Someone - and it’s definitely not me, in any way at all - was recently asked by my boss (coincidentally) to think of some ideas for advertising after-work deals at a local bar.
“Take your five-foot-seven, brown haired, brown eyed, 71 kilo ass out there and think of some slogans!” is what that person’s boss said to him. Him not being me.
“I’ve been working out, I’m probably down to about 70 kilos,” I pointed out, “but alright.”
*I’m legally required to point out that the actual phrase used to review my attempts at journalism was “bleeding awful.”
…Anyway, here’s what I got.
[Nameless bar on Portwall Lane. No, not the Portwall Tavern. Two doors down.]
Deals
10am - 7pm
Tuesday - Friday
Come on in!
“It’s between 10 and 7 somewhere!”
Most places, actually. If you think about it.
Hell, New Zealand is only 12 hours different, and that’s the other side of the planet.
So, half the planet is within twelve hours, pretty much everywhere is going to be somewhere on that nine hour curve.
You know what, just come in and buy some drinks.
Seriously.
We’re dying in here.
Boredom. Paranoia. The whole deal.
Last week things got so bad we had to eat one of the slower, chubbier kitchen porters.
It was him or us, but I can’t get the screaming out of my head.
“Why are you doing this to me?! Oh God! It hurts!”
“Why are you hitting me with a can of soup when there are SO MANY knives literally right behind you?!”
That’s just the kind of smart-ass attitude that’ll get you killed when the staff have nothing to do for months on end.
You should probably take note of that and not point out the typos on our business cards.
You want one of our business cards?
Hello?
…Hello…?
10am - 7pm
Tuesday - Friday
Come on in!
“It’s between 10 and 7 somewhere!”
Most places, actually. If you think about it.
Hell, New Zealand is only 12 hours different, and that’s the other side of the planet.
So, half the planet is within twelve hours, pretty much everywhere is going to be somewhere on that nine hour curve.
You know what, just come in and buy some drinks.
Seriously.
We’re dying in here.
Boredom. Paranoia. The whole deal.
Last week things got so bad we had to eat one of the slower, chubbier kitchen porters.
It was him or us, but I can’t get the screaming out of my head.
“Why are you doing this to me?! Oh God! It hurts!”
“Why are you hitting me with a can of soup when there are SO MANY knives literally right behind you?!”
That’s just the kind of smart-ass attitude that’ll get you killed when the staff have nothing to do for months on end.
You should probably take note of that and not point out the typos on our business cards.
You want one of our business cards?
Hello?
…Hello…?
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