Articles by " Brendan"
27 Apr

Poor, Sad Eeyore

Eeyore is my spirit animal.

Eeyore is by far my favorite denizen of the Hundred Acre Wood. Rabbit? Too high stress. Owl? So pretentious. Tigger? Obvious coke-head. Piglet? Whiny, tiny mammal. Pooh? Just kind of boring. Kanga? Who cares about Kanga?


But Eeyore, no, Eeyore’s my kind of guy. He’s so aggressively depressed that one has to be a little impressed -- Oh hey Christopher Robin, having a warm little day at home? Yeah, that’s totally cool when I’m out here getting covered in snow because somebody stole my house but no, really, you don’t need to help me look for it, it’s just Poor Eeyore’s house, not anything important -- and Christopher Robin’s already three steps out the door.

Which is why, for about nine months, whenever a coworker asked me in greeting how I was doing I would respond “I’ll make it.”

That doesn’t get old, right?


Eeyore has a detachable tail which occasionally gets lost, a distressing thing for him. It’s attached to him with a nail, and I have considered a similar procedure to secure the safety of my hat.

Eeyore’s favorite food is thistles. My favorite food is I don’t eat because it cuts into my drinking budget.

Eeyore is the reigning Hundred Acre Wood League Poohsticks champion. I have no such skills.

But hey, it’s just Brendan, nothing important, don’t worry about it, really.

I just want to go home.

I just want to go home.

11 Apr

Shut Up I’m Reading


You said it, John.

On April 12th, we celebrate Drop Everything And Read Day, quite possibly the most sensible holiday of all time. Now, the good folks at We Create All the Holidays Inc. and myself seem to be in a bit of a disagreement about the duration of this holiday -- they say "Day," I prefer "Everday" -- but it gives me warm and fuzzy feeling that the powers that be in the Fake Holiday/Novelties community recognize that reading is best thing ever. Tops. The bee's knees. A-plus super-great. The best. So drop everything and read, because there is nothing better.


Because when I read I am the bastard son of a Russian landowner. I am a pill chewing mother of four, I am sole survivor of the Apocalypse,  I am Teddy Roosevelt riding a moose, I am the Devil Himself.

Because when I'm reading the edges of my vision sometimes go all fuzzy and there really is nothing but the page.

Because absolutely everything can wait till the end of the chapter.

Go ye readers. Laze about.


I think we can all agree that Jesse Eisenberg isn't reading in this picture. Probably because we're not convinced he can read...

5 Apr

It’s New Beer’s Eve!

Spring is far and away my favorite season. The weather has finally (finally) broken but the odds of a sunburn are still slim, the women begin to opt for flowing rather than functional dress, and everything is so wonderfully green. But perhaps more fabulous than all of that are the Drinking Holidays. Starting with St. Patrick's Day and flowing right though Cinco de Mayo and the Kentucky Derby (back to back this year -- could be dangerous) before stumbling through the Memorial Day weekend, Spring is straight killing it for us drinking people.


American men circa all the freaking time.

Except for April. St. Patrick's Day thoroughly soaks March through, and the Drinking Days of May are the stuff of liver failure, but what's April got? Administrative Professional's Day? That's some tea and crumpets bullshit. But in reality April does have its Drinking Holiday: New Beer's Eve. It's not nearly as popular as the Big Four, and somewhat curiously dated, but the stout of kidney such as myself have come to see New Beer's Eve not just as a bridge between March and May but as wonderful holiday in its own right.


If I didn't love it so much, I'd be a little embarrassed by how much we as a people love beer.

On April 7th of 1933, the Cullen-Harrison Act, which had been signed by Frank "Wheelz" Roosevelt three weeks earlier, came into effect in the United States. The Act permitted for the first time in 13 years the sale of beer. Only beer with less that 3.5% alcohol, but after thirteen years your boy needs a drink, and 3.5% will do just fine. On the evening of April 6, people began to line up outside bars and stores so that when the clock struck "drinking time" they'd be able to get at it quick as can be. New Beer's Eve was born

So this Saturday I suggest snagging one of the outdoor tables at your nearest boozery some time mid-afternoon and settle in for a long day journey into night. Drink in the American right to drink by drinking all of it. Be strong, be committed, get shitty. It's just the right time for it.


Ahh, the glorious hues of the beer rainbow.

18 Mar

Awkward Moments Day

Picture me tugging at my necktie, trying for more air.

Picture me dripping with puddle water, a truck having recently dousing me from hip to face. Picture a girl standing next to me, dry. Picture this being a first date.

Picture me absentmindedly opening the door to a coffee shop bathroom. Picture it being occupied. Picture it being occupied by my boss.

Picture me running into an ex-girlfriend. Picture her reminding me about that time that trucked splashed me.

Picture me discovering me that my fly is down. Picture me doing it as I get off stage.

Picture me.

Happy Awkward Moments Day, folks.

Happy Awkward Moments Day, folks.

11 Mar

We Take the Naps We Think We Deserve

I can't even.

I can't even.

When you're a small child, everything seems to be going pretty smoothly. You get to eat a variety of mushy foods that cover the spectrum of taupe to sand-colored, people come immediately to your aid if you fall down and cry, and most importantly, at least once a day you get to nap.

The nap. A twenty-minute (or two-hour) hiatus from the day, a period of recharging the batteries so that one can greet the afternoon with vim and vigor. Your coffee has faded, you ate a little too much at lunch, and you're just plain tired. You can either drag yourself through the afternoon, or you can nap for a little and actually enjoy  your afternoon.

It's set up from birth: this is the natural way of things. But then, right around when you're six years old, they take it away. They take away your nap time. The bastards make you stay awake the entire day.


This is naturally a traumatic time for us as humans. It's one we all go through, and as we age the pain lessens. We become used to the injustice. We as a culture revere the working lunch, the overtime, the Sundays at the office, so for the adult American naps are anathema.

This dude. He's got the right idea.

This dude. He's got the right idea.

But not today. Today, National Napping Day, is the day to reclaim the glory of years past. Today we admit that maybe we're a little grumpy around one o'clock and could use a little rest. We worked hard all morning, and we deserve a little break. Today, I want us all to lay down and mumble: "I nap and I'm proud!"

Be Like the Panda

Be Like the Pandas

PS. Nap dreams are the best. You aren't asleep long enough to drop into deep sleep, so your mind stays relatively active and your dreams are correspondingly wild. Ask me about the Kards Unlimited Travelling Circus and Variety Show. That was a good one.

22 Feb

G is for Gorey


Edward Gorey, light of my life, fire of my loins.

...That definitely came off creepier than I expected.

Today marks the birthday of Edward Gorey, the American illustrator and author of whom we at Kards Unlimited are particular fans. Gorey's small books exemplify the type of macabre humor that, along with every other kind of humor, we are particular fans of.

The first book of Gorey's that I was and many people were first acquatinted with is The Gashlycrumb Tinies, whence the above image was stolen. The book is an abecedarium, but rather than teaching life lessons to wee children it describes in hilariously dry verse those same children's various and violent deaths. Gorey places himself in the company of the great poets, beginning with "A is for Amy who fell down the stairs, B is for Basil assaulted by bears..." all the way down to "Y is for Yorick whose head was knocked in, Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin." The highlight of the book, however, is smack dab in the middle. Witness:


That's the good stuff.


Gashlycrumb is rightfully considered a great book, but my personal favorite of Gorey's is The West Wing, a sad, completely wordless tour through an Edwardian manor house in some disrepair. There's no chance of me explaining why I love this book so much, as I don't fully understand it myself, but there's a beauty in the spacious rooms Gorey draws in such small frames, and in which absolutely nothing happens.

What could this possibly mean??

What could this possibly mean??

Gorey needs to be read. One sacrifices nothing and potentially gains a great deal. Coincidentally there's a really cool card/gift/book store in Shadyside that carries a variety of his books. Come in, they don't bite.


13 Feb

Brendan Sullivan, Time Lord

Brendan Sullivan is a Gallifreyan Time Lord who has intermittently spent time on Earth over the last 950 years. It is unclear why Brendan has chosen Earth to occasionally return too, but it appears that he views it as something of a vacation resort. He has frequently expressed an affinity for potatoes and the particular oxygen-carbon dioxide mixture in our atmosphere.


Artist's rendering of Brendan's apartment.

He first arrived during the Norman invasion of England in 1066, opting to fight on the side of the defending Anglo-Saxon force because, in his words, it was "more interesting." He quickly died at the Battle of Hastings.

Undeterred, Brendan came back to England and through a variety of channels convinced William the Conqueror's successor, Henry, to sign the Charter of Liberties, limiting his powers. This was done mostly out of spite.

After a long and relaxing stay somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, Brendan Sullivan arrived back on Earth in 1729 as Catherine the Great of Russian for the sole reasoning that he hadn't gotten laid in fifty-odd years. He decisively rectified the situation, though he does acknowledge that his commitment to the ideal may have come back and bit him in the ass.

Living in New England in the mid-19th century as Father Goodwin Hearthweatherford, Brendan founded the Christian splinter group the Penitent Hearthweatherfordites. He and his followers moved to a farm in western Ohio, where they eschewed all technology, ate a surprisingly ahead of their time raw food diet, and spent their days self-flagellating. The Penitent Hearthweatherfordites quickly mutinied, killing Father Goodwin and therefore leaving him out of the orgy that followed. These were dark times indeed.

Brendan Sullivan used up three separate incarnations of himself steadfastly refusing to die as Rasputin on the night of 29 December 1916. He has so far been unable to satisfactorily explain his reasoning for doing this, as he was viciously, viciously drunk at the time.

Brendan returned to Earth in 1989, after hearing that Magnum, P.I. was cancelled.

The eighth incarnation of Brendan Sullivan spends his time in Pittsburgh producing and selling snarky greeting cards and making decreasingly witty comments over the course of evenings at local bars.


Rare photographic evidence of Brendan Sullivan's existence.

15 Jan

Cool Stuff Tuesday!

This is by a good margin my favorite t shirt out the of almost 200 that we sell. Why, you might ask? Let me tell you: This t shirt takes the entire malignant history of European imperialism and distills it into a hilarious joke that requires the minimum of thought and consideration about the pain and suffering that allowed it to exist. It's about healing.

small pox shirt2