I was at an outdoor musical festival in Reno and some lady tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Sir, excuse me. Do you have trouble finding baseball caps that fit?” I said, “What are you talking about? This one fits just fine. Is this some kind of joke?” (truth is, it did not fit properly, none do, and was perched on my noggin precariously like an organ monkey grinder’s hat)
She handed me a business card and continued her pitch, “No, I’m not kidding. I noticed you have a HUGE head and I have a company that caters to your kind.” I said, “My kind? What kind? You mean, the cranially deformed kind? Who put you up to this?” I turned to my buddy, Gary Raffanelli, and said, “Dude, is this your dirty work?” Gary was bent over, slapping his thighs, laughing at my discomfort and says, “No, I swear. This lady’s on her own. It wasn’t me.” (Gary was our piano player at Catch A Rising Star comedy club, a rapscallion, and I wouldn’t put it past him)
I looked at the lady’s card, and if this was a prank, it was a good one. The card was well done, expensive looking and had their website www.bigfathead.com printed on it. I said to the woman, “Big Fat Head dot com. Seriously? You solicit people in public, insult them with the horrible name of your company and expect that to work.” She said, “No, not usually, but I was hanging out, enjoying the band, and I couldn’t stop staring at the size of your head in comparison to your hat, and since my husband and I just started the business, I thought I’d reach out. You’re our target customer.” I handed her back the card like it was a hot turd and said, “No, thank you. I’m good.”
When I got back home a week later, still bummed out over the Big Fat Head lady and my moon dome, I went on line, checked out their website and discreetly ordered two baseball caps. I still have them, and no, they didn’t come in separate UPS trucks, smart asses.
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