I was searching the archive and noticed this. Too much fun not to share. The good news is that Archie McPhee is still in business, and still promises to return unsatisfactory or defective items. Alas, the pig catapult must have caused too much trouble, as it is no longer offered among their line of novelty products. No do they notionally employ the fictive Molly Primrose to interact with the public. David Wahl, however, still works at the company.
SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
My older son's pig catapult broke. Not surprising, considering the workout he gave it, stalking about a family gathering, peppering his aging relatives with small pink plastic pigs.
Behavior that a judicious parent would quickly halt — or so you might imagine, until you try actually saying the words, "Stop pelting people with pigs!" Easier to just ignore him. Besides, they're very small pigs, less than an inch long. It isn't as if they hurt.
Here the tale might have ended.
But his mother, always ready to rally behind her cubs, noticed the lad still had the cardboard packaging from the catapult — saved because it has a "Pig Bull's Eye" on the back, to aid in honing his pig-pelting skills.
She went online, to the manufacturer's Web site.
"My son recently purchased a pig catapult made by your company," her note began. "The toy was quite fun. However, about one week after he purchased it, the portion that holds the pigs snapped off after the catapult was fired. It appears to have snapped off where the tension rod places pressure on the plastic catapult. Can you please replace this faulty pig catapult?"
Here again the saga might have ended. One reason our world is so vexing is that companies build their bottom lines by shaving away customer service. It's hard enough to find anyone at Apple to care about your busted $400 iPod, never mind receive satisfaction for a broken $4.95 pig catapult made in China.
Yesterday, a box arrived. It contained not only a new pig catapult, but this letter:
"Dear Edie:Not quite a second sun appearing in the sky, but close.
"I am so sorry to hear that your Pig Catapult was defective. Here is a new one for you. Also here is a small gift to say we are sorry for any trouble this may have caused you. Thank you for bringing this to our attention so we could fix it for you!"
The gift, by the way, was a box of bandages designed to look like strips of bacon. My wife loved it.
Here too, the tale might have ended. But there was one more paragraph.
"I have enclosed an Archie McPhee Catalog for your enjoyment. Archie McPhee is our retail business."
The catalog "of surprising novelties, good jokes and useful articles" hit our household like a t-bone steak tossed into a tank of piranhas.
How to describe the product line? Simple toys and toys with an edge. Plastic ants and "Just Like Dad!" brand bubble gum cigarettes. Rubber ducks and gummy banana slugs.
Bacon is fun, apparently. In addition to bacon bandages, there is bacon air freshener, a bacon wallet ("Not made from real bacon"), bacon tape, bacon gift wrap and Uncle Oinker's Gummy Bacon.
Jesus too, must be amusing, in certain circles. There is the classic dashboard Jesus, plus a bobblehead Jesus, Jesus gift wrap and not one but two Jesus Action Figures, one with wheels "for smooth gliding action," another, deluxe set, complete with plastic loaves and fishes and "glow-in-the-dark miracle hands."
An invigorating blasphemy pervades the enterprise. Beyond the Jesus goods, there are Last Supper After Dinner Mints ("Tasty & Religious"), a boxing rabbi puppet, Buddha pencil toppers and, so nobody feels left out, Nihilist Chewing Gum ("No flavor -- We don't believe in flavor.")
Here, again, the curtain might fall. But the letter was signed "Molly Primrose." Must be a made-up name, I decided. A blanket identity to personalize customer service off-loaded to India.
I wanted to take the catalog to work with me, but any possible argument ("Boys, it's my job") seemed feeble in the face of the passion with which they were selecting and discarding various items from their imaginary orders, toting up the balances so as to absorb every last penny in their possession.
"Dad," said Ross, as I was leaving, "do you think I should get a Monkey Groan Ball? When you squeeze it, it's like a monkey groaning . . ."
"Sounds great," I said.
My morning's work became tracking down Molly Primrose. Such a pretty and unusual name — there is only one person named "Primrose" in the Chicago White Pages — it had to be a fiction.
Hadn't it?
I contacted the company and waited. Carol Marin envisioned Molly as an older woman, walking a bunny on a leash — a lovely image. I thought of her as mid-20s, tattoos on both arms, bravely trying to keep her poetic soul alive while answering letters complaining about pig catapults.
Finally David Wahl, Archie McPhee spokesman, called. I could tell he didn't want to say it, so I said it for him.
Molly Primrose isn't real, is she?
"It's our contact name for customer service,'' he said, reluctantly. "It's a rotating series of people who do it. We take it very seriously for a company that sells such stupid, useless things."
Of course, one shouldn't pull back the corporate skirts too much. Still, upon reflection, it struck me that the only thing more wonderful than there being an actual Molly Primrose is there being a business in this day and age that feels compelled to make one up.
— Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 24, 2007
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