I regret finding out that Macaulay Culkin has a band called The Pizza Underground.
Admittedly, I regret this for stupid reasons. But let’s be honest. Most of Regret-A-Day is anchored in stupid reasons.
Let’s knock em out one by one:
• THE PIZZA CONCEPT
I don’t know. Just seems ludicrous. Why? Because I’m a sad music snob. And even if you hit up their Tumblr, it’s light on content. Though maybe that’s what they’re going for. If so, kudos, MC!
• THE ACTUAL DEMO
You be the judge. HERE IT IS. I mean, from an anti-folk standpoint, I guess it checks all the boxes. But like the concept, it feels half-assed. Again, I’m a sad music snob who’s seen Moldy Peaches live, so take that for what it’s worth.
• MC HIMSELF
Is he really THIS bored? One one hand, he’s a poster child for kid actors who were done wrong. On another, the dude beat the odds & did impressive turns in “Party Monster” & “Saved” as an adult.
And far as street cred, I was impressed by his appearance in Sonic Youth’s “Sunday” video a bunch of years ago.
I don’t know. Maybe he’s lending his name to this group to make sure they get attention.
Maybe I regret it because this concept can only go so far. You know, like how people never own more than one Dread Zeppelin album.
Damn. ANOTHER Minnesota-themed post?
Well, this one’s gonna be simple.
Up here, there’s a certain level of snowfall when drivers just park wherever the fuck they want.
Mainly because there’s so much slush in your average parking lot that parking spaces become frivolous.
And I regret that I’ve apparently become that guy.
Car on the right? Mine. Car on the left? Some other guy’s.
Not sure how it played out this way. It just did.
That’s barely enough space to fit half a MINI Cooper in there.
I also regret that I came THIS CLOSE to offering this Mexican gent $50 to come shovel my sidewalk.
That’s right. A guy who - just one day ago on this forum - said he actually dug shoveling.
What can I say? This guy made it look like he was having a pretty good time. Whereas I always end up looking like this while doing it.
I just went on a tirade about living in Minnesota yesterday. Albeit a positive one. I mean, I love this place, no matter how eskimo-boner cold it is.
(Yes. THIS is one the images you get served up you when you Google “eskimo boner.”)
Turns out, I’m going on another one. But I’m going snarky, so be warned.
It should also be pointed out that unless you’re a homeowner, you don’t have a dog in this fight. So, clam up in advance, son.
For those who don’t know, we had our first official snow of the season here. Which means, unlike the rest of this God-forsaken world, we come prepared.
There’s no fucking around up here in the Great White North.
Yeah, I know it’s not Canada, but the similarities can be startling.
Anyhoo, one of the many chores of the Minnesotan is shoveling.
This isn’t a complaint. It’s a way of life. And regardless of the amount of snowfall, I tend to revel in the camaraderie that comes with it.
So, if you own a house, part of your honest-to-God JOB is to shovel the sidewalk out front.
What do I mean by “job?” Alright, it breaks down like this:
• COMMON COURTESY
"Southern Hospitality" has nothing on "Minnesota Nice." These jokers are world famous for thinking about others over themselves.
• FLAGRANT LAWSUITS
If somebody falls in front of your house, they’re not gonna give a shit about that last bullet point. At least that’s the fear of every homeowner.
So, taking that into account, I regret that most of the assholes on our block aren’t as vigilant as me when it comes to these two points.
Example: Here’s your average sidewalk in my neighborhood:
To the untrained eye, this has the appearance of shoveled.
Now take a gander at my sidewalk:
Yeah, it may seem like I’m tooting my own horn here.
And maybe I am. But THIS shit?
It’s fucking bunk.
And even though THIS is half-assed,
I give them credit for at least using a part of their ass. Not like the church down the street.
These guys make it a point to shovel just enough to please their flock & then say, “Kill em all & let God sort em out” to the rest of the world.
I don’t know. Maybe I feel this way because I spend as much on salt
as I do on cat littler.
That’s right. My cat is so fat, he needs TWO litter boxes.
I moved to the Twin Cities more than a decade ago.
And having buffered my Southern-ness with the whipping cold of two other Northern cities, the period of adjustment to blistering cold has been fairly minimal.
I guess you could say I’ve gotten used to realizing that THIS
is actually bearable. Although it took me a while to realize that Minnesotans LOVE proving that the cold & snow doesn’t bother them.
St. Paul’s Winter Carnival is a good example.
As is Holidazzle.
And, sure, I’ll include our infamous Polar Plunge.
Say what you want, but they do it for charity, not because they enjoy hypothermia.
The point is, I’m not a TRUE Minnesotan. Like many of the people here, I’m a transplant who loves this place, regardless of the temps.
Which is why you’ll never hear me utter these words:
In fact, I kind of regret that I’ve grown so accustomed to this place that the odd sensation of frozen nose hair is something I find slightly pleasurable.
(This is not a picture of me, but when you Google “frozen nose hair,” you take what you can get.)
And I don’t mean, like, Adam & Eve novelty vibrator “pleasurable” or anything.
It’s just a sensation that I forget about until it happens again. And when it does, it makes me glad to be a transplant.
Again, Google. Type in “Minnesota transplant” & this is what you get.
Nelson Mandela left us today.
And we all know about Mandela’s trials & tribulations against insurmountable odds. Truly a regrettable loss. But another influential human being also died recently.
Let’s see if THIS gives anything away.
What about this?
Yep. He came up with the idea.
Campaigned like a mutherfucker to get Taco Bell/Lays to take notice.
And once Taco Bell agreed to give it a shot, it turned out to be their most successful launch ever.
Did he get paid for his idea? No.
Did he at least get paid in a lifetime supply of Doritos Locos Tacos?
Todd Mills was 41-years-old when he passed away recently. But his legacy lives on.
I also regret learning about “vaginal knitting.”
Look, I’m not going into explicit detail about what I regret about this. There are a lot of knitters in my life & I’m not exactly one of them.
In other words, I don’t feel like I’m qualified to have a problem with it.
Because I’m also a guy. And all guys obviously have problems with the vulva.
So, I’m staying out of the knitting or vag aspect of it.
But this gal isn’t sticking skeins of wool up her cooch because she LOVES knitting necessarily.
This is supposedly “performance art.” Which roughly translates to…
"HEY! LOOK AT MEEEEEEEEE! I’M DOING SOMETHING FUCKED-UP OVER HERE IN THE NAME OF ART!"
(Alright, asshole. Take a powder.)
Here’s what some supporters of Vagina Knitter Casey Jenkins are saying.
Listen, I agree that art CAN be “challenging & confrontational.”
But I gotta disagree with you on this one, buttercup.
Art’s “duty” isn’t to be fucking political.
It CAN be, sure. But art doesn’t have a duty to be shit, except be fucking art.
Speaking of which, I regret that this beautiful movie poster art is for a movie that doesn’t exist yet.
Man, I need me some cyborg sasquatch action & I need it NOW!
I regret that I’ve had The Village People’s ”In The Navy” in my head all day.
But not THEIR version. I actually regret that I’ve been singing a death metal version of it in my head all day. And giggling like an idiot.
I hear it like a long-lost Behemoth song.
But instead of themes centered around the occult, it’s about, you know, the Navy.
And less Polish, too.
That COULD round this old Regret-A-Day post out. Unfortunately, my dumbass Googled “In the Navy death metal” just to see if I was onto something here.
Well, of course these were the typical results. Or THESE.
Okay, so I seemed to be in the clear. Then I found THIS turd.
He does a version of “Y.M.C.A.,” which sucks. Mainly because he’s missing the point. You’ll see what I mean if you click on the link.
Then there were THESE dickheads.
They’re called Carnivore. And their version of “Macho Man” is just as horrible.
Needless to say, I was feeling pretty good about my goofy, little song.
I should’ve just walked away. But then I found THIS.
Let me just say that I’m into a LOT of music. Most of which is some gratingly noisy shit.
But Anal Cunt is pretty Goddamned awful. And it’s not just the fact that their lyrics were racist & homophobic most of the time.
Or the fact that their choice in a logo is just as disgusting as you’d expect.
On top of all that, I regret that they attempted to pull off something like THIS.
Or should I say THOUGHT they pulled it off. It’s exactly what it says. Supposedly, it’s 5,643 songs played simultaneously.
But I’ve got news for you. Pick any song from their catalog. That one song basically sounds like this stupid experiment.
Trust me. I’ve heard most of them.
I regret that this never happens to me when I go see a movie.
Yeah. This actually happened.
There was a problem with the feature, so the projectionist put in “another cartoon” while “Frozen” got fixed.
Here’s a soundbite from a distraught grandmother who was there.
Good. Maybe this’ll teach you not to raise your kids on Disney flicks.
Anyhoo, I find this story less disturbing on that level. What I regret most is that it’s never revealed what was actually shown.*
I mean, I get that it looked like “Steamboat Willy” at first.
But was this “porno” some animated Tijuana Bible?
Or was this some kind of Project Mayhem thing?
The people have a right to know!
According to my sources, it was the NSFW, Red Band trailer to Lars Von Trier’s “Nymphomaniac.”
Man. I kind of get where the old grandma was coming from now.
Thanks for the update, Postle!**
** You fucking pervert.
I’m that old bastard who still collects CD’s. On a regular basis.
Just bought a few yesterday, while I was out Xmas shopping actually.
Now, I’m not necessarily proud of this fact. There’s a lot of anti-CD sentiment out there among people who think that’s something to get worked up about.
Hell, Brazil’s REALLY up in arms about it.
(I don’t know. Maybe pick up a paper sometime?)
Anyhoo, I know there’s the whole storage issue.
And I certainly don’t wanna turn into the guy who shoves them in any available drawer. Let’s just say I’ve got a system worked out.
(This is NOT my house.)
The other issue that people bring up is the price. Because these days, you can basically pay 99¢ for just about any song online. Or download it for free in some cases.
I know I’ve done my fair share. But I’m antiquated about what music goes where.
See, stuff I download from the cyberwebs pretty much just goes on my iPod.
Because if you think I’ve transferred all my CD’s onto that thing (or even onto my laptop), you live in a delusional world, my friend.
I’m so swamped in CD’s that there just isn’t enough time in the rest of my life to make that happen. Although I have been thinking about outsourcing the job to some people.
(Your turban’s hired. You? GET OUT.)
To wrap up, these two aforementioned things aren’t problems to me.
I’ll find the space. Might even make it decorative. Worse comes to worse, I’ve got something that looks awesome & is extremely functional.
These days, I’m finding CD’s that are cheaper than downloading albums one song at a time. And you’re not my mother, so don’t worry. I’m fine.
Alright, so here’s the last thing I’ll say on the matter.
TWO ADVANTAGES TO BUYING CD’S:
• COVER ART & LINER NOTES
I know, I know. You generally get that if you download music, too. But there’s something about owning the physical copy that I really, REALLY dig. And having the icon on my iPod isn’t the same.
• CRATEDIGGING FETISH
There’s something intoxicating about browsing through used CD bins. Or finding a band you’ve never heard of because you’re coerced by its album cover. I just I don’t get that same rush with downloading.
Jesus. Where the fuck was I going with this?
Okay, so I’ve just spelled out my anal-retentiveness in bold strokes. And now it’s time to get even goofier.
As a rule, I tend to avoid CD’s that suffer from the “White Cover Giveaway.”
What do I mean by that?
Fraudulent CD releases that fall into one (if not ALL) of the following categories:
• Album title that’s actually a hit song by the band
• The words “Extended Versions” on it
• White, unimaginative cover design with live shot
• An obvious misspelling of the band’s name
If any of these happen to make an appearance in the CD bin, there’s a better than good chance that this probably isn’t an official album in the band’s canon.
Which is why I avoid them like dinner with Dahmer. Generally.
However, I regret that I broke this cardinal rule at Half Price Books yesterday.
Enter British pop star & 80’s male dimepiece, Paul Young.
I came across THIS & bought it right up.
Yeah, it didn’t seem to suffer from “White Cover Giveaway.” None of the typical hallmarks. Even has the original track listing on the back.
(Albeit without the “Side One” or “Side Two” markings on it.)
So, I slip it in my car’s CD player this morning, expecting to hear THIS:
When, in fact, I heard THIS.
Notice a difference? That’s right. I now own fucking CLUB MIXES of this album, as opposed to the normal version.
And by the way, THIS?
Fucking abysmal. Whoever was “scratching” throughout this track had no FUCKING IDEA what they were doing.
I DON’T WANT SCRATCHING! More than that, I don’t want BRITISH SCRATCHING BY PEOPLE WHO DON’T KNOW WHAT SCRATCHING ACTUALLY SOUNDS LIKE!
I just want the original album without the extended drum track or extra solos or ANY of that shit.
Whew. Long tail on that kite.
Lastly, I need to spit out one more regret that has NOTHING to do with Paul Young.
It’s about THIS dude. A dear friend of mine named John Hallum. He passed away a few years ago & I miss him every day.
Total salt of the earth. And the man who taught me the bright side of being crotchety, even though you’re making a living as an actor.
He advised me on career decisions. He was a constant ear to bend. He was like an older, wiser, crustier brother to me. And he taught me more about acting than anyone I’ve ever known.
So, what’s to regret about this guy?
Look, I seem to dream less & less these days. But when I do dream, it tends to be a whopper. So, here’s where my mind took me last night:
I’m sitting in a circular auditorium, front row, house left.
Lights go down. Actors scurry onstage in the darkness. Lights up.
There’s John Hallum in full costume, running around the flattened stage, belting out his lines like a madman in that screechy voice of his.
I recognize the play, but can’t quite put my finger on it. Suddenly, a younger version of me appears on the other side of the stage in full costume, screaming across the stage at Hallum.
I realize that it’s some children’s theater crud we did together from way back. And I’m watching it like a character in some shitty Dickens story.
All told, it’s fucking chaos. John breaks character a couple of times, sending my onstage self into hysterics as well.
Kids & adults in the audience around me are howling with laughter, feeling like they’re in on the joke that’s happening onstage.
The worst part about this?
All I can do is sit in the audience in silence, knowing that Hallum isn’t supposed to be there. Hell, this whole event shouldn’t even be happening. But I can’t bring myself to yell out anything. I’m not even sure what to say if I could.
I’m frustrated because I SHOULD be relishing this moment of seeing him again. But I’m just overcome with sadness about it.
That’s when I woke up.
Like I said, I miss this fucker so damn much it hurts sometimes.
Ultimately, I regret that he’s gone. But I also regret that he’s not around to read this & call Paul Young “a stupid, old queen.”
Before probably calling me the same.
I’ve already bored the tens of people who read this Tumblr with my comic book buying exploits on Small Business Saturday.
Yes. I bought a lot of comics yesterday.
Too many? Who’s to say?
And when they’re letting back issues go for $1 - especially ones from my childhood - why would I NOT pick them up on the cheap?
Case in point: Fantastic Four #183.
Now, I don’t know what Overstreet has its value as, but Hot Comics has it for THIS much.
And again, here are the factors:
• Dropping one lousy dollar into the bucket
• Buying a comic I owned when it was new
• Supporting a local comic shop I really dig
Let me tell you. Fantastic Four #183 does NOT fuck around with the cover’s promise:
I’m not gonna go all theater critic & describe every damn detail, spoiling it for everyone. But I’ll say this much.
It’s got Annihilus making a pact with Reed Richards in the Negative Zone,
Reed Richard’s Counter-Earth counterpart, The Brute,
The Mad Thinker, strutting around, talking to himself
& yes, I think even Steve Austin (The Six Million Dollar Man) makes an cameo.
But that’s just the highlights. The point being that they packed SO DAMN MUCH into this issue that you could barely catch your breath. And as a kid, that’s what I wanted in a comic book.
After all, I WAS paying top dime.
"So, where’s the regret?" you’re asking.
Well, after leafing through the pages of this comic 36 years later, I regret realizing that my first inklings of a libido started roughly around the time I saw THIS page for the very first time.
Hell, even this background character is as awestruck as a prepubescent me.
And THIS image?
I think it’s been circling around in my head for 30+ years. Which brings me to another, more troubling regret.
Most of the disturbingly sexual images in THIS ONE ISSUE inevitably shaped my sexual being.
Some more obvious than others.
At the time, I never knew why I wished that Tigra made more appearances.
Although it’s clear as crystal now. And Crystal didn’t even make an appearance in this issue.
(I know. An obvious fanboy joke. But somewhere out there, a 40-something geek is simultaneously shitting & jizzing his pants right now.)
And it doesn’t stop with Tigra either. I could do an anthology of Regret-A-Days about Thundra alone.
Busty, Amazonian powerhouses from the 23rd century? Seriously, don’t get me started.
And I’m not exactly the asphyxiation bondage king,
but this issue of Fantastic Four is rife with this stuff.
Mostly though, it’s just superpowered damsels in distress.
Which put a serious zap on little Sam’s head. Ultimately resulting in the following questions that swirled through that tiny noggin:
• What does this mean?
• Why am I feeling this way?
• Is there more to this comic than just what’s on the page?
It just circles back to a realization I made many years later. The Marvel Bullpen was filled with adults.
Men & women (though mostly men) who were more or less living out their fantasies (some sexual, but most not) by flying beneath the protective gaze of THIS.
Which means that the creative team of Mantlo, Buscema & Sinnott knew exactly what they were doing to an underage Sam Landman.
Thanks, fellas. Thanks for making me a twisted, sexual deviant.
So, this may be a shocker, but at least one Southern boy didn’t watch the Iron Bowl today.
Instead, I decided to haul ass 45 minutes from my door to Jordan, MN.
Here it is in all its glory.
Annnnnnd the other way down its bustling main street.
I know they’re not great pictures, but I was able to stand in the middle of the road for about five minutes uninterrupted.
Ah, Jordan. A place where “Mud Life” is always nestled conveniently next to “People.”
The purpose was to hit the newest location of THIS joint.
This may seem like the kind of place I’d normally spend my Saturday. And I agree. But I traveled here for a less selfish reason.
In fact, I was SO unselfish that they had to give me a box to carry my shit out of there.
All back issues were $1, while every trade was $5. And since I was being so unselfish, I also hit the arcade next door.
Okay, this whole grotesque fiasco was COMPLETELY selfish, I’ll admit.
Especially since I was able to play every game in there for free. Which is where I find myself in terms of today’s regret.
There were video games in there that I haven’t played/been aware of in at least 30 years.
& Moon Cresta, just to name a few.
I also busted ass on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
& this old chestnut.
As well as a bunch of wacky games I was never even aware of.
All told, it was a nice trip down memory lane. Even if memory lane was 35 miles away.
But a couple of regrets popped into my head while playing these things.
First off, when I was busy “flipping” Bad Dudes,
• My inability to beat this game back in the day
• My ability to beat this game only when it was free
• The hundreds of dollars I lost to this over the years
Yeah, this could apply to just about ANY game, I guess. But seeing some of those boards on Bad Dudes really drove those points home.
The second regret lies in the adorable little town of Jordan itself.
Ultimately, I guess I regret that a little town like this can support a kickass arcade like this,
yet Uptown can’t keep THIS place alive.
On another note, I regret that the Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t jumping on the zombie bandwagon for their literature.
Really missing a cool opportunity here, psychos.
If you went back a year to the day, you’d probably see this exact same regret.
What can I tell you? With age comes repetition.
But it’s new to me, so let’s continue.
Now, I’m not gonna go the crotchety bastard route & say I regret Thanksgiving or anything.
Especially with all the anti-Thanksgiving shit that’s going on. Black Friday shopping & such.
Or the fact that when I Googled “Black Friday” for that last image, I got THIS muttonhead.
(I really should’ve just Googled “woman pepper sprays own children to distract from snagging the last Xbox One,” since that’s where I got it from.)
Anyhoo, this Thanksgiving was tits. Which is no surprise, since Lemanczyk/Nelson’s get-together is always a good time.
A little visiting with the mother-in-law,
who generally talks to me about relatives I’ve never met in regards to other relatives I’ve never met. Then my father-in-law,
who I didn’t get a chance to talk to very much this year.
Once grub was announced, I found my place at the table immediately. Although the ugnaughts responsible for the place settings moved me a few times.
Ultimately, it was all sorted out. And the spread was just as rad as usual.
I think I might’ve only knocked out one plate. Mainly because we’ve always been so pie-heavy.
Then it’s a little socializing,
more picking at food,
finding the unintentionally (?) racist doorbuster ads,
watching the kids spin dreidels for chocolate coins
& generally hanging out with loved ones.
When all was said & done, it was a fantastic time. But the regret lies in a Thanksgiving tradition that I’m not generally down with.
Which makes me regret that I just can’t get into football.
During the game, I sat upstairs with the ladies, when the inevitable question came up:
THANKSGIVING GUEST - Sam, why aren’t you downstairs with the rest of the men? What, you don’t like football?
SAM - I don’t like men.
That’s how it played out. And I wasn’t going for the punchline. I was being completely serious.
Give me a choice between watching a game full of guys in a room full of guys & hanging with the gals,
I’ll take the gals, thanks.
& women there.
And since I’m a heterosexual male, I ask you:
WHY WOULD I LEAVE THOSE TWO THINGS FOR THIS?
It’s not like I could get away with watching a “Young Ones” marathon while “company” was over.
And DAMN, football seems to take WAY too much concentration.
Look at Manderson over there.
or THESE guys.
That, my friends, is some serious intensity going on.
I’d rather hang out & smoke in the backyard
or watch the kids play Minecraft.
And let me tell you something. Minecraft is:
Luckily, I found a distraction.
Yeah, they were the “superdeformed” versions, but it warmed my heart to see this kind of stuff around. Especially around the holidays.
However, we eventually succumbed to the 50-yard stare of the food coma.
At that point, we just needed to make sure we picked up enough 7-Up & Pepto on the way home.
Yep. That’s totally a peen.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYBODY!
I have no idea why, but I was thinking about Boba Fett yesterday.
After a little bit of searching, I learned more about this character than I ever wanted to know.
And at no point was I thinking about THIS little turd.
DANIEL LOGAN - (to fan at ComicCon) Here ya’ go! Hold onto it. This is gonna be worth MONEY someday.
Welcome to “someday,” Daniel. How’s that unemployment line working out for you?
No, I’m talking the only Boba Fett that really matters. You know, the REAL one.
Proving once again that children have no place in a mythology of any importance.
Anyhoo, back in the day, my first exposure to Boba Fett was the Star Wars Holiday Special.
I know. It’s the holy grail of shit. But I lapped it up.
Because as of 1978, all I wanted was MORE STAR WARS. And luckily, the saving grace of this special was the animated bit.
Well, if you’ve spent your life poo-pooing it, but never saw it, do yourself a favor & watch the cartoon HERE.
You were wrong to toss the Bothan out with the bathwater all these years.
Seriously, from the design to the animation to the voice acting, this cartoon’s actually quite an accomplishment. Especially how it enhances the Star Wars universe.
Versus how the rest of the Holiday Special does the exact opposite.
"Hey! Look, Chewie! It’s Jefferson Starship!”
Well, while watching the Boba Fett cartoon yesterday, I came upon a shocking realization that’s never crossed my mind until now:
• In “Empire Strikes Back,” we never knew that this scruffy Mandalorian’s name was actually Boba Fett.
• At no point in that film does Darth Vader (or ANYBODY) mention him by name.
Now, let’s say you were old enough to comprehend that you’d seen him in the Holiday Special (where they actually call him by name for the very first time).
Then “Empire” comes out a couple of years later & you somehow make the connection back to the Holiday Special.
Well, shit. Good for you.
But I was just a kid. So, when he showed up in Episode 5, it was all new to me.
Which brings me around to how I knew this mysterious stranger was named Boba Fett in the first place.
That’s right. THIS was how I knew his name. Well, that packaging he came in anyway.
I just think that this series of events is kind of extraordinary. I mean, take Porkins, for example.
SPOILER ALERT: He couldn’t hold it.
But Porkins has the distinction of possessing a few things Boba Fett wasn’t privy to:
• More lines
• An actual name
So, where am I going with this?
I guess I regret that this kind of phenomenon doesn’t happen more often in cinema. Characters who we’re introduced to in passing, but remain unnamed.
And I’m not talking about Gosling in “Drive”
or Norton in “Fight Club.”
I’m talking a second or third tier character with no name, no fully realized identity & therefore an uncanny ability to stick like a briar in our minds.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m asking too much of Hollywood.
Happy holidays, everybody!
I’m a copywriter.
(HA! You said it, bird waitress from “Shoe.”)
And if you don’t happen to be a copywriter, lemme tell you the secret to being one:
EVERYBODY’S A FUCKING COPYWRITER.
(Sorry for yelling. The all caps & italics were for emphasis. Not because I’m pissed. I learned this valuable lesson quite a while ago & I’ve made my peace with it.)
In a way, it’s like being an actor.
Come along. I’ll be your skycap.
As an actor, it doesn’t matter if you majored in theater. Or that you were THIS CLOSE to getting into Juilliard. Or how many fucking classes you took or how many decades you’ve been “honing that craft.”
Chances are that somewhere on your actory timeline, somebody else got cast over you because they were nerdier, studlier, fatter, skinnier, uglier, prettier, taller, shorter or just related to (but more than likely fucking) the director.
And there’s a better than good chance that the person you got passed over for WASN’T EVEN AN ACTOR.
I know. Shocking.
In other words, circumstances you can’t possibly control are conspiring against you. Because:
EVERYBODY’S A FUCKING ACTOR.
So, copywriting is pretty similar.
The cold, hard truth is that you’re constantly surrounded by people who are (supposedly) better at writing than you.
Think about it.
ANYBODY can come up with some stupid headline or a block of copy that they think is the sweetest poon to ever step a toe into the offices of Hustler.
ANY human being who’s strung two sentences together in their lives (which is obviously EVERYONE) has a dog in this fight.
So, here’s where I’m slowly going with this.
I regret the fact that geeky gamers & wedgie recipients alike have all but ASSED themselves over this error message for Xbox One.
Can’t quite read it? Here it is:
That’s right. “Behold the GREATEST error message,” ladies & gentlemen.
Oh, yeah! As a copywriter, my pants explode with jizz when I spot one of the sloppiest, most rudimentary grammatical mistakes ever made.
Maybe I’m reading it wrong.
Nope. Still just as incoherent. Unless you’re a lowest common denominator, who shits his balls every time he reads something this poorly constructed.
Look, assholes. I’ve written my fair share of error messages. And even my granny shots blew the fucking doors off what you’re considering “glorious.”
Oh, SNAP! You told THAT guy!
Okay, great! Now I’m covered in my own piss. I haven’t laughed this hard since the debut of Yahoo Serious.
Alright. I’m done. Now I just sound like a dick.
HA! He’s PLAYING THE VIOLIN! While SITTING IN A WASHTUB!
Dammit. Here I go again!