The Winning Entry from our fall writing contest:
Anti-Greeting Card by Sam Goober
When I was little, and someone looked down at me and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I assure you I did not say greeting card writer. I used to say I wanted to be a travel agent. I’m not kidding. I wanted to be able to travel the world, so I assumed being a travel agent would let me do that. My dad loved the idea, thought he could get free trips out of me. He still asks me to change careers at family gatherings.
Sorry dad, but instead I encourage America to be uncreative and lazy by writing down their generic feelings for them. Because, let’s be serious here, why would anyone take the time to write down what they’re actually feeling?
Growing up, I used to spend hours on birthday cards. I was so creative and put so much time and energy into them. I was a birthday card genius.
I guess it’s only fitting that I sit in a cubicle, day in and day out, writing witty “over the hill” cards and gooey “you’re the only one for me” cards. There are twenty of us in my department. We all equally hate our jobs. Our boss is a nut who thinks this stuff is “fun”. She’s seventy-four and is a combination of Martha Stewart and Barney. It’s a miracle one of us hasn’t knocked her out yet.
One day I asked Barney Stewart if I could start a new division of greeting cards. She gave me her kindergarten teacher smile and excitedly asked me what in the world I was thinking of. As I looked into her innocently hopeful eyes, I started rethinking my idea. There was no way she was going to appreciate it.
“Well, what are you waiting for muffin?” she chirped. This was definitely not a good idea. But, well, I’d come this far, might as well.
“I was thinking I would write some greeting cards with things people mean to say in greeting cards. You know, things they’re too afraid to say. We do all the work for them anyways, we might as well help them with things they can’t say themselves.” I cautiously looked at her. She looked confused. This was going to be more difficult than I thought. I went on, “Uh, well, for example, a card could say: ‘I’m not leaving my wife’ or ‘It’s malignant’ or even ‘Stay away from my boyfriend’. You know, kind of like an anti-greeting card.” She looked at me in a daze. It was like she had just been shot in the stomach. Then, proving how great of a job we did nicknaming her, Barney Stewart was on the floor.
It turned out she ODed on her happy pills. She had to stay in the hospital for a while, so one of my coworkers took over for her. He approved my anti-greeting card idea, and in no time Hallmarks across the nation were filled with my cruel and sarcastic genius. I decided it would only be fitting that I go visit Barney in the hospital. I brought her some flowers and a card, because I’m great. Her face lit up when she saw me, but not as bright as usual. Obviously they had taken her off her happy meds.
She smiled when I gave her the flowers and card, and curiously proceeded to find out which card I had chosen. She knew all the “get well soon” cards by heart, or so she thought. She read it aloud for some reason, practically singing,
“I don’t really care if you get better, I’m just sucking up.” And with that, the poor woman went into cardiac arrest.
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