The ARVO bells are ringing
Grandpappy Pat, tell us another story about the ARVO.
Ahh boys and girls, those were the days. Those were the days of [yellow tail] and Rosentreter.
It was a time before the employee suicide rate mysteriously skyrocketed during the American, Pitney Bowes, Adient and ViaSat projects. Way back before the posh British schoolboy mafia changed our all-American “Z’s” to Her Majesty’s “S’s”…and our employment status from “current” to “former” FutureBranders.
The Budweiser flowed freely from the taps of Duke’s and Watering Hole. We sucked each one of ‘em dry, all on the company’s dime no less.
Drink up, jabronis!, we cheered.
Prost!
Salute!
Geonbae!
¡Salud!
Skál!
But while we were drunk on rum and whiskey, some of us, like Beth and Doug, were drunk on love.
The year was 2012.
We were all just babies back then. Well, babies in their 20s, 30s and 40s—and if you count Tom Li, babies in their 150s. A small rebel upstart, FutureBrand was turning heads in the branding world. Not for our work, award winning as it was. And not for our loud and loose, pre Icelandic process police ways. In those days, women walked beneath the windows of Park Avenue South to waft in precision clouds of testosterone and Axe body spray.
Somehow, someway, Sven has assembled the highest number of straight macho designers the industry had ever seen. Even Marcus was on the team, minus the machismo.
Equal opportunity statues in New York dictate that every branding agency must employ at least one straight designer. Most skirt the law by hiring someone manly for their Production departments. But we’re talking Jamahl MANLY, not Kris Pelletier “manly.”
The men of FutureBrand peacocked through the office…
There was Malozzi, double-fisting handfuls of chocolate from Ty Blue’s candy dish.
There was Felix, flexing in a muscle shirt stitched from catnip.
There was Mike Williams, a young Tom Selleck in his Hawaiian shirts.
There was Scott Williams, a young Hugh Hefner sipping martinis in his smoking jacket.
There was Mark, going full commando under his Lucky jeans.
There was Quae, scoring supermodels and prom queens left and right.
Even Lloyd tried to switch teams with his gut-tight white T’s and plumber’s crack.
Successful swashbucklers as they were, none of these fine specimens could penetrate the ultimate office dish, Beth Mallow, who shut down their advances with an iron fist and salty mouth.
“How YOU doin?”
“Stop looking at my tits, Malozzi!”
“Hallooooo!”
“Goodbye, Sven!”
“Hi Beth, your plots are ready early, neatly packaged and placed at your desk.”
“Drop dead, Tom Li!”
“What time is our meeting, Beth?”
“Go check your fucking calendar, asshole! Want me to change your diaper, too!?
“Hey.”
Beth froze mid stomp in her high-heeled, piano black Manolos.
“Hey.”
Hearts started pouring out from beneath Beth’s stainless steel exterior.
“Beth,” said Jim, “I’d like you to meet our new Executive Creative Director, Doug Sellers.”
“Hey.”
“Hummina, hummina, hummina, hummina,” Beth stammered.
“Alright, you kids have fun,” said Jim.
The rest of us were too drunk at the time to realize Cupid’s arrow had just pierced Beth’s armor. Doug’s mere presence brought out her softer side.
“FUCK! I just spilled fucking coffee on my fucking dress! SAM! SAM-AM-AM-AM-AM!!!! Meet me in the Ladies room NOW!!!!!
“Cool, bye,” said Doug.
Their love bloomed in the shadows. Moonlight strolls hand in hand through the downtown streets of Detroit. Which is just like a moonlight stroll through Paris, only with junkies, burning cars and rats the size of Cadillacs.
“Skip that status call with James to go play hockey and I will fucking murder you!” she cooed in Doug’s ear. We’d never seen Beth be so outwardly affectionate, so vulnerable.
Now normally, you’d think a love like theirs was too delicate to survive in this cold, harsh world. But current and former FutureBranders (let’s be honest, mostly former), we’re here to provide you with a ray of hope in these otherwise Doomsday times…
Beth and Doug are engaged!
That’s right, Doug proposed. Actually, Beth put an Outlook invite on Doug’s calendar called “Propose to Beth,” which Doug, out of habit, initially declined. But after a punch or two to the face from Ms. Mallow, he pulled the trigger. Just like in the movies.
OH!!!! AYE!!! OH!!! AYE!!! Mindy here, alright, alright, alright. OH!!! Are you telling me that Beth Mallow, alright, Beth Mallow has a husband now and I don’t!? I want a husband. Why can’t I have a husband!? Where’s Murray Balls when you need him!? Maybe it’s because I’m in lockdown, OH!, lockdown, ok? I’m over here in Italy, stuck over here in Italy with the Rigatoni virus. We don’t do personal space over here in Italy! But don’t you worry about me, alright, alright, alright. I’m a scrapper. I’m scrappy! OH! AYE! When this whole thing blows over ok, I’m coming back, I’m coming back home, alright? I’m coming for you SVEN SEGER!!!! I’m coming for you HOLMFRIDUR!!!! She has a husband, why can’t I have a husband? Maybe I’m too much woman for you Americans. How about it, how about it, Johnny Malozzi!?!? Pizza boy!!! OH!!! AYE!!! You want a slice of this, Pizza Boy!? OH!!! Where’s Jim??” Where’s the Big Man?????? I heard he’s getting skinny!!!! Call me, Big Man!!!!! Call me back, BIG MAN! OH!!
Fellow refugees of a once great nation, wherever you are, whatever your quarantine status may be (Millennials! Millennials! Get inside! Get inside right now!), raise a glass on this the most ARVO of holidays to the happy couple, Mr. & (soon to be) Mrs. Sellers.
And remember, if Tom Li could survive the Spanish Flu 100 years ago, we’re all going to be just fine.