When people ask me what we sell at the shop I always say, “We sell a good time!,” since we have so many cool things in our ever changing selection of merchandise. I do always mention a few key items that we always try to have in stock, like mustaches and whoopee cushions (good stuff!). You might remember me talking about our dear friend/neighbor/customer/occasional helper Emily who bought a ton of whoopee cushions over the holidays, well she took up a notch people! She is also a brilliant writer (you can read more of her musings on her blog) Here is her write up about the introduction of our new 12″ GIANT Whoopee Cushion:
To celebrate the explosive entrance of the 12” whoopee cushion onto the ABRGS scene, I’m writing in to commemorate some of my favorite memories with my (normal sized) whoopees.
ME AND MY WHOOPEE GO TO THE DOCTOR
After a brief medical scare, which will probably mean a whole day of mostly waiting and some prodding and testing, I secure some appointments uptown. I put my whoopee in my purse, along with my Health Insurance ID and a snack. It could be a long day.
WHOOPEE ON THE Hoyt/Schermerhorn A-TRAIN. Folks are not psyched about the whoop as I descend down onto the platform waiting area, nervously inflating and slowly setting it off, so I deflate and we wait in silence. Just knowing the whoop is near me makes me feel safe. Odd? Perhaps, but when moments of medical paranoia creep up I can easily amuse myself and diffuse the awkwardness of any weekend rush hour groping Blow; pinch; squeeze; falsely accuse…(of farting not groping.)Personal space created and blame unattached.
In the waiting room we are both thankful for the new Saturday morning office hours.
Once called in I am instructed to change into a tiny paper gown while I wait for the doctor. It is cold and I am shy, but I get no sympathy from my whoop. He gives me a look. “You think you have it hard? At least you have clothes. I’m plastic and people sit on me,” he seems to say. (Surprisingly, he is now suddenly human AND male) What to do, what to do. I check my whoop’s vitals, but the squeezing required makes a reliable blood pressure reading impossible “It’s ok,” I say. I look into his mouth and check for swollen glands or worse, the small pockets of thin skin that could pop or tear at any moment. My whoop is not insured (we’re waiting to hear back from the free-lancers’s union) and I can’t afford an Angioplasty. He lets out the occasional warble (nerves) but, all in all, he is a trooper.
He wants to feel what it’s like to be in charge. Doctors are never taken seriously when they make fart noises, even as a means of ontological identification, so my whoop has a moment of inferiority. Thankfully, his status as THE KING of Whoop is quickly reinstated when my doctor sat on him without looking down. The long, curious, warbling noise morphs slowly into a quick blast of air, and finishes off with a high-pitched squeal.
After such a day, we both need some space. Once on the subway, I place my whoopee on the seat next to me, fully blown-up, assuring no one will crowd us on the long ride back to Brooklyn from Columbia Presbyterian. We are spent.
We go into Annie’s Blue Ribbon General Store to get his older companion. Neither of us are prepared for the glory that awaits us. The entire block seems to line up as I blow the new guy up. Annie and I sit down on both cushions (me on the old, her and her unborn on the newer, bigger one.)
I will always love my whoopee cushion, trusted companion that he has become. But honestly, in terms of whoopee, size does matter.