If you think ecards and greeting cards are - at best - insipid, mass-produced tokens of insincere sentiment, then I like you. And also, welcome to Wrongcards.
Earlier this week I was in a pillow-fight at a party and for some perverse reason I was being targeted by everyone, and this two-year old child came wandering past in diapers so I picked him up by the leg and used him as a human shield. Then I got a talking-to for most of an hour. I had no idea people get so emotional about human shields. Today's card is something I said that night.
People, I have a dream - and in that dream there's a goat flying a biplane wearing a leather helmet and goggles and he' chanting Wagner. That's why you shouldn't follow your dreams; sometimes they're rubbish. Now, today's card is an apology ecard. If you should ever really need a good card to apologize to someone for something, remember - wrongcards: not the best place for that.
Obsessive compulsive disorder is a silent killer - mostly of bacteria and household germs. Not that I would make light of a disorder that my ideal house-cleaner would have, but it is OCD Awareness Week, you know. I think. Maybe it's in January. Look, they won't mind. I created a new category of cards for OCD week anyway. Just in case it's, like, now.
'I have a theory. Have you ever vomited and thought: "My God, there's tiny bits of carrots in it. Look at 'em all. Wait, I didn't eat carrots. When's the last time I ate carrots? I need to eat more carrots." Anyway I have a theory. Your appendix? It produces tiny pieces of carrot for when you throw up. That's my theory. (I never said it was a good theory).'
I know many of you hope one day to find a special someone with an excellent credit history and maybe go in on a thirty-year fixed-rate mortgage together. I too am a romantic. But romance isn't just about money - there's a biological aspect to it too. If you don't send today's card to a potential co-mortgage signatory then you'll never have any offspring to fight about in court. I'm here to help.
I may be a Rapscallion but I also have high standards. This is why I absolutely refuse to drink in a bar that lets people like me through the door. A lot of people ask me how to get started as a Rapscallion but we have a very strict dress code and I always try to talk them out of it. You know, a Rapscallion is only three nice suits away from becoming a bounder. It's why I can't own nice suits.
I've always had a very firm grasp on reality. The reason is that when I was twelve I witnessed my sister's abduction by extraterrestrials from our family home on Martha's Vineyard, which drove me to join the FBI where I investigated unsolved cases alongside a pretty, red-haired forensic pathologist. You don't have to believe me: the truth is out there.
I don't remember drawing a picture of a severed clown head on a spear. But I must have, because here it is. Published in 2013 as an inspirational card. And I have absolutely no recollection of doing it, either. Anyway, yet another reason I won't do therapy. Because I'd have to talk about this sort of thing.
Let's say you're romantically involved with a balloon animal. Society doesn't understand - it never does - and you have to sneak out to this one Italian restaurant where the staff aren't all that judgmental. Now one night, over a candlelit dinner, she wafts across the table and touches the candle flame. Pop! She's dead! Do you tip the waiter for one meal or two?
As a man I've always considered myself a feminist, I think it's because women look really nice. One of the great triumphs of feminism, I think, was getting women out of those uncomfortable shoes that made them really irritable. Do you know how many men went deaf from being screamed at by uncomfortably shod women? Two bazillion. Trust me, I'm very good with statistics.
Increasingly I allow myself to be persuaded that garden gnomes are probably not real - because somehow it seems to matter to the people around me - but the fact is their existence still doesn't make a lot of sense. Why would somebody intentionally make garden gnomes? And why isn't the government doing anything to stop them? And when did we all decide not to ask these questions?!
When the doctor told me about Messianic Personality Disorder I held up my finger and said 'to define is to limit'. And I thanked him for naming a disorder after me and that I would regard it as a lifetime achievement award. He then said it wasn't named after me, which I suppose means I don't have it. Psychiatry is still just a theory I guess.