A Redskin by any other name

To: The Chief

From: Bob in marketing

Re: Brilliant branding concept from Bob in marketing

 It came to me this morning while walking my dog, Bob In Marketing: a way to get out from under the offensive nickname “Redskins,” but—ta da!—keep the name “Redskins” at the same time and offend no one. We’re talking win-win (And I’m talking bonus. Ha Ha. Just kidding.)

 Concept for commercial:

Dawn. Sun rising over a farm field somewhere in America. Sound of a rooster cock-a- doodling. Close up of the field. Hand held camera is moving straight down a row of potatoes but the view bounces as if the cameraman is running. He is running. We hear the sound of heavy breathing. The camera comes right up to a potato on the ground, still attached to the vine, and stops. We get a closeup of the potato as a slightly out of breath voice-over says.

 S.O.B. VO

It’s a…a potato

 On screen we see clearly that this isn’t an ordinary brown or white potato. It seems vaguely mauve, leaning slightly toward fuchsia. Suddenly a whistle is heard and a foot in a black high-top comes swinging through the shot and kicks the potato up and out of the field. We see it sailing high into the air and straight through the uprights of a football end zone. We are suddenly in Fed-Ex field and the stadium is packed with a screaming, frenzied crowd.

 Into the frame steps Homer Simpson (if available. If not, Captain America). He turns and stares into the camera:

Homer Simpson:

It’s a Redskin, Boys and girls. A Washington Redskin.

 Cue the Redskins marching band as a manly male voice (think Darth Vader; could also be a good vehicle for a Pee Wee HermanerJHer comeback) starts to sing:

             Manly Male Voice:

(to the tune of Hail to the Redskins)

Hail to the Redskin

potatoes for victory

spuds in the deep fry,

tubers for old D.C.

Mashed or boiled or French fried,

how ‘bout hash browns?

Baked, au gratin, creamed,

You’ll gain a few pounds

So put…

the starch…

back in your shorts…

yams of Washington!

Closing shot:

We hire an actual American Indian or I, Bob in marketing, would be willing to dress up like one. The Indian watches the scene unfold. Then he turns to the camera and a tear is running down his face. The tear runs down to his mouth and his tongue reaches out and slurps it up. The camera backs out and we see the Indian is holding a baked potato—a redskin! (get it?)—that is covered in dripping butter. And he pops another forkful into his mouth, but a splash of butter hits his cheek and it rolls down to his slurping tongue. But in a very dignified way.

 Concepts for new Redskin Logo

  • Mr. Potato Head wearing a helmet, a la the Oakland Raiders pirate
  • A closeup of a potato with laces
  • A quarterback’s arm, rearing back, about to throw a large, steaming redskin

 Stream of conscious thoughts for cheerleading

Our cheerleaders would be known as the Sweet Potatoes and their costumes would have two big yams over the uh, the uh…and you’d have, um, two mascots, one a French Fry and the other a large bottle of ketchup and they would chase each other during the game, and, let’s see, when the referee bends over to place the ball, the French Fry could come up behind him and…um, here’s a thought: as the teams come out on the field at the start of the game a helicopter shaped like a potato hovers over the field and drops millions of freeze dried redskin potato flakes. Cleanup not a problem. We rig a Zamboni with a potato scraper. The crowd will eat it up (Get it?)

 Proposed Sweet Potato Cheers

  • P-O-T-T-A-T-O/We’re the Redskins, Go Go Go!
  •  One potato, two potato,/three potato, four/Unless you brought a peeler/You aint gonna score
  •  Your defense is au rotten/Your offense has been creamed

       We’re the redskin potatoes/You’re chicken almandine

  •  Apple peaches pumpkin pie/Stick a tater in their eye
  •  Big Spud!  Hold that line! Make them for their Mom’s opine!
  •  Slather ’em with sour cream/ Cover ’em with chives

      Anyway you eat ‘em/They aint leavin’ here alive

  •  Redskins, Redskins you are tops/Just like a quart of potato schnapps

 Miscellany:

  • Instead of a coin toss at the start of the game, we have a tater-tot toss
  • When a player is injured, the cart that hauls him off the field is shaped like a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil. The injured player is placed into the potato and covered with a blanket made up to look like shredded cheese and bacos.
  • We get the NFL to add a new personal-foul penalty for mashing: Fifteen yards and loss of gravy.(Ha ha, just kidding)
  • The press notes we hand out to the media are called “Peelings.”

The Redskin Stops Here

Here’s where you, Chief, launch your new chillaxin’, home skillet image as D.C. BossManKool. Before every game we get a former Redskins coach—Norm, Marty, Joe, The Ball Coach, The Zornado—to the come out on the field for a special, no-hard-feelings presentation.  You’re there in your Big Boss suit and tie with a large red rose in your lapel. Just as you are about to hand over an engraved plaque, your red rose squirts mashed potatoes into the face of the coach. You toss off your glasses, rip off your suit (a specially made, tear-away Armani) and you stand naked except for a red potato peel thong. Electrically, you launch into an outrageous Ray Lewis hip hop grind to show the crowd you are far off the chain, perhaps so far that you are actually up in the Kool Aid. The French Fry and Ketchup mascots and the Sweet Potatoes and the Redskins marching band all come out onto the field and start crackalackin’ with you. Then  William Shatner (if still alive) gets into the emo and announces to the crowd over the PA “Yo. Are you ready for some pommes frites-boule?”

I know that’s a lot to digest in one memo (Ha Ha. Get it?) Let’s discuss–B.I.M.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013, all rights reserved.

Photo this page: Sunset landscape, public domain, free stock photo.http://www.public-domain-image.com/full-image/nature-landscapes-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-landscape.jpg-free-stock-photo.html

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Half-moments in time

I saw the two-headed horse again this morning. Two nearly identical white horses, their days of gallop forever gone. They huddled close together at a fence line, one pointed north, the other south. They are there most days, but seldom as this morning. When I rounded a curve in the road my momentary sight line through the low fog provided a curious vision: No longer a pair of old horses, they stood as a single Gandalfian white steed with two heads, one at either end. It felt like one of those dreamy, genuinely profound half-moments in time when anything is possible. A time for three wishes or a prayer or the simple silence of wonder. But reality is a such a jealous hard hat. The simple silence in my tightly sealed mobile shattered with a mindless shout of “Holy cow!” Then I was past them and back into the fog.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013, all rights reserved.

Photo this page: Sunset landscape, public domain, free stock photo.http://www.public-domain-image.com/full-image/nature-landscapes-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-landscape.jpg-free-stock-photo.html

Posted in The human comedy | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Hornblower in the Prius

In the middle of the oatmeal, a muffled bleeping from the outside world disrupts the calm at the breakfast table.

 “What’s that?” he demands in Minuteman alert mode.

“Sounds like somebody’s car horn,” she says without care or concern or any hint of this becoming a DefCon One situation.

He is up from the table, however, heading for the door with such speed that the vortex of anxiety in his wake scatters napkins and yesterday’s mail across the floor. She has all she can do to maintain her grip on the table, her knuckles bled white against a force not unlike a turbo-charged ShopVac.

Outside in the driveway, as he feared, the Prius is serenading the neighborhood with a bicentennial update of the 1812 overture as reimagined for car horn. Heroically he wrenches open the door, slides behind the steering wheel and delivers a well-practiced martial arts knock-out punch to the On button. His satisfying reward: blessed silence.

Back inside, breakfast has gone cold.

She says “It was our car?”

He nods, wondering if it is legal to renuke a previously nuked bowl of oatmeal.

“Whenever I hear a car horn,” she says, “I never think it’s ours.”

He favors her with eyelids squeezed flat like firing slits in a Normandy pillbox. “I always think it’s ours,” he says.

And so, with tranquility regained they reseat themselves and press onward with oatmeal and small talk and just a hint of amazement that on this, the forty-fourth anniversary of their wedding day, they are as different as chocolate and strawberry.  Which isn’t so bad. It could have been oil and water and then where would they be?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013, all rights reserved.

Photo this page: Sunset landscape, public domain, free stock photo.http://www.public-domain-image.com/full-image/nature-landscapes-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-public-domain-images-pictures/sunset-landscape.jpg-free-stock-photo.html

Posted in The human comedy | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Speed bumpery

After spending my non-adult life as a kid, I wanted to so something non-adult as an adult. I wanted to be a musician, a comedian, an actor. The nuns said oh no you’re not, mister. You’re going to be a priest.

I said oh no I’m not sister and ran screaming into a world as far from holiness as possible.Oh, the humanity. I became a newspaper reporter.

Those were the days when people actually read newspapers–sometimes in the morning AND evening. They learned not only about shootings, car wrecks and stabbings in the park, but about world affairs (shootings in Africa, car wrecks in Germany and stabbings in Gorky park) and culture (paintings of shootings, poetry that didn’t rhyme about car wrecks and Broadway musicals about stabbings in the parking lot).

Perhaps most important was what your newspaper told you about government and the people who made it run like a one-legged hippo: politicians shooting their mouths off, Congress continuously looking like a car wreck and one good turner smiling while stabbing another in the back.

Flash forward three or four decades to the day the newspaper industry wakes up in an undertaker’s basement as dead as a stick. While the world still has plenty of shootings, car wrecks and stabbings in the park, it now also has a horde of reporters with no place to call rewrite. Oh, the humidity.

Just as retired marines don’t like to be called ex-marines—because there is no such thing as an ex-marine—the same applies to former newspaper reporters. There are no ex-reporters. There are live reporters and dead reporters (some of them, ironically, still alive), and then there are those reporters without portfolio (TRWP). Which essentially means reporters who have been fired or laid off, rehired and then fired harder (RWHBLORATFH).

RWHBLORATFHs were simply placed into a small, metaphoric dinghy and set adrift in the Sargasso sea of snapped rubber bands and broken cookies. You’ll find them along the roadside in bigger cities, selling used apples, outdated news tips (Garfield is Dead!) and antique passwords, none of which contain both upper and lower case letters, at least one number, a punctuation symbol or hieroglyphic.

Other sans portfoliozers like myself, have found meaning as low-paid observers of manners. It’s a two-step process: First we watch the madding crowd in full madden and scribble illegible notes. Second, we employ little microscopes and teeny brain cells to those notes to get at the heart of human existence and those speed bumps that make it so hard to keep existing without screaming.

Like when the fire department breaks down your front door and a guy rushes in with an axe and smashes out all of your front windows while you’re sitting there, minding your own business and plunking your banjo.

And then the chief pokes his head in the door and hollers “You idiot!” And the man with the ax rushes outside to the flaming house next door.

You spend the rest of the week standing in one line or another getting an estimate on new windows. And all the time you’re wondering in the back of your mind if the chief could have meant that you were the idiot. After all, who sat there playing the banjo while a crazed man with an axe had his way with your fenestration.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

Posted in Scribe v. Pharisees, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments