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"Here's the mascot," he said, leaning over one of my two half-walls, handing me a file of papers, "the production guys will get you the artwork. The jokes are at the back. Call me when it's ready."

It's early 2000. I'm slaving away in my pseudo-cube in my hometown. I'm a script monkey. My job consists of writing minimal CFML (oh yeah, Coldfusion, baby) wrappers around boring products, like fish hooks.

Denis, the cube-leaning account manager, had tasked me with a project that was mostly impossible (at the time), but moreover, it was a project that simply shouldn't have been done.