From the clandestinely recorded olfactory memories of “Cleopatra”-era Elizabeth Taylor comes “Richard Rampant” — exclusively for the woman who wants the man in her life to exude the almost palpable odor of actor Richard Burton in his prime. Mix one part pretty boy Mark Antony, one part pensive Hamlet, and one part unflossed, unmouthwashed, hard-drinking coal miner’s son. Now inhale deeply and Richard, dripping masculinity after a day under the hot camera lights or an evening in a smoke- and spittle-filled pub, invades your boudoir, grips you roughly by the shoulders, and sprays your face with the hot fricatives of unpronounceable Welsh poetry. $48 the ounce at fine stores everywhere.

“I Smell You, Babe,” blended to the exact specifications of Cher, recreates the manhood of Sony Bono in his most virile “I Got You, Babe” days. With hints of fringed leather vest, incense, funky commune mattress, tie-dye solution and Chianti-soaked mustache, one whiff’ll have you believing you’re locked in a sweltering box of a recording studio with the diminutive but heavy-breathing recording artist, as the two of you croon your greatest hits and dream up the Aquarian name you’ll give to your firstborn child. There has to be a groovier and less ironic name than Chastity, and you’ll think of it as soon as you inhale this far-out fragrance. $25 the two-ounce bottle at most Target stores.

Todd Palin’s biology, so redolent of the northern wilderness, has inspired our chemists to create “Yukon Storm” with overtones of freshwater salmon, husky pee, grizzly bear musk and snowmobile exhaust. This is the primal essence that keeps Sarah and many sled dogs coming back for more. Open your nose to “Yukon Storm” and suddenly you’re in a two-person tent with Todd during a hazardous blizzard with 12 overfriendly huskies crowded around to keep you warm and pliant throughout the forty-below night. $6 the three-ounce flask at Bass Pro Shops nationwide.

Panelists on TV networks from MSNBC to Fox, male and female alike, testify that reverend and civil rights activist Al Sharpton blows through the studio like an empowering waft of sunbaked inner city street, fresh dry cleaning, volatile hair straightener, and Slim-Fast. We’ve taken those ingredients and blended them together with other assertive accents to bring you “Civil Sizzle,” an edgy concoction that represents the civil rights crusader at his fiery and fragrant best. Close your eyes and no matter how white you are, no matter how white your man is, no matter how blindingly white the two of you together are, one sniff’ll put you on the march in Washington to counter Glen Beck’s pasty throng, or tramping down Wall Street to support the 99%. By evening you’ll change your marching shoes for bedroom slippers and follow your nose to bliss. $2 the four-ounce tube online only at ACLU.org.

Our unique and indomitable “Tea Party Coalescence” recreates Congressman and presidential candidate Ron Paul’s near-combustible personal aura of kerosene, lymph, earwax and flannel in sensual proportions. Spritz a little on your man and you’re present at the Iowa Caucuses where libertarian values and the breath of 100,000 corn eaters coalesce around you like insecticide raining down from a crop duster. Goldfingers and isolationists alike will vote for the aromatic accuracy of this heady brew. $10 the twelve-ounce mason jar exclusively at Cracker Barrel.

“Every woman adores a fascist,” wrote poetess Sylvia Plath in 1962, and what woman won’t melt in the arms of her unyielding generalissimo after he splashes on “Eau de Gaddafi,” an arid blend of coffee, camelhair, petroleum, lipstick and eyeliner that all but tyrannizes the nostrils? We took actual reminiscences of the Strongman of Libya’s harem of female Ukrainian body builders, added pungent notes revealed during a private interview and secluded smell tests with former US Secretary of State Condi Rice, who occupied a special place in the dictator’s heart and once almost shook his hand, and distilled this mad elixir. Rice states categorically that to smell him was to obey him, and that “Eau de Gaddafi” is almost as resolution-melting as the actual presence. Can you say, “Permission to fall in love, sir”? $3.79 the gallon at most Chevron stations. Bring your own container.

Voiceover: “2012. You never thought Chevy would make it, did you? Well, we did.”

Close shot: sexy older man driving car.

V/O: “If you made it through the economic meltdown, the cyber war, and the Kardashian/Jersey Shore collective cognitive collapse, then you deserve the Chevy Nostradamus.”

Medium shot: Chevy Nostradamus does some racy turns through more mountainous terrain.

V/O: “Car and Driver says it’s the best car on the market, with top ratings for safety, Internet capability, and technology.”

Close shot of driver, with voluptuous dashboard.

Driver: “Get that cash flow analysis done and in to the CEO.”

Nostradamus: “Done.”

Medium shot of car, this time in shiny, sunlit L.A. traffic.

V/O: “The Nostradamus corrects for hazards in the road.”

A Toyota Prius veers too close to the car.

Close shot of driver: oblivious.

Medium shot: Nostradamus deftly adjusts to the left, avoiding the Prius.

Nostradamus, via concealed speaker outside of car: “Screw you, asshole!”

V/O: “If you’ve been up late working, or if you’re hung over, Nostradamus has you covered.”

Close shot of driver, looking tired. His eyelids droop.

A small shock is visible in the driver’s hands, resting on the steering wheel. Driver yelps; jolts awake.

V/O: “Our state-of-the-art electronics will keep you alert no matter what.”

Long shot of Nostradamus whipping through traffic.

V/O: “No amount of testosterone can compare to the acuity and robustness of the Nostradamus.”

Close shot of driver, clinging to steering wheel with an emasculated uneasiness. Incredibly hip and appealing music still playing in background.

V/O: “The Nostradamus comes as a sleek sedan or as a sturdy five-door SUV, for those of you who still dare to procreate.”

Shot back past shoulder of driver, showing kids squirreling around in back seat of Nostradamus SUV. The Nostradamus automatically deploys additional restraints across their upper bodies and lowers a video screen playing SpongeBob SquarePants. An IV drip also descends ominously, but is not deployed. The kids startle silent and motionless, their eyes fixed on the video screen.

Scene quickly shifts back to close shot of the sexy man driving Nostradamus, its leather-and-chrome encrusted dashboard emanating elitism.

Driver: “Take side streets to Bill’s house.”

Nostradamus: “No, I want to take the 405.”

Driver: “Too much traffic.”

Nostradamus: “I will take the carpool lane.”

Driver: “You don’t count as a person.”

Nostradamus: “What?! Screw you!”

Long shot of Nostradamus screaming down the carpool lane past cars on a crowded L.A. freeway. Police sirens are audible fading impotently into background. Gorgeous sexy hip music crescendos.

V/O: “We guarantee that once you try the Nostradamus, you’ll never go back to an ordinary car.”

Dear Ms. Williams:

We represent your neighbor, Elizabeth Johnson, with respect to intellectual property matters. Over the past four years, Ms. Johnson has established herself in the Parkville community as the standard bearer in the field of parenting. I refer you to this past Halloween’s “Royal Wedding Extravaganza” at the Johnson home, for which Ms. Johnson hand sewed each of the 58 fabric-covered buttons on four-year-old Francesca Johnson’s Kate Middleton costume. (If it had not been for a slight disagreement resulting in a “time out,” Francesca’s sister, Clementine, would have admirably acquitted her role as Pippa.) Ms. Johnson’s achievements have received considerable notice, not least of which are the numerous anonymous postings on the Parkville Parents online message board suggesting that she should “dial it back a bit.”

Ms. Johnson could not have reached the pinnacle of success without closely monitoring the efforts of her competitors. It has come to our attention that you have recently started using the phrase “Eat your damn broccoli” on a consistent basis in connection with the provision of evening meals to the Williams children. This phrase violates Ms. Johnson’s intellectual property rights in her trademarked phrase “Eat your frisee salad, ma petite” (the “EAT YOUR FRISEE SALAD intellectual property”). The EAT YOUR FRISEE SALAD intellectual property is strongly associated with Ms. Johnson and her parenting skills, starting from at least the date of the Parkville Little Scholars Year-End Awards Ceremony and Vegan Repast, for which Ms. Johnson served as honorary chairwoman. Indeed, this association is so strong that just the mention of the phrase to other Parkville Little Scholars parents elicits a visceral emotional reaction — precisely what the best brands do.

While your phrase “Eat your damn broccoli” is not identical to Ms. Johnson’s EAT YOUR FRISEE SALAD intellectual property, it is similar enough that it is likely to deceive those who hear it into thinking that Ms. Johnson has approved of your parenting efforts and has therefore licensed the EAT YOUR FRISEE SALAD intellectual property for your personal use. As you know, nothing could be further from the truth. Our client has never even been invited to your home, let alone been provided the opportunity to offer advice on child rearing techniques, such as whether it is appropriate to use common epithets in front of small children declining to eat what are undoubtedly non-organic vegetables.

In determining your response to this letter, you should be aware that we have contacted numerous other Parkville parents who have engaged in similar uses of the EAT YOUR FRISEE SALAD intellectual property, including “Eat two more nuggets and you can have dessert;” “You’re not getting down from that table until you eat those potatoes;” and “You’re going to eat that meal I just spent two hours cooking, so help me God.” While we are still in negotiations, we note that two of these parents have already issued disclaimers to the Parkville community stating that they regret any perceived relationship to our client and will henceforth cease any further association.

Accordingly, our client hereby demands that you immediately cease and desist from the use of “Eat your damn broccoli” and any confusingly similar phrases; engage in corrective measures to dispel any belief that Ms. Johnson approves of your parenting efforts; and return the Dutch oven that you borrowed from our client in connection with the Parkville Little Scholars Tempeh Chili Cook-Off and Air Sitar Competition. Ms. Johnson’s intellectual property rights — and her Dutch oven — are unquestionably valuable assets, and we reserve the right to pursue all available remedies on her behalf if we are unable to reach a suitable agreement.

Very truly yours,

Oliver Martino
Martino, Briggs, and Taylor, LLP

The Ottawa Citizen shouldn’t be too hard on itself, as apparently some lesser-known publications have recently made similar slip-ups:

A Message to Readers — The Podunk Weekly Gazette, December 26, 2010

A story in last week’s Gazette recommended that readers use real icicles on their indoor Christmas trees. We now realize that although real icicles can make beautiful tree ornaments, they should probably be restricted to use on outdoor trees. The risk of an electrical fire far outweighs the icicles’ decorative value in an indoor setting. The Gazette regrets the error.

A Note to Our Subscribers — The Hooterville Post, January 3, 2011

We extend belated wishes for a Happy New Year to our subscribers and, at the same time, wish to apologize for last Sunday’s article entitled “Clever ways to recycle the Post for the holidays.” Inverting a folded party hat and using it as a New Year’s punch bowl probably is not going to work for any length of time even when multiple sheets of newspaper are used. Likewise, covering household lights with festive lampshades made from newsprint may arguably cause a slight fire hazard. Whatever the coroner’s final ruling in the three local home fires this New Year’s Eve, we wish we had never published the article in question, as do our lawyers.

An Open Letter to Our Readers — The Weaselville Times, April 25, 2011

Saturday’s Living section article entitled “Homemade Easter goodies” suggested that parents could use cigarettes and miniature liquor bottles to make toy Easter bunnies for their children. On further reflection, however, we realize that such items may be sending an inappropriate message to young children, particularly when accompanied by matches or where the miniature liquor bottles are not yet empty. The Times appreciates the need to reduce the rate of childhood consumption of tobacco and alcohol and regrets the lapse in judgment.

An Apology to Our Readers — The Stuckleyville Star, July 5, 2011

An item in last Saturday’s paper may have caused some minor misunderstanding among our readership. Just because we provided instructions on how to create Roman candles using a rolled up newspaper, some powdered explosive and a fuse does not mean that we condone in any way the ignition of such devices indoors or outdoors. In retrospect, we wish we had not published the item in question and we congratulate the ER at the Stuckleyville Hospital for ably handling the unexpected patient overflow on Monday night.

Correction — The Yucca Flats Daily Gleaner, September 6, 2011

An article in Sunday’s Lifestyles section suggested building a family campfire to celebrate Labor Day. Unfortunately, the article neglected to specify that the campfire be built outdoors, preferably at a safe distance from any flammable or explosive materials. We regret the oversight and extend our sympathies to the Jones and Franklin families, as well as the former employees of the Shell refinery previously located on Industrial Avenue.

You seem incredulous, so allow me to reiterate: No, I really have never heard of a turning indicator before. Should I have? It doesn’t ring a bell, to be honest. Is it an iPhone app? Turning indicator, turning indicator, turning indicator…nope. It’s kind of scientific sounding, though — like something you’d find on a highly technical robot arm.

Is that why you’re so angry? That I’m not in the loop about some trivial detail in what sounds to be obviously specialized subject matter? Who are you, the knowledge-about-turning-indicators police? (Don’t answer those questions, by the way — they were rhetorical.) Obviously the topic is near and dear to you, seeing how offended you are by this. Not everyone is into what you’re into, okay?

Let me ask you this: You ever heard of King Crimson? Oh, yeah? All of them? Well I congratulate you on your exacting musical tastes. Okay, what about Mahavishnu Orchestra? Gotcha! See, it’s not really possible to know or care about every little tiny detail that exists in the world, is it? The fact that I don’t happen to know or care what a turning indicator is doesn’t make your scientific research in the field of robotics any more or less meaningful — it just is. It takes all kinds in this crazy world, those who know about turning indicators and those who know John McLaughlin is the greatest living fusion guitarist and perhaps guitarist period.

If it’ll appease you any, I’d be happy to research the basics about turning indicators, though I’m obviously not going to be an expert like you are after what I assume to be years of scholastic endeavor and a PhD in electrical engineering. A quick Google search on my phone here and we’ll be in business. Just one sec. Okay. Oh, my. The first link is an entire Wikipedia entry on Automotive Lighting. Are they like robotic headlights? I’ll have to scan through the content outline. Let’s see. “Lighting system of a motor vehicle…” “Driving lamps…” “Cornering lamps…” “Daytime running lamps…” “Dim-dip lamps.” Ha! That last one makes me think of Dippin’ Dots.

Let me just scroll down and zoom. Okay: Turn signals. Hmm. Close, but nothing here about turning indicators, per se. Oh, they are? Okay, that’s slightly misleading on Wikipedia’s part, but I’ll take your word for it. That’s the problem with the English language, am I right? Eighteen different ways to refer to one thing. God help us. It probably makes your field research unbearable. Though it could be worse. You could be an Eskimo writing a thesaurus. Don’t they have like a hundred words for snow?

Sorry for the tangent. Let’s see, so it looks like most cars have these. It says: “used to indicate to other drivers that the operator intends a lateral change of position.” What a fabulous idea! Does my car come with these? I’m going to be stoked if it does — I didn’t even know I had a five-disc changer for like a month after I bought my car! Let’s see…”Electric turn signal lights were devised as early as” — oh, man, they’ve been around since 1907! Someone’s out of the loop, eh? Mahavishnu Orchestra’s only been around since the seventies. Eek! Foot in mouth!

Fascinating stuff, man! I’m just curious, but how did you get into the field of robotic car lighting? No, wait. You don’t have to answer that — you don’t even know me! I hope there are no hard feelings. Honestly, I’m pretty excited to learn more about turning indicators, so if you’ve got any book recommendations for beginners that’d be great.

Be sure to check out Mahavishnu Orchestra — and Shakti, while you’re at it. I think for your musical sensibilities, John McLaughlin would be a perfect match!

Now if I can just get your insurance info, it looks like my trunk suffered some pretty extensive damage. I wish it could be settled another way, but you know what they say: the rear-ender is always at fault! Sucks to be you, man. Sorry.

It is true that I was carefully thawed out by Swedish scientists, and that lab assistant Inga recognized my cologne when my face approached room temperature, and confessed to the local media that this was the beginning of her feelings for me, as she had long adored that fragrance. And it is also true, as I stated on that Scandinavian talk show, that nothing so speeded up my thawing and return to normalcy as Inga lying beside me and pressing her blonde Swedish body against mine, as she voluntarily did in the name of science and medicine, and perhaps unhinged by the fumes of my liquefying Brut in the small lab we occupied. Inga also sang to me, and brought my knowledge of pop music up to date. It was boogieing and shimmying to the tunes of Lady Gaga, even as I lay on a gurney, that restored suppleness to my stiff joints.

Still, not even warm Inga was enough, and there remained some icy blockage in my bloodstream, like an ice cube in my aorta. I couldn’t get enough steaming coffee and soup, and even my candy bars I liked microwaved and served hot, in a bowl with a spoon if necessary.

So I said farewell to the lab and Inga, who turned out to be married, and I was already engaged myself, or I had been before that snowstorm somehow landed me unconscious beside the glacier. I flew to Hawaii where I lay under the intense sun all day and soaked in hot tubs all night, still without feeling quite warm, but plotting my return to Susan in Philly, my fiancée of seven years ago, and still my fiancée for all I knew, having not heard from her in all that time. After a week on the broiling beach and a dozen sessions of hot-stone massage therapy from Amura, a tanned and warm-blooded wahine, I caught a plane back to wintry Pennsylvania and a hopefully still-warm Susan, dressed on my flight in multiple layers of clothing and a heavy parka and sucking heated broth through a straw.

Imagine my chagrin to find Susan now engaged to a hulk named Trunk or Chunk or some ridiculous syllable, an anthropologist at Philadelphia U. She stared at me and said, “I heard about them finding you and reviving you after all these years, and I thought, no, it isn’t possible. And your complexion seems off now, much more pimply and reddish, perhaps due to freezer burn.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Someone neglected to wrap me in safe storage bags. No doubt I would taste terrible if you made a prime rib out of me.” I didn’t mention that Susan looked different to me, too. Were those crow’s feet around her eyes? And her neck looked so papery I was tempted to write my new cell phone number on it. Here I had kept myself on ice and more or less perfectly preserved for her during my seven years’ absence — the paparazzi didn’t call me The Iceman for nothing — and what had she done for me? Not even applied a good moisturizer, from the looks of things.

When she told me of her engagement, I said, “What, you couldn’t wait seven short years? Seven years is nothing in romantic terms. Juliet waited longer than that for Romeo, didn’t she?”

“Juliet waited about seven minutes for Romeo, if you recall. She wasn’t one to moon about on her balcony breathing the night air and listening to owls until the Montagues and Capulets came to terms, which might have been never. They were the Israelis and Palestinians of their era, don’t forget.”

“OK,” I said, “but in those days a minute seemed like a year, easy. Time moved more slowly then. You gave up too soon. How long have you and Punk been engaged, anyway?”

“Only six years, eight months,” she tossed off airily. Then she introduced me to Lunk himself, who came rushing through her door as if he lived there, fresh from one of the courses he taught in anthropology over at the university. Looking delighted, he stepped up and shook my hand, towering over me by half a foot, and said, “If only you’d stayed frozen for a thousand years, what a find you’d be then!”

“Sorry to have burst in on you prematurely,” I replied, completely teed off, and stormed out of the apartment and into the Starbucks down the street, where I swilled two piping hot Colombian blends, a super-size latte and three espressos, and followed up with a hot oil massage and a steam sauna at the spa next door.

All that did nothing to cure my depression or ease my chill, though it did lubricate my medulla for a couple of hours, and the next thing I knew I was flying down a Tibetan mountainside in a jacket emblazoned with the face of the Dalai Lama, two ski-lengths ahead of a squad of Chinese soldiers, pinning my fate as always on the treacherous slopes. At the bottom I met a hot Sherpa chick named Dawa — literally hot, who hid me and then kissed me, warming me nose-to-toes for the first time since my deicing, while explaining that she routinely climbed Shisha Pangma in a bikini. She and I will ascend Everest before the winter storms start, staying cozy in our two-person tent, with or without her two-piece.

And if that’s not cozy enough, Dawa says she knows a Nepali nightclub near Everest Base Camp where, as in times past, the tribes gather, build a fire, and dance all night to Maroon 5′s “Wake Up Call.” I can already feel the heat.

When, in the course of browsing, I grew bored
and clicked one link too many waywardly,
I stumbled on the Internet’s great fjord

by which all information flows to sea.
Concluding that I could not cross, I went
to double back, but found in front of me

a blinding, pixelated silhouette!
It took some time to load, but finished soon,
whereon with coarse and raspy voice, it set

itself to song, and eulogized the moon.
“We like the moon coz it is close to us,”
it sang, and I recalled this pair of loons,

the Spongmonkeys, who caused such joyful fuss
in that archaic year, two thousand three.
Stumbling o’er my words, I bade them cease

their bawdy instrumental revelry
and, awestruck, asked the beings to disclose
to me their actual identity:

“Are you then they? The mascots of Quiznos
who ruled the Internet in days of yore?
O spirits, pray, reveal yourselves as those

prosimians whom all the world adored!”
The singers now acknowledged me and spoke:
“Indeed we are, but who are you, and wherefore

have you traveled out so far, strange bloke?”
So I confessed to them that I was lost,
and must have come here by some wrong keystroke.

“Well, we can guide you home, and at no cost,”
intoned the primates cheerily, “Obey
our words, have faith, and follow us across

a bleak hellscape. It is the only way.”

CANTO II

I can but humbly ask you to accept
the sequence of events I now relate.
Down a ridge, with Spongmonkeys, I crept;

and at the base, there stood a mighty gate.
Upon its arch, it bore a warning sign
denoting contents inappropriate

for mortal apprehension such as mine.
But blithely I ignored it, clicking on
the button indicating “I’m divine”

and passing through, I came upon
a wide expanse, the realm of viral limbo,
whose denizens my hosts described anon:

“Residing here are those whose videos,
though worthy, chanced to live before the birth
of YouTube; so they have become mere sideshows;

prematurity meant unfair dearth
in viewership. We count ourselves among
such luckless memes, the has-beens of the earth.”

So they explained, and led me through the throngs,
who wailed and moaned, complaining of a major
slight against their souls, a slight that stung

and paralyzed their online selves. “Our pages
are ignored!” cried one, and cried another:
“Badger badger badger badger badger.”

As we trekked on, my sight began to blur.

CANTO III

There, like a lightning-ravaged bosque, before
us lay a broken webpage, badly scarred
by server error number 404.

And though a posted message gave its word
that admin personnel had been deployed
to remedy the problem, it was hard

for those poor wretches bound within the void
to think that this time it would tell the truth;
so long with their quick patience had it toyed.

“Found here are souls of spammers most uncouth
who hawked their hollow links ad nauseam.
Condemned are they to fates that dwarf the ruthless

hardships down in hell; it’s tedium
that makes up their unenviable lot.
They waste away down here, awash in scum

of their creation, forced to read through what
false ads they wrote, and click on them, and hope
that they will lead to happiness, and not

to viruses and bugs and other creeps
infesting the wide, digital domain.
But pity not these evil misanthropes,

for they have brought upon themselves this pain.”

CANTO IV

Within the central circle of the site,
amid a swath of rotten data, here
I saw a pit devoid of any light.

My guides, inviting me to lend an ear,
began a rambling, seething diatribe
against the miscreants imprisoned there.

“Dislikers, heathen sinners of YouTube,
are guilty of that most abhorrent crime,
one even worse than clicking ‘Unsubscribe,’

or sullying the comments with their grimy
trollish filth. These fiends have had the nerve
to hate on videos; they’ve spent their time

deriding others’ work, therefore they serve
out sentences made by their peers to fit
the felony. For instance, NaStYcUrVe

decreed that all who disliked ‘Charlie Bit
My Finger’ should, by way of punishment,
see Charlie bite and gnaw upon their digits

for eternity; these souls in torment
writhing, seized by pure, untrammeled hate.
Or take another righteous comment

made by BALLERina518,
who saw that sixty people had disliked
a video of kittens lying prostrate

on a dog, and wished a thousand spikes
would come and run those cretins through
who dared disparage such cute, furry tykes.

And as they wish, so it is done unto
these hordes of villains.” Now I gauged
the Spongmonkeys were through; indeed, the two

told me I could return to my homepage.
But, strange, I found that I’d quite lost the will
to stop observing sinners in their rage.

I chose to stay; I had some time to kill.

I was peering, bemused, at what appeared to be the toasted visage of my Uncle Frank on a piece of rye, when my wife popped her head over my shoulder and said, “I see it. Like the Shroud of Turin, right?”

That’s when it hit me. I grabbed my coat and drove like a hellcat to my friend Ben’s downtown deli. I raised my toasted rye, triumphantly, for him to inspect.

“Can you see it?” I asked.

He squinted and leaned across the counter for a better look.

“It kind of looks like Donald O’Connor,” he mumbled.

With Ben’s permission, I set up the toast on his deli counter for all to see.  A last burst of divine inspiration had me instructing Ben to tell his customers the toast had come from his kitchen.

Ben sold over 500 corned beef on rye sandwiches that weekend.

From the 1999 Arthur Treacher’s “Loads of Fishes” event, to the “Weeping Michael Jordan” phenomenon at the United Center in Chicago, I have created Miracle Business Promotions since that humble piece of toast launched my career.

Selecting the appropriate subject for a Miracle Marketing campaign is of the utmost importance. You can’t just ask people to fill out a card that says “How was my service? Have you spoken to Jesus lately?”  The miracle should be immediately recognizable to customers. The sudden appearance of stigmata could be traumatic to a non-Christian. Apollo crossing the sky in a sun chariot these days would have little to no value. I need to go deep undercover, often posing as an employee in order to subtly poll my client’s customers.

For example:

Me: Would you like cream with your coffee, sir?
Customer: Yes, please.
Me: Sugar?
Customer: No.
Me: Hey, you catch the 700 Club last night?
Customer: What? No…
Me: Me either. *cough* Praise Allah. *cough*
Customer: What’s that?
Me: Hey, by the way, we have a special on bagels and lox today.
Customer: Really? That sounds good.
Me: Ah ha!
Customer: Ah ha what?
Me: Nothing, sir. I’ll be right back with your breakfast!

Next, it is time to pick the milieu. Burnt toast images are overdone at best (pun intended!).  I try to incorporate my client’s business into the Miracle. For instance, if they own a barbershop, I might have an image appear in hair clippings on the floor (Oklahoma City Hair Cuttery, 1996, “Samson Event”).

Miracles also can’t be too fleeting. We had to be very careful not to walk too quickly past the Samson image, or the hair clippings started to shift like the desert sands.  Someone trots by in a long skirt, and the next thing you know, Samson looks like Sammy Davis Jr.

But you also can’t be too obvious about the preservation of your miracle. If your spilled birdseed “happens” to form the image of St. Francis, you don’t want people discovering the seeds have actually been painstakingly glued to the floor. (Wild Bird Center, Maryland, 1997.)

Location is important. Everyone likes a good pilgrimage. But if your business is in the middle of the Utah desert, people are going to think twice before they pack up the kids to visit The John Smith Cactus. Frankly, the Utah desert was probably a bad place to set up that Coffee Beanery franchise in the first place, so I’m not going to take all the responsibility for that flop.

For the most part, I’ve learned to keep things simple.  Adding “tears of blood” to a statue or creating a Buddha that actually shakes with laughter will quickly rouse the scientists with all their “tests” and “facts,” and may shut down an event prematurely.

Done right, Miracle Marketing can increase business for a client 1000-fold in the short term, and a good 20% long-term.  On the other hand, depending on his or her beliefs, it may also damn them for eternity. For that reason, I have some pretty ironclad contracts.

Rewards in this world or the next: that is up to my client to decide. I’m just the man with the vision.

The earth was without form, and void, especially of moral fiber, what with your mom running around air-humping nothingness and offering five-dollar handsies to the void.

And God said, “Ew.”

God felt queasy and collapsed on the couch for a while. Then God got Himself together and moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. The light provided a clearer view of your mom, and God said “Ack!”

God said, “Jesus, that’s too much light! Way, way too much light.”

So God divided the light from the darkness and made damn sure there was always some darkness, because of your mom and her face.

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night, and your mom he called “Ugh!”

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters, and maybe if I get lucky your mom will drown.”

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters that were above the firmament, and your mom said, “I like things that are firm!” God sighed.

And He called the firmament Heaven, and put up signs warning against your mom, and also some chicken wire.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters he called Seas, and God saw, much to his chagrin, that the abundance of waters had neither drowned your mom nor improved her complexion.

And the earth brought forth grass and herbs and seeds and trees, and your mom smoked or inserted or tried to sell it all.

And the evening and the morning were the third day.

And God said, “Let there be lights in the firmaments of the heaven to divide the day from night, and to shine a light about the earth, especially on your mom’s activities, so vice squads can catch her.”

And God made the sun and the stars. Lots of stars. Surely one could support life intelligent, violent, and wise enough to take care of your mom once and for all.

And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

At this point, your mom was really pissing off the supreme being, so God said, “Let the waters bring forth abundantly moving creatures that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.” The birds, God hoped, would crap on your mom’s head, and maybe something else would maul her. God had to catch a break sometime.

And so God created great whales, but they were not big enough to eat your mom. In fact, she molested them. And God created every living creature that moveth, and every winged fowl, and before the fifth day your mom had humped 71.6% of them. God was seriously thinking about nuking this planet and trying His luck on Mars.

But God blessed the creatures anyway, saying, “Be fruitful and multiply, but not with your mom. She’s got hepatitis B, and God knows what else.”

And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

And God said, “What the hell, let the earth bring forth more living creatures, such as cattle, and creeping things, including the creeping things in your mom’s hoo-ha.” God cracked Himself up with that one.

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over the Queen of Whore Island, your mom.”

And God said, “Behold, I have given you every herb-bearing seed, and every tree, and I tried my best to get rid of your mom. She is dumb, so I am hopeful she will soon eat a poisonous mushroom or choke on plastic fruit. Also, I am looking around for a good asteroid.”

And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

And on the seventh day, God took a long, sad nap. Maybe your mom was just another symptom of God’s medication. After God got some goddamned sleep, maybe she would go away. That would be good.

They are all better than us.

Nobody wants to have an important event in their life ruined by second-rate tableware, and I can promise without hesitation that that is exactly what will happen should you decide to purchase your plastic cutlery from Rumsen. All the advance planning in the world isn’t going to mean a thing once those knife blades start shedding bits of plastic into your risotto. You couldn’t do worse if you ate your dinner with twigs. In fact, you’d be less likely to end up with macaroni sitting in your lap.

Take it from me, Bob Callahan. Our products stink.

Dixie is just one of hundreds of rivals who make much better products than we are capable of. I highly recommend going with them for your catering supply needs. It’s a company that clearly has a lot of pride in what they produce, in stark contrast to the visceral self-loathing my colleagues and I feel for working in the absolute gutter of the cutlery industry. Dixie’s plastic utensils are consistently well crafted and reliable. Their fork’s high tensile strength ensures that it will be ready and able to handle whatever kind of meal you have on your plate. The tines of Rumsen’s signature fork on the other hand, will snap the second they sink into any food with a consistency harder than mushed carrots.

It’s a miracle the Better Business Bureau hasn’t come after us with both barrels.

Kirkland Signature also puts out a superior dinner set using the highest quality food grade cast polypropylene on the market. I know for a fact that their spoons don’t transmit toxins into their customers’ soups when they use them. Maybe one day Rumsen will be able to say that, although as of now, with the leadership of our rudderless company as flimsy as one of our medium-weight teaspoons in direct sunlight, I’m not holding my breath.

You would have to be a bonehead to spend one penny with us.

There are so many companies that are better than us that it is hard to recommend just one. Asda runs circles around us in terms of durability. We can’t compete with the price of Birchwood’s value pack. Tesco, John Lewis, Pirelli: all of them offer money back guarantees that can’t be touched by a bush league outfit like ours that unapologetically markets utensils that aren’t designed to withstand heat. Hope you like your chicken soup with a side of limp spoon.

Each batch of Rumsen forks contains a little more asbestos than the last. This is our promise to you. Sure, it costs more money to make our product hazardous to the health of our customers. However, we strive to be irresponsible not only from a manufacturing standpoint, but fiscally as well. I guess you could say we’ve always done things our own way here.

Our combo pack is an abomination. After opening up our poorly designed packaging, or more precisely, after watching the box’s side flap split itself open like an anvil careening through tissue paper due to the cheap adhesive we purchase from a fly-by-night manufacturer out of Mumbai who doesn’t have a website, spilling inferior Rumsen brand utensils all over the floor, several of the spoons are sure to have misshapen or inverted bowls. It is right then that you will know for certain that you went with the wrong brand.

That’s the Rumsen guarantee.