I Just Wanted a Card That Said "Sorry For Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys"

Hallmark is going down. Ask yourself, where are they when you really need them? All I wanted was a card that said "Sorry for Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys," was that too much to ask? Apparently so. Time and time again Hallmark has left me high and dry to draw up my own cards of one stick figure putting the boot-stomp on another, or a cat getting sucked into a lawnmower. God knows I can't draw, and thanks to my inept doodles I think my cards often confuse the situation more than they help it. And I always misspell "convalescence." It's embarrassing.

I guess Hallmark just caters to the goody two-shoes religious minority out there who never need cards that explain honestly confusing a schoolyard with an archery range. That's fine if it makes them feel good about themselves, but where does it leave me? I'll tell you where: Running down to the drugstore for construction paper and glitter glue every other damned day. And who passed the law saying you can't buy single crayons? I'm tired of having to buy a whole new set every time I wear out the red. It's a scam, and it wouldn't surprise me if Hallmark was behind it all. I hear they bought up all of the crayon and marker companies right before they yanked their excellent all-purpose "Woops! Excuse the Boner!" card off the market back in the early 80's.

Now I'm not one to sit idly by while a bunch of card-writing fairies make and asshole out of me and my likeminded friends. I can ro-sham-bo with the best of 'em, and my answer is to give Hallmark a kick right in the nut called competition. That's right, I'm starting my own card company. Hallmark's had it's time to shine, now it's time for that dinosaur to croak and lay down dead for a long time so it can be gas for my SUV.

I'm gonna hit those poofs right where they live. Or don't live. Whatever you want to call it. Point is, I'm gonna make the cards that Hallmark won't. Remorseful Rascal Cards, I'll call it. And it'll be huge, like the Goodyear blimp wearing pants. Take my word on that. Those fussy little milquetoasts won't know what hit 'em.

The possibilities are endless. Hell, we can do a whole line on the unintended consequences of blindly discharging a shotgun out your bedroom window alone. A big moneymaker there, mark my words.

Here's another great one: Let's say you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, riding a forklift over some guy's wife while she's out bicycling or something. No problem. We'll have this card with a guy on the front of it in a giant baby diaper, looking all ashamed, and on the inside it'll say "Sowwy about my widow accident!" You deliver that with some flowers to the funeral and bingo, you're a class act in everybody's eyes. That's the magic of greeting cards.

I've already got a million of these things written in my head. Some real zingers, too.

"Sorry to hear your dad got the cancer, I guess my setting your lawn on fire doesn't seem like such a big deal now, does it?" I could have used that one last year.

"Only one of us thought my D.U.I. was funny… But that's because you couldn't see the look on your face when the Suburban hit your couch!"

Hallmark will probably last just long enough to regret the goldmine they let slip away. And by then it'll be too late, they'll have no choice but to squirm uncomfortably in their patent-leather seats, knowing R.R. Cards just gave them one big ole corporate murph.

That oughta teach 'em.