Every few weeks Paper Source orders the same poopy cards from us.
This makes us happy because there is no faster way to evangelize than through a chain of shops that snakes its way through the country.
Our message?
Isn’t it obvious by now? Spread (our idea of) letterpress goodness and joy like spackle into every dark crevice on this planet.
No big deal.
This card:
has nothing to do with fecal matter and so we were surprised (and delighted) to see it on our latest Paper Source order.
Perhaps the following dream was a premonition?:
There were no toilets but there was a shower scene. The light over the C&P
had become a shower head and I had become naked. I prayed that nobody would walk through (why didn’t I just lock it?) the shop door while I took my unnecessary (and might I add: gratuitous?) shower next to my printing press.
But someone did walk in.

I guess his name is Vincent Schiavelli. He was hiding behind the Heidelberg
with his cow. He wasn’t smiling. I woke up.
The End

(Notice my friend,
I bet because of the tricorn hat.
A shark puppet would help me work through my fears.
These little banks would help me save for my criss-crossing America road-trip.
and I’m so glad he’s not a serial killer. He’ll be here for a few days and then we’ll have to say goodbye. I really, really hate saying goodbye. I hate it so much, I made a card:

I told them that we need to make clam chowder and clams don’t clam themselves so get to work.
Why would I send that card/who would want to receive a card like that?



Collect them all (there’s only one) and store them safely in a polished mahogany box. Tabulated by topics, like: Division-of-Labor, Apology, and so much more!




Weren’t those lovely?
Once Upon A Time, I got a massage in September. It was from a hobbithe blessed the vessel that was me and scampered around the table like his footsies were on fire. When it was over, he requested a hug. I consented because I have never hugged a hobbit and I didn’t want to crush his tiny hobbit-heart.
I’m sure you knew that.


Ham!

Perhaps you recognize that man?
His pants are usually radioactive, but not for this card.
It was time to pry open the (heirloom-quality) tupperware lid. Time to expose the rotting and pungent living carcass to the unblinking eye of its critics.
Now, readership of the Zeichen Press blog hovers somewhere between cable-access viewership and meaningful Craigslist encounters.

