I am huddled in the fetid corner of a college application sweatshop watching one skinny, exhausted 17-year-old employee doing all the work: making the mold, pouring it, watching it cool, taking it out with big metal tongs last seen in Frankenstein, shipping it on time to someone who may not even want it, bracing to hear that customers prefer the hand-woven, suspended-in-a-delicate-bottle type of application this year.
Then there’s the prospect that a successful shipment, signed for and accepted, will turn out to be about as useful as a Crazy Eddie gift certificate.
No wonder he’s like, yeah, take this shit to China. I don’t need it.
