So there’s a boss who bought a toy idea, or a boss who has a boss who really wants you to push this particular shipping line. And you know you’ve got a staff of young designers and the photographer who is just waiting for her big break. But before all of this you’ve got the packaging engineers — and they insist on calling themselves packaging engineers these days — and they’ve written a grammatically poor memo telling you exactly how much space you’re going to have to fill up for this box. The budget people are squawking at you too. It is going to cost six percent more than you’ve budgeted for boxes these size in full color ads. And you don’t really care. You’ve got a toothache. The in-laws are coming this weekend. You don’t know which idea hurts worse. So, in April, you approved this packaging.
And you and I see boxes like these.
“This year, buy wireless baseball for your son. He can learn to throw a curve indoors!
“Sure, you won’t be there for all his games, or even as many rounds of catch as you’d like. College tuition is expensive and you have to pull a double. Please don’t let that curveball hang or everybody is going to hit you for doubles, too, son.
“For his birthday, buy him a Tommy Johns surgery.”
“Hello? Can you hear me now? Do you know where my shoelaces are?”
“And could you please send a pizza. My sister is not a good cook and I am stuck in the masculine hegemony that demands she makes my food. Oh, and extra cheese.”
