I’m the font face of the Mediterranean, bottled by a Pepsi-co off-label bottling plant and shipped out from somewhere in Ohio. My big moment was in the movie Avatar, but that’s not really why you know me.
I live on your massage therapist’s finest flat-printed business cards — the one she did on the Mac her dad bought her when she left for college to become a social worker. Sure, she ended up drinking too much and flunking out and then spent the next five years as a barista — not at Starbucks, thankyouverymuch, because she only supports local businesses — before deciding to go into massage therapy, but she held on to the Mac and her bootlegged copy of MS Word 2003 and guess what — you can buy your own business cards AND print them out on your ink jet printer once you save enough to buy a new Cyan cartridge.
Sometimes I hang out on floral shop signs, ya know, talking about fresh-cut day lilies. Sure, I’m usually in yellow there, vibrating your FACE OFF on a purple day-glo background, but you see me there saying, “$4 for this bundle of Frostberry Roadside Dancing Lights, ” bitches.
But my favorite place is on your would-be designer’s portfolio. Yeah, you know your design. You love to scrapbook, because you’re an artist in your heart. You have plenty to say about that Ah-MAZE-ing new gingham pattern fabric at Hobby Lobby. You made ALL the fake flower designs for the centerpieces at your best friend Mavis from purchasing’s wedding because of her hay fever. You LOVE me. Because I’m ARTY. I’m not that secretary’s font comic sans. And I’m not some boring accounting asshole’s Times New Roman. I’m EGYPTIAN dammit. I’m from the Sun God Ra, and I bring the smell of olives and suntan oil wherever the fuck I go, even if that happens to be the exoplanetary moon Pandora. If you want to talk to the Na’vi, YOU GO THROUGH ME.
(all due apologies to McSweeney’s.)