You know, we got these nifty branded shirts and hoodies, we set up a big booth, we even spent time shooting monkeys and t-shirts into the crowd wildly.
And yet not enough of you guys are tracking us down and showering us with the Beatles-esque adoration our fragile egos were hoping.
Maybe you don't get it. This CES? This is it for us. After this, we go back to the "office." It's basically like a veal calf cage, but with less space. Our eyelids are held open by toothpicks. Our laptops are literally STRAPPED TO OUR LAPS. The Mountain Dew IV drip is started and we don't stop writing again until the next CES.
We need something to give us hope; we need something to give us a reason to live. We need you to pretend like you want a picture taken with us. That's why, starting tomorrow, if you see us roaming around looking confused in our giant exclamation point shirts or hoodies, stop us and take a quick pic. There are five writers in all, and we're going to spread out. If you can get, say, photos for at least FOUR of us, we'll make it worth your while.
With a Bag.
Of Crap.
That's right. Get 4/5 of us on (digital) film and bring the pics by the Woot booth (South 1, Booth 22110) to get your very own Baby Of the Cosmos. Boggy Old Creature. Boysenberry Oiled Cadaver. Whatever you want to call it.
But either way, good luck. You might have an easier time getting some shots of Bigfoot on the convention floor.
