This afternoon, while gamboling down Sixth Avenue in the not-so-snow, I saw this truck:
It stopped me in my tracks not only because it was bold, bright, and impossibly clean, but because it vaguely reminded me of a circus poster. And although I loathe, detest, and otherwise abhor circuses (circi?) for a variety of reasons (none of which I’ll detail), sometimes I do like circus posters. (P.T. Barnum makes such a lovely pin-up. Even lovelier than Rita Hayworth! Or Farrah in her red one-piece!)
What really made me laugh (I believe aloud), though, were the words “Who But W.B. Mason”. Yes, W.B. Mason. You know. W.B. Mason! Yes, the W.B. Mason. Who else, indeed!
No, I’ve never heard of him or his company before, but apparently “W.B. Mason” is a household name and has been since 1898.
And as if that wasn’t enough, there was also this:
I can’t explain why this especially “W.B. Himself” amuses the hell (and no, not the “bejebus” — I hate that “bejebus” thing) out of me. It just does. I can’t even describe how it made my day or how much it still makes me laugh nine hours later. It just does. (Since when do I have to explain, anyway?)
And hey, that’s good enough for me. And for W.B. himself, too, I’m sure.