Dairy-Aire...The Udder Guys
Being married to a witty, intelligent writer with deadly accuracy in voicing observations can prove costly, particularly on the Sabbath.
It is on that day that we join together as heathen and Vodouissant, read Lord Buckley, then drive across the Columbia River to 42nd Street Cafe. There we perform sacrifice of beignets, andouille sausage and chickory coffee for the spirits, via our corporal selves.
Splashing through the rain-puddled parking lot, just across the street on devilish red sineage, there it is.
Blasphemy.
A badly animated cow, viewed from the rear, looking over her shoulder announcing the presence of The Dairy-Aire. "Doesn't produce a compelling urge to eat there, does it?" he rhetoricized. "Nope," I thought.
On this particular rain soaked day, I noticed a smaller sign near their side entrance, "We're the Udder Guys."
The result of relaying my observance to the heathen writer was dead silence. Dead like thundering silence dead air has, when the radio should be playing, and isn't.
While we spoke no more of this, I know what we were both thinking.
You could have had a good name. A name that conveyed who you are, what you represent - something meaningful that is an overall part of your corporate communication plan.
And you went for the butt... tits and butt jokes. No, we're not prudes. Say what you want. Use words that are powerful when you are saying something powerful. No editing. I want assholes to sound like assholes.
Don't descend into the realm of potty humor. Stay with me here.
At which beer-soaked meeting at the Sea Hag was this idea scrawled on the back of a napkin? Didn't you sober up? Don't you have friends who tell you when you're being a moron? You don't want people to equate you with a cow butt. You're selling DAIRY.
Well, I'm sure it was a hoot at the bar when somebody slurred, "Dairy-Aire!" "Whoo hoo, that's a good one! Write that down."
"Wait, wait, we're the UDDER guys, get it?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
It's sad. Just sad, when you don't look at that the next morning, crumble it up and say "I'm NEVER drinking Zombies again!"
Imagine operating on that level all the time.
I can only hope that it was an economics issue: the person with the idea was funding the business with a below-market rate loan.
I can only hope.
It is on that day that we join together as heathen and Vodouissant, read Lord Buckley, then drive across the Columbia River to 42nd Street Cafe. There we perform sacrifice of beignets, andouille sausage and chickory coffee for the spirits, via our corporal selves.
Splashing through the rain-puddled parking lot, just across the street on devilish red sineage, there it is.
Blasphemy.
A badly animated cow, viewed from the rear, looking over her shoulder announcing the presence of The Dairy-Aire. "Doesn't produce a compelling urge to eat there, does it?" he rhetoricized. "Nope," I thought.
On this particular rain soaked day, I noticed a smaller sign near their side entrance, "We're the Udder Guys."
The result of relaying my observance to the heathen writer was dead silence. Dead like thundering silence dead air has, when the radio should be playing, and isn't.
While we spoke no more of this, I know what we were both thinking.
You could have had a good name. A name that conveyed who you are, what you represent - something meaningful that is an overall part of your corporate communication plan.
And you went for the butt... tits and butt jokes. No, we're not prudes. Say what you want. Use words that are powerful when you are saying something powerful. No editing. I want assholes to sound like assholes.
Don't descend into the realm of potty humor. Stay with me here.
At which beer-soaked meeting at the Sea Hag was this idea scrawled on the back of a napkin? Didn't you sober up? Don't you have friends who tell you when you're being a moron? You don't want people to equate you with a cow butt. You're selling DAIRY.
Well, I'm sure it was a hoot at the bar when somebody slurred, "Dairy-Aire!" "Whoo hoo, that's a good one! Write that down."
"Wait, wait, we're the UDDER guys, get it?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
It's sad. Just sad, when you don't look at that the next morning, crumble it up and say "I'm NEVER drinking Zombies again!"
Imagine operating on that level all the time.
I can only hope that it was an economics issue: the person with the idea was funding the business with a below-market rate loan.
I can only hope.
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 6:10 AM
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