Greeting cards with zero survival instinct. Every one is a joke taken so far past the line that the line filed a complaint. You'll gasp, you'll laugh, and then you'll buy one for someone you absolutely should not. Real cards, printed on heavy stock, shipped in a plain unmarked envelope like contraband.
Thanks for not making me give you a blowjob to get my promotion. The bar was on the floor, and you cleared it. Happy birthday, boss.
Ranked by orders, gasps per open, and one subpoena. Tap any card to read the inside, or view its page to see who buys it.
Thanks for not making me give you a blowjob to get my promotion. The bar was on the floor, and you cleared it. Happy birthday, boss.
And I’m so glad I don’t have to join a class action against the church because of your actions. The bar was in the catacombs, and you cleared it. Thank you for touching my soul, and nothing else.
Thanks for grading my thesis and not my body. The bar was in hell. You stepped over it.
You called us a family, then laid off forty of us by webinar with the chat disabled. Dad never even said goodbye. Happy Boss’s Day!
Thanks for the $10 gift card. The company made two billion dollars this year, and you spent ten of them making sure I knew exactly what I’m worth. Merry Christmas.
My fourth toast to your forever. The gift receipt is in the box. The divorce attorney’s card is under the tissue paper. See you at the fifth.
Everyone says you slept your way to the top. That’s slander. This is the middle.
Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who raised the man I’m slowly finishing. You had him thirty years. The warranty work is all me.
Thanks for not duct-taping my kid to a chair. We both know he had it coming.
Happy retirement! You know too much to just walk free, but the ethics board says I can’t follow you. Tell my secrets to the ocean. They were expensive.
If there's a power dynamic, we've written a card that detonates it and salts the earth after. Pick your battlefield:
Thanks for not making me give you a blowjob to get my promotion. The bar was on the floor, and you cleared it. Happy birthday, boss.
Thanks for grading my thesis and not my body. The bar was in hell. You stepped over it.
You put your name on my work for five years. I put your name on my therapy invoices. We’re finally co-authors on something true.
Thanks for not duct-taping my kid to a chair. We both know he had it coming.
Forty years and you never once hit a kid. Half the retirees at this party can’t say that, and the district’s lawyers know exactly which half.
Thanks for losing my harassment complaint twice. Funny how the subpoena didn’t get lost. Happy birthday!
Everyone says you slept your way to the top. That’s slander. This is the middle.
Thanks for the $10 gift card. The company made two billion dollars this year, and you spent ten of them making sure I knew exactly what I’m worth. Merry Christmas.
“Pursuing new opportunities.” We watched security carry your box. The NDA gags us, but the intern never signed one, and she is a gifted storyteller.
Thanks for believing my pain on the first visit. The doctor before you prescribed positive thinking. His malpractice premiums are thinking positive now too.
Thanks for fixing the heat in month eleven. The mold asked me to tell you it’s family now. It gets the bedroom. I get the lawyer.
You called us a family, then laid off forty of us by webinar with the chat disabled. Dad never even said goodbye. Happy Boss’s Day!
My fourth toast to your forever. The gift receipt is in the box. The divorce attorney’s card is under the tissue paper. See you at the fifth.
Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who raised the man I’m slowly finishing. You had him thirty years. The warranty work is all me.
That degree cost more than the house you grew up in, and you’ve moved back into it. This card is an eviction notice with glitter. We love you. June 1.
Congratulations on tenure. You’re officially unfirable, which means today is the last day anyone pretends to like your seminar.
Get well soon. HR needs your kidney stone reclassified as PTO by Friday, and the stapler situation has already turned violent. Hurry.
Happy retirement! You know too much to just walk free, but the ethics board says I can’t follow you. Tell my secrets to the ocean. They were expensive.
And I’m so glad I don’t have to join a class action against the church because of your actions. The bar was in the catacombs, and you cleared it. Thank you for touching my soul, and nothing else.
"I gave the birthday card to my boss. I now have a new boss, a new job, and a new city."
"My professor framed it. The dean did not."
"Read one out loud at the retirement party. Security was called, but so was the caterer, so overall a wash."
Mail any card back unsigned within 30 days and we'll refund it, less shipping and handling, no questions asked, some judgment implied. We know exactly who we're dealing with. And the moment you sign it and hand it over, you're on your own. We are, legally speaking, not your friends.
A normal greeting card costs $5 because a supermarket buys ten thousand of them and parks them on a rack next to the balloons. Take one look at our catalog and you'll understand why that phone call goes badly for us. No grocery chain, no pharmacy, no mall kiosk will put these anywhere near their customers, and honestly, we respect that.
So every card is $19.99, shipping and handling included, because we do this the hard way: printed in small batches by a shop that made us sign something, packed by people who giggle the entire shift, and shipped directly to your door in a plain, unmarked envelope. You're not paying for paper. You're paying for the only distribution channel outrageous enough to carry it, which is the mail, straight to you. And a dollar of the worst ones goes to the sicko who designed it.
"Too offensive for shelves. Perfectly legal to mail."
"It's the card you'd never write yourself, sitting on their desk, in print, forever."
These cards are satire, and extreme satire at that. They are jokes, written to be as outrageous as possible, and they are not statements of fact about any person, boss, professor, teacher, coworker, clergy member, or company. Nothing on a card describes a real event, and no card is directed at any real individual.
To be completely clear: workplace harassment, abuse of power, and quid pro quo demands are real problems and we do not endorse, encourage, or make light of actual misconduct. The joke is the absurdity of saying the unsayable in a glitter-adjacent greeting card, not the misconduct itself.
Cards contain adult language and themes. Intended for buyers 18 and older who know their audience. If you hand one of these to someone with no sense of humor, HR, or your grandmother, that outcome is entirely on you.
