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?
barks at anything and everything within a 500 foot perimeter of our house? Mailman, delivery-person, solicitors, neighbors, guests, the kids, trick-or-treaters, my mom… We’ve talked a lot about it and she feels super responsible for alerting us – I told her that we really don’t need that kind of help, BUT WE DID. SHE WAS RIGHT. SHE’S ALWAYS RIGHT.
And he threw the lock in the dirt like some sort of criminal.
so I made a Father’s Day Card out of that little man.
BACK TO MIGRATING/WEEPING.
I only gave birth to them to provide me with free manual labor. Ha! Who’s laughing now, boys??
OR a bath??
I barely do.
She was so dedicated! 
(Grip those handles! Safety first, Dylan!)
ALSO, I made this because I am so into politics:
So, you don’t need to watch the news tonight. You’re welcome.
The other passengers made calls on their flip-phones, watched who-knows-what on portable televisions, drove their remote-controlled cars up and down the aisle, talked to each other on walkie-talkies, and blasted music on transistor radios! Meanwhile we, The Law-Abiding, were stuck in the teeny-tiny bathroom, forced to take hysterical selfies.
BUT, we managed to land safely, no thanks to all of that recklessness. I will NOT be giving them my latest Thank You Card.
The very next day was filled with so much splashing and laughter and sunscreen, I’m sure Ben was looking down on us and giggling! Oh, how he’d giggle!
AND here’s a little thing from The Boston Globe about 
The odor of rotten animal is unforgettable and like the odor of rotting potato, it is embedded in the brain. But sometimes the brain jumbles the smell of decomposing rodent with the smell of a blanket of maggots coating the bottom of the garbage can.