Halls Well That Ends Well

Okay, how about these for motivational cough drop wrapper blurbs:

1.  Call in sick.  Unlike "Keep your chin up," hearing this advice might actually make you smile.

2.  Just get through today.  Far more realistic a goal than "conquering" the day.

3.  Puke and rally!  Let's be honest, sometimes it's the best you can hope for.

4.  Cover your mouth, jackass.  Because nobody wants to envy you ... they just don't want to catch whatever knocked you on your ass.

5.  Fuck you, flu!  I realize this one comes with a host of censorship problems, but it expresses everything so completely.

6.  Feeling sucky? Suck on this. This could also be dirty, even dirtier than "You got it in you." But it's more relevant to the product in particular. In fact, I think it should be the company's new slogan. I would buy cough drops with an attitude.

Your move, Halls.

Drop Me a Note

Today I bought a pack of Halls cough drops, due to the fact that my body just finished doing battle with a flu bug the likes of which it had never before seen. I'm pretty sure that its legend will be passed down through generations of white blood cells, whispered in a tone of reverence and awe. In short, I spent the entire weekend splayed out on my couch, aching to the tips of my eyelashes and grateful (as always) for the invention of Imodium and ibuprofen.

However, now that I'm fully rehydrated and have once again graduated to solid foods, I have a lingering head cold and cough that demand soothing. As I opened my pack of honey/lemon-flavored drops, I noticed a peculiar branding effort. On the wrapper, in addition to the Halls logo, were printed several short messages, presumably intended to be inspirational.

I've seen this trend on individually wrapped items before, most notably on Dove chocolates. I find the little notes a tad redundant for that product. I don't need a pep talk, Dove. I already have your chocolate. In fact, if a pep talk was enough, I wouldn't even need the chocolate. But for the moment, I feel just peachy with this slab of fat melting in my mouth.

Anyway, here's what the Halls wrapper said, with my reactions:

1.  Keep your chin up. This I understand. It's motivating, and it implies that you feel my pain.

2.  Conquer today.  A little more vague, but generally uplifting.

3.  Dust off and get up.  All right, already. We get it. You're not taking any excuses. You're our middle school gym teacher. So quit yer hackin' and climb that effin' rope already!

4.  Inspire envy.  I'm not so sure about this one. What exactly are people supposed to envy? My inflamed nostrils?  My watery eyes?  My general lack of focus due to sinus pressure?

5.  Don't try harder, do harder!  Yoda-esque this is. And maybe kind of dirty.

6.  You got it in you.  I don't know what "it" means. The cough drop? Courage? Mucus? Plus, in addition to being grammatically incorrect, it's way dirtier than #5.

Halls, I see what you're going for here. You've got so much wrapper space, and you're using it to try to make me feel even better than your lovely mentholyptus has already accomplished. But I think you could improve.

Tune in to the next entry for phrases that might actually ring truer with someone who's ill.

PG-13 + XXX = XOXO

At about 6:00 p.m. yesterday, I ducked into a doorway downtown to wait for a bus. A couple, about my age, ducked in soon after to wait while "that clown brings the car around." They had just seen "Little Fockers," which neither of them enjoyed, but they were in good spirits and seemed open about their plans for the rest of the evening.

The woman kept teasing the man about how he couldn't handle the cold, and he kept trying to convince her to eat at a nearby restaurant (presumably so he didn't have to go back outside again). Then their conversation took an interesting turn:

MAN: "Well where you wanna go, then?"

WOMAN:  "I don't know. Gimme your thoughts."

MAN: "Sex World."

WOMAN: "What? I just asked for your thoughts."

MAN: "And I gave 'em. We goin' to Sex World!"

WOMAN:  [laughing] "We're not going to Sex World."

MAN: "Oh, I see, cuz you can't handle any more than this."

At this point, they were cuddling and kissing. I knew I couldn't bolt, however, because they'd think they scared the uptight girl away. Finally their car arrived, and I exited shortly after they did. But it left me wondering . . . would they go to Sex World?  Before or after dinner? Was he really too much to handle? And, most importantly, how the hell did Ben Stiller and Robert DeNiro get this guy so randy?

Small Humiliations: Part VIII

When he was in college, a friend of mine once found himself in urgent need of a bathroom. He rushed to the nearest men's room, which he was delighted to find empty. Once in a stall, chaos ensued, but he naturally felt better. It wasn't until he reached for toilet paper that he truly felt sick.

Empty. Horror of horrors, considering the explosive episode that had just occurred. There was no one to ask for assistance, and to make matters worse, he couldn't do a quick, pants-less shuffle to another stall without exposing his naked rear to the open doorway and countless potential passersby. Plus, he didn't have time to simply air-dry. In his despair, he put his head in his hands.

And that's when he saw it. His checkbook (remember when people wrote checks?) hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans. In a flash of inspiration, he did what any man with limited options would: tore out his carbon checks and proceeded to wipe his ass with them.

Talk about flushing your money down the toilet.

Small Humiliations: Part VII

A few years ago, my sister was dating this guy who was a runner. Actually, he was the first of two runners that we would both come to regret ... her for wasting time caring about jerks, and me for wasting several perfectly good Saturdays standing on the side of marathon routes.

However, if one (and only one) good thing came of this first relationship, it was the following story. If you've ever had any in-depth conversations with runners, you'll know that you hear super disgusting things about how people's digestive tracts react to 26.2 miles and the various ways that competitors deal with their particular situations. This one's not too graphic, just embarrassing, which makes it perfect.

Evidently this guy was out training one day, and as he ran, his stomach started to feel a little iffy. He was alone on a stretch of road. Another mile passed, and he felt worse, so he thought he could just pass some gas. What happened instead was that a solitary turd popped out the bottom of his running shorts and fell on the highway behind him.

At this point in telling the story, he said, and I quote, "So I laid a road apple. I was like, what am I, a parade pony?"

But sometimes, when things have suddenly turned to crap, there's no fixing it. You have to keep running forward. Just ask my sister.

Small Humiliations: Part VI

One fine autumn evening, my sister and a friend attended an outdoor dance with a Halloween theme. Upon spying someone familiar in the crowd who was dressed as Satan, my sister's friend ran up and proceeded to talk, joke, and good-naturedly harrass the person. That is, until a very unfamiliar voice came from within the mask.

"Do you know who I am?" the person asked.

My sister's friend paused, now unsure of her visual ID. "Uh, yeah."

"Who am I, then?" the person insisted.

Realizing her mistake, my sister's friend replied matter-of-factly, "Duh . . . you're the devil."

And then she ran away.

Small Humiliations: Part V

My phone debacle from the last entry in this series reminded me of a similar gaffe made by someone near and dear to me, my lovely sister. I hope she doesn't mind my retelling it here. And if she does ... well, too late.

A few years ago, we were both home for Easter, and we were dyeing eggs together one evening. As usual, we were having a good time and getting sillier by the minute. When the phone at our parents' house rang at about 10:00, she assumed it was a friend of hers from high school who was also home for the holiday.

So, when she picked up the call, she said in her sexiest, sultriest, breathiest voice, "Peter Rabbit speaking."

And then, I wish I had video of the shock on her face when she realized it was not her friend, but someone from my mother's office calling with a work question.

It runs in the family, I guess.

Small Humiliations: Part IV

When I first moved to the Twin Cities, I worked retail for about a year. As part of my job, I answered the phone. This is in addition to dusting, straightening, restocking, gift wrapping, counting out the tills, and taking out the trash (I didn't have a job where I wasn't responsible for the garbage until I was 26). Oh, and I also got to call 911 after the occasional skateboarding punk tossed a lit firecracker into the store, since I was a supervisor who made 50 cents more than the other clerks.

But I digress. The crux of this little story is the phone. One afternoon, I received a call for another employee, whom I knew was on break. I told the caller this and put her on hold.

The phone rang again. This time, it was an employee I was good friends with who wanted someone to check the work schedule for her. I put her on hold as well. And then, because I couldn't resist making a joke, I picked up the receiver and proceeded to sing my own rendition of call-waiting music to my friend.

The song I chose? "The Girl from Ipanema."

I don't know why this was my go-to tune, other than it seems appropriately Muzak-ish. But I wasn't really singing, just "doot-doot"-ing.  As in "Doot doot doot doot, doot doo-doot doo-doot ..."

I think I got almost to the chorus before the person on the other end, the first person I'd put on hold, the person on LINE ONE and not LINE TWO, said, very confused, "Uhhhhhh ... so is Chris there or not?"

Realizing I'd just made a complete ass of myself by humming sweetly and happily into a complete stranger's ear, I was at a loss for an adequate explanation. I think I simply replied, "Um, yep" and gingerly placed the receiver back in its cradle.

But that's the kind of employee I am. Always willing to go the extra mile. Even if it means digging into my limited repertoire of 1960s bossa nova music for random people's entertainment.