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This morning, one of our mailroom's "top men" wheeled up a giant crate branded "Property of Dr. Jones." My inner Short Round rept for joy.
That shadow is printed on the box, by the way. I don't wear fedoras.
When you crack open the top, the Indiana Jones theme plays. My inner Willie Scott whined with glee.
Not sure if my inner Todt could take any more, but I dove in further.
The Grail diary-looking thing is a press kit. Let's move on, through the layers of hay that I'm still picking out of my hair, shoes, and co-workers.
Right on top was something that looked, at first glance, like novelty dog shit. Upon further examination, it was actually a plush whip with action sound effects.
Underneath lurked a selection of Hasbo Indiana Jones toys, including Mr. Potato Head Indy (a cross-branding phenomenon I never quite got), toys, games, puzzles...
Thanks to this assortment of Indy goodness, I am now in possession of more SS-themed toys than an adolescent Pope Benedict XVI.
But, honestly, wouldn't you rather play a game of "LIFE" that reflects the globe-trotting adventures of a confident, successful ladies' man instead of one that tells you you're going to have 4 kids, 3 mortgages, and a job as a Junior Assistant Quality Manager.
Now excuse me, my Preschool Indy is going to push the Preschool German Mechanic into some propeller blades.
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