I started this company with just a dream I stole from the Indians and a few million dollars I had left over from my gold mines. I wanted to find a juice that could make a wagon push itself. After a lot of failed tries with apples and horse juice I finally found the answer: ancient death. When you find a pond of it under rocks you can turn it into juice to make a car go. It takes a lot of hard work, but we're used to that aren't we?
Hard work got me to where I am today inside this refrigerated flask in a secret hospital. It built the trains you eat your breakfast in and the helicopters that hover over your houses at night.
Hard work has saturated the map with our car juice. It has given us hundreds of products derived from car juice, such as the plastic for baseball helmet sundae dishes and the lubricants for the machines that produce plastic baseball helmets to be used for sundaes.
Yes, hard work, you could say, is the engine of this business. And you would be wrong.
Contempt, ladies and gentlemen and the shadowy inhabitant of my deathless nightmares, is what has kept me alive in this hospital. Contempt for nature. Contempt for governments and competitors. Contempt, above all else, for the consumers. And what better way to show it than through our logo?
There was a time I might have spent weeks agonizing over a logo, like the time when I was kidnapped and suspended above a logo, but those days are past. This business has evolved beyond branding. We are ready for our final form. We are ready, nightmare lurker, for Comic Sans.
Please, hold your applause for after I hang up. I will have someone tell me exactly how long you all clapped.
Last year this company made more profit than any other company in history and yet we are regularly listed as one of the most hated brands.In short, they require our car juice more and more and hate us for their dependence.
But what can they do? They can't riot in the street against a global corporation because we don't own the streets except on that mysterious skull island. We have offices in cities around the world they can protest and then watch helplessly as we abandon our offices as easily as a lobster mother abandons her nest.
So while they seethe and buy our car juice, let them eat Comic Sans. I have long looked forward to this moment when we can wallow in our contempt. Now that it has arrived, I must return to my flask for another decade in the hopes science stays just far enough ahead of the evil ravaging my husk to keep reviving me.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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