquor.

Hey mop-top, don’t bother making that nonchalant, ultra-conspicuous cell phone call to Kalie, or CaLie, or KtchaiyLeieye, asking if Old Grandad is a suitable substitute for Uncle Harry’s Ultra-Light Freaky-Deekee Fruit Punch. It’s not. It’s bourbon. Get out.

Don’t shake your head in disbelief, young lady. Due to your own feckless behavior, I now have to wear the old-school tie in the name of public interest. The town-hall talkers and rumor mongers believe that my supposed leniency is to blame for the recent drunken adolescent crime wave. To tell you the truth, I didn’t mind your vandalistic actions, at first. The kleptomania, yes; but when you were blowing donuts on the baseball diamond at the town park, I didn’t mind. Others were aghast, but I recognized your youthful vigor, your propensity for creative destruction. However, after you hit my mailbox, repeatedly, I dropped the gauntlet.

When I was your age, I was not asking my mother to borrow the mini-van for a pack of Parliament lights and a sixer of hard cider. I was gainfully employed. At six years old, I was drinking rye and smoking a pipe as a ragamuffin bootblack in the toughest speakeasy on the south side. At seventeen, I was cleaving tendons at a meat packing plant in the Yards, and getting smashed at Chicago-Pittsburgh Carpets home losses with leftover flapper broads. When I was eighteen, I banished Nazi scum to the nether regions of Hell and sipped absinthe at the border of Belgium and France. At age twenty, I was on shore leave in Formosa with the Merchant Marines, hanging out in opium dens (literally, by my ankles with a blindfold on and my pants off) and suffering from syphilitic insanity.

Been there 🙂 done that :-), son.

So don’t badger me with “Pretty please,” or attempt to goad me with “Come on, Pops.” It won’t work anymore. And if this is going to stop you from getting high, I suggest you quit now. You’ve peaked. However, for the rest of you, for those of you who refuse to play dead, to the best of my knowledge the following kicks are not recognized as illegal: chugging cough syrup, smoking banana peels, snorting nutmeg, skittling with your parent’s prescriptions, huffing butane, asphyxiating yourself with a belt and a shower curtain rod (it’s safer), crushing caffeine pills and applying the powder directly to the cornea of your non-dominant eye or experimenting with distilling your own sour mash.

Good Luck,


P..S. A word of advice for the young man with the snapped humerus bones: before you attempt to smash an elderly man’s mailbox, take the time to check and make sure the senile, old coot hasn’t filled it with cement. Sometimes you’ve got to learn the hard way, kid.


Charles Atlas Shrugged

By: John Jasper Owens

First off, it’s pretty clear that when I kicked sand in your face it was an accident. I was running to catch a beach ball, and in turning, I inadvertently knocked up some sand, which, just by happenstance, flew onto you, and partially on to Sylvia. I’m non-confrontational by nature, so I was truly shocked when you chose to make an issue of it moments later. I mean come on, it’s a public beach. What would you have done if a Frisbee had landed on your towel — shattered it across your forehead? You need to lay off the Red Bull or whatever. Your pupils were a bit dilated that day. All I’m saying.

So I may have said a few unkind things when you chose to make a federal case over a little sand, like the rest of your beach trip was going to be sand-free and were it not for my feet, no sand would’ve besmirched your JC Penny $5.95 towel. Yes, I have a nice body — I put a lot of time in at the gym, and not just on the arms and chests, like some boys I could mention. I work the whole package. Back, calves, neck — everything. Yes, I’m gay, and yes, I’m still mostly in the closet, but I’m working on that, which is another reason I really didn’t need what went down that day — that girl you were with started following me around.

I know I’m cute, but what sane woman finds getting sand kicked on her and her date attractive? Sylvia’s a psycho, man — she’s just one more mojito binge away from ending up a case study, maybe a Dr. Phil special. I didn’t want her and meanwhile my friends think her squeezing by biceps and breathing all over me is just the most hilarious thing since Kat Williams. You could’ve said something. Anytime you wanted you could’ve come up to me on the beach (I live on the beach) and I’d have said, “Take her back, Mac. Take her, I’m begging you. Here’s a fifty — take her to dinner.” I carried fifty bucks in my trunks all summer just in case you reappeared. But you didn’t. What did you do?

You went home and kicked a chair. A chair. Listen, man, ever think about Pilates? Aromatherapy, maybe? Valium?

Good thing you didn’t own a dog.

Months go by and I pretty much forgot you existed, while you spent the whole summer alone in your room — and I’m sure you’re no stranger to that — doing that weirdo workout thing when if you’d just come by the gym like a normal person, we could’ve straightened this out in two seconds and you and the crazy girl could’ve lived happily together until she screwed your father or killed you in your sleep or some other Sylvia-esque action.

But no.

Instead, you choose to sneak up on me back at the beach, just when I’ve got full frontal attention on trying to pry off the barnacle on the prow of my love life that is Sylvia, and sucker punch me. I hope you enjoyed all that “”King of the Beach”” nonsense — I’m sure the irony of my sort of crowd is lost on lunatics like you and Sylvia, so I can only hope that the next time some poor sap accidentally, I don’t know, spills salt on your table at Burger King or whatever, you manage to show a little restraint.