Written: July 20, 2010
Artifacts in Waiting by Christopher M. Bohan
Calm waters. Forever is tomorrow. Cool breezes.
Time moves along as it pleases with no apologies rendered. The sun is wearing a hat. The ocean is taking a bath. The sky isn’t taking any calls and has put the moon in its pocket.
A clam struggles to open, afraid what it might not see.
A rock. A shell.
A meteor streaks across the sky and cautiously descends before burning a trail across a plateau of unremarkable height.
A blade of grass. A dead now. A cat.
Rust sticks a napkin under its chin and begins to gnaw away at Detroit.
A bridge. A sewer pipe. A television.
Drips of water rejoice as their years of persistence have finally been justified as they finally penetrate the roof of the store that ceased to sell anything, something, sometime long ago.
A rat. An upturned cockroach. A dollar bill.
A crane, on its side, spans a putrid stream as it feeds it with its seeping, ancient oil.
A column.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 19, 2010
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
“The cartographer has fallen down the hill!” Sergio was overcome with a mixed- breed of emotions as the words tumbled from his mouth.
The wind was sweeping through the valley at a considerable rate, apparently riding a rush it must have inhaled passing through the grove of coffee bushes further down the valley, and apparently knocked the cartographer, Graham Peabody, off his feet. Peabody was charting the territory for the Madewell Trading Company and often lacked a sense of balance, even in the calmest of weather patterns.
Peabody was still rolling down the grassy hillside as a small group of hysterical children heeded Sergio’s call and were gathering to watch the mapping man fall head over heels. Their laughter pushed them to the ground and almost succeeded in sending them into the same foray that coerced their exuberance.
The children could not hear, over their laughter, Peabody shout in pain as one of his pencils stabbed him in the right butt cheek and sank two inches into his flesh. The next tumble broke the pencil in two leaving the two-inch piece submerged inside Peabody. Had the children seen the pencil protruding from Peabody’s posterior they would have peed their pants with pleasure.
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
“The cartographer has fallen down the hill!” Sergio was overcome with a mixed- breed of emotions as the words tumbled from his mouth.
The wind was sweeping through the valley at a considerable rate, apparently riding a rush it must have inhaled passing through the grove of coffee bushes further down the valley, and apparently knocked the cartographer, Graham Peabody, off his feet. Peabody was charting the territory for the Madewell Trading Company and often lacked a sense of balance, even in the calmest of weather patterns.
Peabody was still rolling down the grassy hillside as a small group of hysterical children heeded Sergio’s call and were gathering to watch the mapping man fall head over heels. Their laughter pushed them to the ground and almost succeeded in sending them into the same foray that coerced their exuberance.
The children could not hear, over their laughter, Peabody shout in pain as one of his pencils stabbed him in the right butt cheek and sank two inches into his flesh. The next tumble broke the pencil in two leaving the two-inch piece submerged inside Peabody. Had the children seen the pencil protruding from Peabody’s posterior they would have peed their pants with pleasure.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 13, 2010
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Gargantuan rocks rained from the sky and littered the pristine stillness of the lake with colliding ripples that reached from shore to shore. Waves from the ripples clawed at the shore pulling small rocks, shells and dried timbers back into the shallow waters at the edge of the formerly sanguine bath.
Fish and crab clamored about, fleeing for safety only to find new fears where there were none before. Or, for as long as a fish and crab could remember.
As quick as the cascading projectiles had begun, sprung from seemingly nowhere, they ceased. The fish and the crab continued their frantic fray unawares of the calmed seas surrounding them. Then, all at once, they ceased their scattering and raised their gazes to the ceiling of the sea in anticipation of another shower of portly projectiles.
Silence surrounded them in an anxious hush. One fish blinked. One crab pinched his pincher. Then, a small pebble broke the surface and pushed its way to the bottom and all the while the fish and the crab remained perfectly still.
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Gargantuan rocks rained from the sky and littered the pristine stillness of the lake with colliding ripples that reached from shore to shore. Waves from the ripples clawed at the shore pulling small rocks, shells and dried timbers back into the shallow waters at the edge of the formerly sanguine bath.
Fish and crab clamored about, fleeing for safety only to find new fears where there were none before. Or, for as long as a fish and crab could remember.
As quick as the cascading projectiles had begun, sprung from seemingly nowhere, they ceased. The fish and the crab continued their frantic fray unawares of the calmed seas surrounding them. Then, all at once, they ceased their scattering and raised their gazes to the ceiling of the sea in anticipation of another shower of portly projectiles.
Silence surrounded them in an anxious hush. One fish blinked. One crab pinched his pincher. Then, a small pebble broke the surface and pushed its way to the bottom and all the while the fish and the crab remained perfectly still.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 8, 2010
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
‘Fresh water fish’? Sounds a bit fishy to me. Are you saying fish from the ocean aren’t ‘fresh’? Ocean water is somehow backwash from somewhere? Is that what you are saying?
‘Fresh’ – from Webster’s Dictionary: 1: newly made or obtained. 2: recently arrived; just come. What? It doesn’t rain in the ocean? Oh, like the Great Lakes are the newest thing in the world. Read the papers – you can’t even swim in Lake Erie due to the ‘fresh’ run-off of pesticides and hypodermic needles.
I think the ocean needs a new PR person. It’s a new century folks! Time to jazz it up a bit. Those ‘fresh water’ people have even infiltrated the dictionary with their slanted propaganda. As evidence, I cite Webster’s – fresh: 5: not salty; like water. That is just dirty semantics if you ask me.
Maybe the ocean is just ‘old school’. Maybe we could bottle it and call it ‘wise water’ or possibly, ‘sagacious’. Webster’s Dictionary – sagacious: wise and sophisticated. Would you order the ‘fresh water bass’ or the ‘sagacious bass’? That is a no-brainer. I’ll take wise and sophisticated over not salty any day. ‘Fresh’ can also imply sassy. And, I ain’t eatin’ no ‘sassy bass’.
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
‘Fresh water fish’? Sounds a bit fishy to me. Are you saying fish from the ocean aren’t ‘fresh’? Ocean water is somehow backwash from somewhere? Is that what you are saying?
‘Fresh’ – from Webster’s Dictionary: 1: newly made or obtained. 2: recently arrived; just come. What? It doesn’t rain in the ocean? Oh, like the Great Lakes are the newest thing in the world. Read the papers – you can’t even swim in Lake Erie due to the ‘fresh’ run-off of pesticides and hypodermic needles.
I think the ocean needs a new PR person. It’s a new century folks! Time to jazz it up a bit. Those ‘fresh water’ people have even infiltrated the dictionary with their slanted propaganda. As evidence, I cite Webster’s – fresh: 5: not salty; like water. That is just dirty semantics if you ask me.
Maybe the ocean is just ‘old school’. Maybe we could bottle it and call it ‘wise water’ or possibly, ‘sagacious’. Webster’s Dictionary – sagacious: wise and sophisticated. Would you order the ‘fresh water bass’ or the ‘sagacious bass’? That is a no-brainer. I’ll take wise and sophisticated over not salty any day. ‘Fresh’ can also imply sassy. And, I ain’t eatin’ no ‘sassy bass’.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Fox
Written: Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Fox by Christopher M. Bohan
“Friday is a good day. Let’s make it Friday. My bridge club usually wraps up around 3:30. So, can we meet around 4? Great. I’ll see you there. Oh, wait! Sorry, one more thing. Should I bring the chicken? Okay. No? I’m sorry. I forgot. The chicken stays at home. Ugh! This is so confusing. I am so sorry. I bring the ferret…fox, yes, fox, I’m sorry. And, it’s forty? Yes?
Please don’t get so angry with me, young man. This is my first time. My husband used to take care of all of this, but since his stroke and triple bypass he can only nod his head a little and blink his left eye and the signals tend to get a little mixed up. So, give an old lady a break, eh?
Excuse me? Is that how you want to play the game little boy?
Now, the fox will cost you fifty G’s. I may be new at this but I have been listening to my husband push you poodle for thirty years and I picked up a thing or two. And, you talk back to me again and I say your name and address on this here phone call.
You think I’m joking? Now it’s sixty for the fox. Cash. This fox is Peruvian and it is sly. You cool with that, Ricky? Oops. Yeah, I thought you’d be cool with that. See you at the fox den. And don’t forget to bring the alligator.”
The Fox by Christopher M. Bohan
“Friday is a good day. Let’s make it Friday. My bridge club usually wraps up around 3:30. So, can we meet around 4? Great. I’ll see you there. Oh, wait! Sorry, one more thing. Should I bring the chicken? Okay. No? I’m sorry. I forgot. The chicken stays at home. Ugh! This is so confusing. I am so sorry. I bring the ferret…fox, yes, fox, I’m sorry. And, it’s forty? Yes?
Please don’t get so angry with me, young man. This is my first time. My husband used to take care of all of this, but since his stroke and triple bypass he can only nod his head a little and blink his left eye and the signals tend to get a little mixed up. So, give an old lady a break, eh?
Excuse me? Is that how you want to play the game little boy?
Now, the fox will cost you fifty G’s. I may be new at this but I have been listening to my husband push you poodle for thirty years and I picked up a thing or two. And, you talk back to me again and I say your name and address on this here phone call.
You think I’m joking? Now it’s sixty for the fox. Cash. This fox is Peruvian and it is sly. You cool with that, Ricky? Oops. Yeah, I thought you’d be cool with that. See you at the fox den. And don’t forget to bring the alligator.”
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Old, White Carpet
Written: Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Old, White Carpet by Christopher M. Bohan
The new, white carpet never stood a chance against the four year old’s birthday party.
It all started when the flash thunderstorm sent the throng of screaming four year olds with muddied sneakers into the living room just after they had been handed their cups of pro-biotic, high in antioxidants, calcium fortified, high in Omega 3 grape juice. Safe inside and sipping their juice, the screaming from the four year olds started to subside.
Just then Cheeks the Clown, having just suffered a massive heart attack as he was pulling up his pants, fell from the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and a large shoe in each hand. This sent the children into hysterics and small cups of grape juice into the air. There was absolutely zero crescendo as the screaming went from a low whimper to an ear-piercing shrill in a nanosecond. One of the champagne glasses in the hutch suffered a hairline crack.
Stanley Steamer was able to remove almost all traces of mud from the carpet as well as the white pancake make-up from where Cheeks had landed. But, the grape juice? The grape juice stain - on the now old, white carpet - will serve as a constant reminder to hold the next party at a rental facility.
The Old, White Carpet by Christopher M. Bohan
The new, white carpet never stood a chance against the four year old’s birthday party.
It all started when the flash thunderstorm sent the throng of screaming four year olds with muddied sneakers into the living room just after they had been handed their cups of pro-biotic, high in antioxidants, calcium fortified, high in Omega 3 grape juice. Safe inside and sipping their juice, the screaming from the four year olds started to subside.
Just then Cheeks the Clown, having just suffered a massive heart attack as he was pulling up his pants, fell from the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and a large shoe in each hand. This sent the children into hysterics and small cups of grape juice into the air. There was absolutely zero crescendo as the screaming went from a low whimper to an ear-piercing shrill in a nanosecond. One of the champagne glasses in the hutch suffered a hairline crack.
Stanley Steamer was able to remove almost all traces of mud from the carpet as well as the white pancake make-up from where Cheeks had landed. But, the grape juice? The grape juice stain - on the now old, white carpet - will serve as a constant reminder to hold the next party at a rental facility.
Like, it’s over
Written: Sunday, July 4, 2010
Like, it’s over by Christopher M. Bohan
Please believe me when I say that I, like, no longer want to date you. I am beginning to suspect that you still believe that we are, like, an ‘item’ or that we are ‘going steady’. Or maybe it’s because, like, from the fact that you just introduced me as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe this is, like, my fault. Maybe I wasn’t clear last week when I said ‘I just wanted to be friends’. I can see how that could be misconstrued, thus the introduction as ‘boy-friend’. I will give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. But it’s, like, totally over Trudy. I, like, totally don't, like, like you anymore. Like that. You know? Like?
So, for one, please stop holding my hand. And two, if you are going to insist on wearing that ‘with boyfriend’ t-shirt with the arrow pointing in my direction then I totally won’t, like, hang out with you any more.
Look, I am going to be in the ninth grade next year and I don’t want to be tied down to, like, a seventh grader. You are, like, totally cool and totally mature but I am thinking I might want to date someone, like, my own age. Don’t take it too hard. There are more fish in, like, the ocean. I will totally miss you hard. I totally liked holding you hand.
Like, it’s over by Christopher M. Bohan
Please believe me when I say that I, like, no longer want to date you. I am beginning to suspect that you still believe that we are, like, an ‘item’ or that we are ‘going steady’. Or maybe it’s because, like, from the fact that you just introduced me as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe this is, like, my fault. Maybe I wasn’t clear last week when I said ‘I just wanted to be friends’. I can see how that could be misconstrued, thus the introduction as ‘boy-friend’. I will give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. But it’s, like, totally over Trudy. I, like, totally don't, like, like you anymore. Like that. You know? Like?
So, for one, please stop holding my hand. And two, if you are going to insist on wearing that ‘with boyfriend’ t-shirt with the arrow pointing in my direction then I totally won’t, like, hang out with you any more.
Look, I am going to be in the ninth grade next year and I don’t want to be tied down to, like, a seventh grader. You are, like, totally cool and totally mature but I am thinking I might want to date someone, like, my own age. Don’t take it too hard. There are more fish in, like, the ocean. I will totally miss you hard. I totally liked holding you hand.
Jefferson and Sons
Written: Friday, July 2, 2010
Jefferson and Sons by Christopher M. Bohan
Severe cuts to the work staff at Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care have left it pared down to only Jefferson and Son. Times are tough in this time of mild post-recovery re-recession. When the first wave of the recession was at its lowest it was down to just Jefferson. But then, a few months back when the recession was making a mild post-recession recovery Jefferson was able to add two sons back onto the staff, thus making the name, Jefferson and Sons, legit.
But now, with the mild post-recovery re-recession recovery in relapse Jefferson has had to re-fire his youngest son, Reginald. His middle son, Regan, decided to return to the IRS where he audits tax returns on a full time basis, and therefore, no longer requires employment from his father. Rupert, the eldest son and consequently the only son still employed by Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care, is happy for the work.
Reginald collects unemployment and hopes one day to return to Jefferson and Son(s). But, there are fears the mild post-recovery re-recession might take a turn for the worse and could possibly become a double-dip post-post re-recovery recession, or possibly, the dreaded triple-scoop deep depression.
Jefferson and Sons by Christopher M. Bohan
Severe cuts to the work staff at Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care have left it pared down to only Jefferson and Son. Times are tough in this time of mild post-recovery re-recession. When the first wave of the recession was at its lowest it was down to just Jefferson. But then, a few months back when the recession was making a mild post-recession recovery Jefferson was able to add two sons back onto the staff, thus making the name, Jefferson and Sons, legit.
But now, with the mild post-recovery re-recession recovery in relapse Jefferson has had to re-fire his youngest son, Reginald. His middle son, Regan, decided to return to the IRS where he audits tax returns on a full time basis, and therefore, no longer requires employment from his father. Rupert, the eldest son and consequently the only son still employed by Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care, is happy for the work.
Reginald collects unemployment and hopes one day to return to Jefferson and Son(s). But, there are fears the mild post-recovery re-recession might take a turn for the worse and could possibly become a double-dip post-post re-recovery recession, or possibly, the dreaded triple-scoop deep depression.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Literally
Written: Thursday, July 1, 2010
Literally by Christopher M. Bohan
“We have the place surrounded!” rang from the bullhorn, which gave it a deep and authoritative tone. “Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt!” The police did, indeed, have the place surrounded and were poised to move in at the drop of a hat, literally.
Johnny Whitherspoon, the mole on the inside, was wearing a brown pork-pie hat and if anything felt off to him he was to remove the hat and drop it on the floor. The hidden camera would relay the signal to the captain and he would give the order to storm the castle, literally.
The drug deal was going down in an abandoned Medieval Times restaurant. Doug “the Rooster” Koch had been doing his deals here for years and never saw this day coming. He was furious. “When I find out who ratted me out the shit is going to hit the fan, literally. I am going to cut you up and throw your pieces and shit at a fucking fan. I’m looking at you Pork-Pie!”
Whitherspoon was freaking out. He took his hat from his head and let it fall to the ground. Within seconds, Medieval Times came back to life, literally. A mob of policeman used an old telephone pole to bash through the wooden gate allowing a throng of mounted policeman to descend upon the arena. An epic battle of courtly proportions ensued.
Literally by Christopher M. Bohan
“We have the place surrounded!” rang from the bullhorn, which gave it a deep and authoritative tone. “Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt!” The police did, indeed, have the place surrounded and were poised to move in at the drop of a hat, literally.
Johnny Whitherspoon, the mole on the inside, was wearing a brown pork-pie hat and if anything felt off to him he was to remove the hat and drop it on the floor. The hidden camera would relay the signal to the captain and he would give the order to storm the castle, literally.
The drug deal was going down in an abandoned Medieval Times restaurant. Doug “the Rooster” Koch had been doing his deals here for years and never saw this day coming. He was furious. “When I find out who ratted me out the shit is going to hit the fan, literally. I am going to cut you up and throw your pieces and shit at a fucking fan. I’m looking at you Pork-Pie!”
Whitherspoon was freaking out. He took his hat from his head and let it fall to the ground. Within seconds, Medieval Times came back to life, literally. A mob of policeman used an old telephone pole to bash through the wooden gate allowing a throng of mounted policeman to descend upon the arena. An epic battle of courtly proportions ensued.
TIC-TAC
Written: Wednesday, June 30, 2010
TIC-TAC by Christopher M. Bohan
“Stop it. Stop that!” Sarah was fiercely concentrating on the road ahead while attempting to discourage her infantile boyfriend. Ralph, the descendant of two apparently normal and hardworking humans, was attempting to retrieve an orange Tic-Tac from the vent between the dashboard and the windshield.
“It’s my last one!” He said in a muffled tone: he was attempting to retrieve said Tic-Tac with his tongue. He had removed his seat belt and was pressing his head in as far as it could go. The cummerbund on his tuxedo was restricting his movement, so he reached back with his right hand to unhook it.
“We are almost there. Give it a rest. Please don’t embarrass me at the dance. This will be my only senior prom. Please don’t make it suck!” Sarah finally began to understand the true meaning of the word ‘dejected’.
Sarah took her eyes off the road for one second to see the tragedy that was her date and when she looked back it was too late to stop and she rear-ended the Pontiac in front of her. The collision threw Ralph back into his seat. And, with a bright orange Tic-Tac in his mouth, he exclaimed, “Got it!”
TIC-TAC by Christopher M. Bohan
“Stop it. Stop that!” Sarah was fiercely concentrating on the road ahead while attempting to discourage her infantile boyfriend. Ralph, the descendant of two apparently normal and hardworking humans, was attempting to retrieve an orange Tic-Tac from the vent between the dashboard and the windshield.
“It’s my last one!” He said in a muffled tone: he was attempting to retrieve said Tic-Tac with his tongue. He had removed his seat belt and was pressing his head in as far as it could go. The cummerbund on his tuxedo was restricting his movement, so he reached back with his right hand to unhook it.
“We are almost there. Give it a rest. Please don’t embarrass me at the dance. This will be my only senior prom. Please don’t make it suck!” Sarah finally began to understand the true meaning of the word ‘dejected’.
Sarah took her eyes off the road for one second to see the tragedy that was her date and when she looked back it was too late to stop and she rear-ended the Pontiac in front of her. The collision threw Ralph back into his seat. And, with a bright orange Tic-Tac in his mouth, he exclaimed, “Got it!”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Operation Dessert
Written: Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Operation Dessert by Christopher M. Bohan
The grilled cheese sat idling on the plate next to a half eaten baby carrot and a virgin stalk of string cheese. The straw in the juice box seemed as if it were cocked and ready to fire at any moment.
Little Jimmy had a sneer on his puss the size of Texas and he wasn’t backing down. Months of experiments had taught him that tantrums never work, a sweet grin is only 3% effective, but an old fashioned stare-down will get you dessert before dinner 15% of the time. The odds weren’t great, but Little Jimmy was feeling lucky tonight and the chocolate cake on the counter was calling his name.
His focus was deep. He imagined himself eating the cake. No sudden movements. No screaming. No whimpering. Keep the mouth sealed shut to disallow any food entry other that the desired dessert. At select moments, he would shift his gaze to the cake - in essence, directing his mother’s attention toward the object in question. When she looked back, he would focus in on her real hard and send strong signals of ‘cake’.
After five minutes of intense focus, Jimmy’s mom broke the silence, “No cake. You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.”
In a flash, Jimmy squeezed the juice box and sent a stream of apple juice right into his mother’s eye. Before he knew it, he was on his back in his crib with the lights out.
“Damn it. Back to the drawing board.”
Operation Dessert by Christopher M. Bohan
The grilled cheese sat idling on the plate next to a half eaten baby carrot and a virgin stalk of string cheese. The straw in the juice box seemed as if it were cocked and ready to fire at any moment.
Little Jimmy had a sneer on his puss the size of Texas and he wasn’t backing down. Months of experiments had taught him that tantrums never work, a sweet grin is only 3% effective, but an old fashioned stare-down will get you dessert before dinner 15% of the time. The odds weren’t great, but Little Jimmy was feeling lucky tonight and the chocolate cake on the counter was calling his name.
His focus was deep. He imagined himself eating the cake. No sudden movements. No screaming. No whimpering. Keep the mouth sealed shut to disallow any food entry other that the desired dessert. At select moments, he would shift his gaze to the cake - in essence, directing his mother’s attention toward the object in question. When she looked back, he would focus in on her real hard and send strong signals of ‘cake’.
After five minutes of intense focus, Jimmy’s mom broke the silence, “No cake. You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.”
In a flash, Jimmy squeezed the juice box and sent a stream of apple juice right into his mother’s eye. Before he knew it, he was on his back in his crib with the lights out.
“Damn it. Back to the drawing board.”
500 SUVs
Written: Monday, June 28, 2010
500 SUVs by Christopher M. Bohan
500 SUVs sit idling, air conditioners running, in the parking lot of the hot new mega-store - Store Store. In just three short hours, Store Store would be opening.
Inside Store Store is a massive display for Eartha – the first in a line of Eco-Friendly dolls made by the company 3Rs (Recycle, Reuse, Replenish). Eartha is comprised of all recycled materials and is assembled on machines made of recycled steel that are powered by a fuel developed by 3R Founder and CEO, Ken Starwell. The fuel is a combination of human waste and cigarette butts. Disgusting? Yes. Efficient? Double yes. Made in the USA? Triple yes and a ‘You Bet!’
Each Eartha is unique due to its recycled nature. Her eyes are buttons swept from the floor of a clothing factory. Her patchwork body is made from scraps of clothing that Goodwill couldn’t sell. The workers who assemble the dolls used to work in China for a company that makes dolls out of non Eco-Friendly materials.
500 SUVs are dripping wet with condensation just waiting to save the earth – one Eartha at a time.
500 SUVs by Christopher M. Bohan
500 SUVs sit idling, air conditioners running, in the parking lot of the hot new mega-store - Store Store. In just three short hours, Store Store would be opening.
Inside Store Store is a massive display for Eartha – the first in a line of Eco-Friendly dolls made by the company 3Rs (Recycle, Reuse, Replenish). Eartha is comprised of all recycled materials and is assembled on machines made of recycled steel that are powered by a fuel developed by 3R Founder and CEO, Ken Starwell. The fuel is a combination of human waste and cigarette butts. Disgusting? Yes. Efficient? Double yes. Made in the USA? Triple yes and a ‘You Bet!’
Each Eartha is unique due to its recycled nature. Her eyes are buttons swept from the floor of a clothing factory. Her patchwork body is made from scraps of clothing that Goodwill couldn’t sell. The workers who assemble the dolls used to work in China for a company that makes dolls out of non Eco-Friendly materials.
500 SUVs are dripping wet with condensation just waiting to save the earth – one Eartha at a time.
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