Did someone say Illuminati?

If you've been following at all you know I have had quite a few back and forth with Roland Kings, who had invited me to join the Illuminati.

It's not a real invitation at all but just the latest twist on the Nigerian Scam, which I know quite well.

I can't do a total recap, suffice to say I told Roland I had to fly to Los Angeles to get my dog Mantu a vital operation, in other words anything to delay sending the $299 for my Illuminati initiation kit.

I used the invitation from another scammer to throw Roland for a loop. He wisely chose to focus on me and my dog Mantu.

To calm my fears about the other invitation, he even had a friend of his, Dan Perry pose as an attorney and try to calm my fears. 

To keep this concise and moving along, I disposed of Jam Berry as quickly as possible.

Roland is laser focused about getting his money. And can you blame him?

Of course I've turned Nigerian procrastination into a high art. (Well, I like to think I have.)

I love how Roland keeps it personal, as if he really cares about my short legged furry friend.

But he's not getting any of my money until he starts divulging some secret Illuminati rituals, you know the good stuff.

And that gets us mostly caught up. Tune in next week for stories about Steve Guttenberg, Pebble Beach Golf Club memberships and transexual concubines.

50? Damn, that's old.

I went to a party last week.

I don't go to a lot of parties. Particularly when the World Series is in full swing. And especially when the party is a semi-black tie affair and my only good blazer is now a few sizes too tight in the chest because I've been lifting everyday and can now bench my own weight. Nearly.

But this was no normal soire. Somehow my name was added to an exclusive list of invitees. And so I raided the medicine cabinet, put on my dancing shoes and suited up.

And I'm glad I did.

The party was a celebration of the birthday of Jay Chiat, the 50th anniversary of Chiat/Day -- the agency he founded-- and the formal retirement of Lee Clow, the agency's spiritual leader, my former boss and unlikely friend.

I met Jay once. In the Men's Room at the old building on 340 Main Street. We shook wet hands at the sink and I told him how happy I was to have joined the company just a week ago. (Note: I have a Groucho Marx attitude towards organizations or clubs, but Chiat/Day is the notable exception.)

My second encounter was a little more ominous.

The agency had just installed an e-mail system, Quickmail. And naturally we were all in awe of this incredible technology. Not only could we send instant electronic messages to each other, the messages could also include pictures!

My friend in the NY office immediately sent me a picture of an incredibly endowed woman in a bikini. And being a natural born wiseass I replied, "Check out those fun bags." Or something to that politically incorrect effect. Only, I managed to hit the wrong button and replied all, forwarding my juvenile response to every employee in the organization.

Seconds later, I received a Quickmail from Sharon, Jay's assistant, "Jay wants to see you. Call me."

I called.
I apologized.
I begged.
And I received that rarest of Chiat/Day commodities, a second chance.

Had it gone the other way, the entire vector of my career could have veered off course and right now I could be involved in some pyramid marketing scheme for Peruvian vitamins or mobile pet grooming franchises.

At the party, I had a chance to reconnect with old colleagues...er colleagues...none of us like to be called old. I also got the opportunity to meet and shake hands with the luminaries of our business. The original creatives that made Chiat, Chiat.

Not only was that an honor but it was also a pleasure, considering so many of them told me how much they enjoyed my work. To the point where Gerry Graf said, "that ABC campaign made me mad. Mad because I wish I had done it."

Keep your money and your fame and your fancy vacation homes on perfectly groomed Aruba golf courses, if there's one thing writers want, it's to make other writers jealous.

When I came to California, I knew I was going to be a writer. I thought it would television or movies. And I did a little of that. But I fell into advertising. And I fell under the spell of Lee Clow. I had seen him speak at some seminar and knew I wanted to work for him at Chiat/Day.

It only took me 10 years to make that happen.

So when it did, I vowed to make the most of it. I bought into the creedo. I made it my mission (minus the whole late nights and weekend crap, I'm going home to watch Jeopardy.) And I made it my goal to do the kind of work Lee loved.

There were hits and quite a few misses. But not long ago I got a call from Lee's assistant Kristen. She said he wanted me to come in and work on a pet project for him. He specifically asked for me.

Kristen added, "Lee said get Rich on this. He always makes me laugh."

I'll take that.

Although it would've been so much funnier if he had called me Brian.

Out of Jail

I'm a guilty self loather.

I've always had many reasons to look in the mirror and growl with disgust. I eat too much. I drink too much. I have a short fuse. I haven't done nearly as well with my career as I thought I would have. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

And my wife would be happy to add to the list.

"Don't forget the ear hair, the reluctance to put down a toilet seat, the inability to compose a wardrobe, the refusal to put in a fire pit, ... "

"The readers at Roundseventeen don't have all day."

All that was before I became afflicted with a debilitating addiction to social media.

Lately I've been kicking myself in the gonads for the inordinate amount of time I spend on Facebook. Particularly to vent about our ongoing national presidential nightmare, which is now working overtime to wipe their hands, bloodied by 11 members of my tribe --Who didn't see that coming?

I knew it was time to kick the Facebook habit, but couldn't find the strength to.

And then there was Zuckerberg Miracle.

Turns out some old bitty in Idaho reported me for making an abusive comment on the Facebook Page of Senator Steve Daines, he of the Prostrate Eight who went to Moscow on July 4th to bow down to our new Russian Overlords.

It was a stupid comment. And in retrospect, in no way lived up to what I consider my high standards of artful political smackdown.

And so the powers that be in Menlo Park (Facebook headquarters) did me a huge favor. They threw me in Facebook Jail. Not for 3 days, as I've grown accustomed to for other infractions, but for 30. 30 days.

Holy Shit!!!, I thought.

How am I going to make it a whole month without taking Captain Fuckknuckle to Pound Town?

What about all those self validating Likes and Loves and Laughing Face Emojis?

And if I can't pimp my blog what kind of crushing effect will this have on the web traffic?

Turns out those concerns are of no concern at all.

In the time I haven't been on Facebook, I polished off several books, made donations to Democratic contenders in this next week's election, started a correspondence with Roland Kings who promises to make me a full brother in the Illuminati with access to the Egg of Wish, and put together a new business proposal that is already starting to pay dividends.

I'm back on Facebook now.

That is until I get thrown in jail again.

Considering my Defcon 1 Level of Hate for the current administration of fascists, that can happen any minute now.

Murder most foul.

This administration continues to devolve.

We've gone from gross incompetence to mass White House defections to porn star banging to bowing down to our new Russian overlords. And in the last two weeks we have now added murder.

Nice.

In any case here is the latest in my Thursday Thrashing letters.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10.25.18

Vice President Mike Pence

The White House

Office of the Vice President

1600 Pennsylvania Ave. N.W.

Washington, DC 20500

Dear Mike,

About 7 months ago, I decided I was going to embark on a letter writing campaign. I would compile a list of the 51 United States Republicans Senators and week-by-week I would pick one off and tell him, or her, exactly what I thought of their cowardly, Vichy-like behavior, in terms that were anything but uncertain.

Technically, you are NOT a U.S. Senator. 

But for reasons that still confound me, the authors of the Constitution mandated that you preside over the Senate in case there were ever a tie. Mind you, these are the same forward thinking clods that said, "The Negroes were only 3/5th human", "Women can't vote" and "citizens should have unencumbered access to military grade weapons." So there's that.

I chose you this week for a special reason. And it has little to do with your party or your politics. And more to do with your piety, or lack thereof.

You will recall that at the 2016 Republican National Convention you took to the podium and proudly announced that you, "...come before the American people as a Christian, an American and as a Republican. In that specific order."

You remember saying that, don't you Brother Mike?

Of course you do, because your by-the-book Christianity is part and parcel of who you are. It's why Mother won't let you dine with another woman. It's why you view homosexuality as an abomination. And it's why you don't eat cheeseburgers or visit Red Lobster. 

Let's not forget laying down with another man, mixing milk with meat and eating shellfish were all explicitly forbidden in the same passages from Leviticus.

But this week Mike was so god damned special. Oooops. 

Because this week we saw the Mac Daddy of all sins, MURDER, play out on the international stage. An American resident, a columnist for the Washington Post, and father of four American children, Jamal Khashoggi was butchered at the hands of the Saudi Secret Service.

I'd have to whip out the Charlton Heston movie and skip past all that plague crap and get to the good stuff when God torches some bushes and splits the Red Sea with the breath in his nostrils, but I'm pretty sure if you look at those two stone tablets, Murder is right up there near the top. 

Granted, Jamal Khashoggi's skin was a few shades darker than white. Probably closer in complexion to that of Jesus than anyone in the Hoosier State, but still an innocent, olive-skinned man lost his life for nothing more than speaking his mind and fighting for freedom of the people.

Yet, in light of all this, your boss, Captain Fuckknuckle, is willing to absolve the Saudis of a murder most foul, because of an arms deal that will pump 17 trillion dollars into our economy and provide jobs and a Lamborghini for every man, woman and child in the Western Hemisphere -- his words, not mine.

And you're going to look the other way. Just as you looked the other way when he committed:

* Gluttony ("Give me two buckets of KFC tonight, that rally made me hungry.")

* Adultery ("it's not really cheating, she has a horseface.")

* Bearing False Witness (See 1946-2018)

In fact, in just a few weeks from now, I can picture you at the Thanksgiving Table expressing your gratitude to our Lord and Savior, for blessing the United States with a leader of such fortitude, grace and character. If hypocrisy were turkey stuffing you'd have enough to fill a Black Hole. 

I may be some atheist, hedonistic, alcohol-loving Jew, but the truth is I'm more Christian than you'll ever be. Nevertheless if I get to Hell before you do, I'll save a frosty, minty mojito for you.

Best,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

The Illuminati Chronicles, Part III

When we last spoke of the Illuminati I had just told Roland, my "handler", that I couldn't make the $299 payment he desired because of a family emergency.

I told him my dog, Mantu, had eaten a bunch of yeast, flour, sugar and water and was having baked bowel movements.

But business is business and Roland wants to get down to it.

With not just one admonition to pay up, but two.

I'm not about to send him money. Yet. So I break out the stall techniques, which are always better with some visual aids.

Apparently Roland is unfazed by large shitmuffins.

You cool your jets mister. I have roundseventeen fans who do not want to see this journey come to an end.

And, just to make Roland believe I am still an eager beaver, I add some special secret sauce...

But Roland, God bless him, I mean Lucifer bless him, has an answer for everything.

Does it all end here? 

Oh hell no.

Coming up next week: 

* I take my dog Mantu to Los Angeles for a Bundtemology.

* We meet Dr. Nick

*And we receive another Illuminati invitation from Beadle Walter

Make Stuff

As you might expect from someone who has spent the last 10 years blogging on an almost daily basis, I have no problem expressing an opinion.

In fact, the older I get the less I care about how people react, so the expression of those opinions is likely to increase, not decrease.

From this you might rightly conclude that when I was an ad agency staffer I made it a habit to stuff the organizational Suggestion Box. Those little slips of paper might have been unsigned, but I'm pretty sure the brass knew exactly where the "suggestions" were coming from.

Today, I'm going to share one.

When digital/interactive/social media platforms burst on the scene, the folks at the top were very excited. Or at least they feigned excitement. Because while significant and lucrative revenue was leaving TV and print, new outlets would spawn new income streams and imaginative outlets for creativity.

The 128 X 78 banner ad notswithstanding, those hopes have yet to be realized.

Nevertheless the profiteers and soothsayers of our industry pushed the notion of a new creative revolution. We would no longer be ad agencies, we would be Makers. Little Idea studios that would have at our disposal a whole array of digital weapons at our disposal.

Yeah sure.

There was a lot of Talk, not a lot of Walk.

So I suggested agencies devise a new system of currency that would encourage employees to explore, invent and Make. It's pretty simple really. Overtime hours would be accounted for. Lost weekends would be accounted for. Extra effort (euphemism for sweat shop expectations) would be accounted for.

And at the end of the year, employees would be rewarded with dollar amount of credit. That credit could then be exchanged -- like company scrip-- for the use of tools and equipment already in the agency's possession.

For instance, a hard working art director could use her scrip to use the agency camera and shoot a short film.

A zealous copywriter could use his scrip to use the agency editing facilities to cut some music videos.

A team of dedicated interns could use their scrip to stage an art show.

Seems like a simple win/win scenario, right?

Employee morale improves because staffers feel like their hard work pays off. The agency benefits because they fulfill their self proclaimed mission of being Makers. And then, there's the plenty of back-patting, self congratulatory PR buzz to go around.

Shortly after I made this suggestion I received a call.

"HR wants to see you. Oh and grab a cardboard box."

From the Car Capital of the World

That's me at the new Porsche Experience Center in Carson.

I was there for the driving experience of a lifetime compliments of my wife and two daughters who had gifted me the outting for my 44th birthday. A special present, but then again, you only turn 44 once.

I couldn't have picked a better day for the excursion. It was 81 degrees and sunny. The skies were a shade of blue that will soon be forgotten thanks to relaxed air pollution standards instituted by Precedent Shitgibbon.

I also couldn't have picked a better car, the 365 hp Porsche Carrera T. I went with the manual transmission to get the true sports car feel, though it had been many years since I worked the clutch and the gearshift.

This, it should be noted, is a skill long lost on today's kids and millennials. They can resize a three frame banner ad but I can still manhandle a stick.

Minutes after meeting my driving coach, Patrick, a professional race car driver on the drifting circuit, we were off. And when I use the word 'off' I mean it in the sense of lift off. The track starts with a 3/4 mile straightaway, enough room to tap into 4th gear and top 3 digit speeds. This was followed by a hard braking and a dive down into a 30 degree banked hairpin turn, which I later dubbed the Hurling Curve™.

Not because I did, but because I wanted to.

From there we jetted our way to the Hill of Nausea™ followed by the S-Turns of Queasiness™ and the Large Loop of "What Did I Have For Breakfast?™."

By the end of two laps, I needed a break.

I also needed a towel to wipe the schvitz from my forehead. As Patrick explained to me, driving the stick, accelerating, braking, holding a tight turn, and not hitting the gravel apron is hard work. It's a bit of a workout. I needed no further explanation.

Then he suggested taking a load off my addled 44 year old brain and put us in an automatic -- the blue Porsche Carrera PDK parked behind the white one.

This is a 400 horsepower monster, the equivalent of a Saturn 5 rocket. It was a good call. The "car" suited me better. After a few more laps around the track we hit the skids. That is, the low friction wet plate where the driver is challenged to hold a rear end drift around a tight circle.

Having spent 4 years in Syracuse and being well accustomed to driving on black ice, I found myself in my element. So much so, that my coach Patrick offered what seemed to be authentic praise, "Ah you've done this before."

Either that or he thought some encouraging words might stem the upward trajectory of that morning's sausage and egg scramble.

We finished the day in a 550hp Cayenne, designed specifically for their off road test course which included a 78 degree descent down a rocky road.

Apart from the initial stomach churning, it was hard not to come away from the experience thoroughly impressed with German engineering. There's a certain tactile nature to the precision and performance. You feel it everywhere you look. And in everything you touch.

I highly recommend it.
It is a driving experience unlike any other.

As I left Carson on my way back to Culver City (only 17 miles to the north), I fired up my Audi, got on the 405, and sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic for 53 minutes.

Horseface? Horse shit.

Thursday Thrashing Letter #30. Or 29. Or 28.

I have to take inventory.

I thought I had written to Lisa Murkowski, but it turns out I hadn't. This week's adventure in Presidential Embarrassments gives me good cause to reach out to her.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10.18.18

Senator Lisa Murkowski

522 Hart Senate Office Building

Washington DC, 20510

Dear Senator Horseface,

What's that?

You don't like being called Horseface. 

You find it debasing. 

Degrading. 

And an insult to all women who deserve to be respected whether they nobly bump fuzzies on film for our amusement or whether they occupy the lowest rung in our societal ladder and serve in the US Senate.

Yet, when your president (not mine) took to Twitter yesterday to speak with his 41.7 million followers he took the opportunity to call a woman he was once intimate with (intimate being a relative term) a capital H, Horseface.

Amazing that the man your party elected to the same office held by Lincoln, FDR and George Washington, has once again demonstrated all the class of a 1970's Times Square Pimp. 

Perhaps even more shameful, Senator Horseface, is the fact that neither you, nor any of your colleagues, stepped up and called out this brain dead pig and his boorish behavior. 

I know because I checked your Twitter feed yesterday. You had time to honor the Kenai Peninsula Ice Hole Fisherman of the Year, but not one word regarding the toxic misogyny oozing from 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

You would think that after writing 30 or so of these letters to Republican US Senators over the past six months, one of you would rise to the occasion. But you would be wrong. Frankly, I have more respect for the bukake gang bang girls who take spum baths for money than I have for any of you Congressional whores.

I'm a happily married man with two beautiful daughters and would never resort to calling a woman a Horseface. It's just wrong. Truth be told I shouldn't have laid that on you as well.

Besides, I looked at some no-so-flattering pictures of you on Google Images and honestly couldn't find any resemblance to a horse.

That's not to say I have ruled out all barnyard animals.

Maybe it's me, but the buggy eyes and the thick helmet of hair give you a certain goat-like appearance. How about Senator Lisa Goathead?

Your faux-disapproval of Brett Kavanaugh notwithstanding, one could also argue your plodding, thoughtless behavior is distinctively sheep-like. How about Senator Lisa Ovineski?

Then again, perhaps I've been too hasty ruling out the entirety of the equine species.

Because the fact that you remain a Republican and enable this morally bankrupt president who sanctions murders, who dirties the earth, who steals from the poor to give to the rich, who lies with every breath of oxygen he takes and who sucks on the titties of porn stars while his newborn son is sucking on the titties of his mother, tells me you are a Grade A Jack Ass.

Or, in deference to your gender, Senator Jacqueline Ass.

Best,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

The Continuing Saga of My Elusive Illuminati Membership

You might remember from last time we spoke about this, I had just submitted my aplication to the Illuminati Recruitment Board and I was awaiting further instructions.

Roland Kings followed up my aplication with some more questions, which surprised me, They usually get to asking for money pretty quickly.

But as you'll see I'm game.

The whole Lucifer thing threw me, but not by much.

Having agreed to worship the Dark Lord, it seems I have passed all the tests and I'm ready to purchase the Illuminati Swag package.

There it is. The request for money. Now this shit starts getting fun.

And Roland doesn't miss a beat.

I have my hook sunk into his mouth.

The trick is to let out as much line as I can to string this thing out.

And we'll leave it there for now. But you should know the correspondence has been going back and forth. And I do plan on visiting a Western Union to send him some money. 

Stay tuned.

Let it bleed

As some readers might know, I've been booted off Facebook for 30 days. Today is Day 14 or 15, I don't know. Nor do I really care. The break has been quite refreshing.

It has also freed up my time.

Which I have put to good use cleaning out my garage and catching up with the reading list. OK, I haven't gotten around to cleaning out the garage but as soon I am done trolling a Nigerian Con Artist offering me membership in the Illuminati, I will be.

Last week I finished John Carreyrou's riveting Bad Blood. It documents the rise and fall (a slow painful bloodletting) of Theranos, a Silicon Valley start up that started with a little prick but turned into a whole company of big pricks.

Elizabeth Holmes, Theranos CEO, set out to replicate Steve Jobs. What he had done for the 1's and 0's, she was going to do to A, B, O, and AB. Steve took the cold sterile Univac Room and turned it into something sexy and personal. Ms. Holmes was determined to the same for blood analysis labs.

A lofty goal? Of course it was, but with a limitless stream of VC cash and a heaping helping of deceit and chicanery, anything is possible.

What made the book most interesting is my second degree of attachment to the company.

You see when Theranos went to market they also went to Chiat/Day for their marketing. This was in 2013. My permalancing days at Chiat ended in 2010, but I was still being brought in to put out fires. And so I know most, if not all, the people who got swept up in this bloody mess.

And while many Theranos employees cowered before Ms. Holmes and put their paycheck ahead of their morality, it was encouraging to see many Chiat folks demanding answers and displaying some actual backbone.

It's hard not to read this book and see the outright parallels to the current Shitgibbon administration, including:

*The cult-like leader

*The intentional lying and misinformation

*The paranoia

*The inability to learn and process information

*The back-stabbing retribution

*The lack of candor

*The resistance to criticism

*The evil, outright, succeed-at-all-cost, you cross me in any way and block my access to billions of dollars and I will bend you over, fuck you from behind and chop you up like some cheap, meaningless Saudi Arabian journalist, type greed.

It's enough to make the blood boil.

Where's the Atavan?

The problem with small ball

I've been watching a lot of baseball lately. Unfortunately that also means listening to Joe Buck and the laconic Ron Darling. Sorry guys, you're no Phil Rizzuto or Ralph Kiner.

I don't watch during the regular season because the 162 game renders most games meaningless. And let's be honest, baseball, slow as it already is, can induce sleep faster than two tablets of Ambien, washed down with two fingers of whiskey.

The post season is different. The stakes are higher. The home field advantage is more important. And the strategies play a role on every pitch.

This year the home run ball is king. I don't know what the front office did but according to Fox Sports Stat people, balls that go yard have determined the outcome of more than 59% of all games.

And guess what?
Viewership is up.

People like the long ball.

I like the long ball.

Sure a cagey manager can produce a run here and there with a bunt, a fielder's choice and a sacrifice fly to right field, but if I wanted to watch small ball I'd go up to Botts Field in Culver City and watch the pre-pubescent boys scatter around the brown grassy lot.

I'd much rather see Joc Pederson, Ian Kinsler or Ryan Braun (all members of the Tribe, btw) swing the bat like some Inglorious Basterd and put the ball out of the house and into the C-5 parking lot.

If only Chief Marketing Officers learned what baseball brass, and football brass, who have also found inventive way to increase the scoring in each game, give the people what the people want.

We don't want shitty little ads jammed into our online videos.
We don't want page takeovers.
We don't want banners or towers.
We don't want scavenger hunts or anything remotely interactive.
We don't want that carousel crap on Instagram.

We want big splashy campaigns that are entertaining, persuasive and watercooler worthy.
We want catchphrases that are as funny the hundredth time they are repeated as they were the first.
We want outdoor boards that stop us in our tracks and tickle the brain.
We want to watch spots or films or videos, of any length, that merit sharing.
We want advertising that is not driven by data but driven by humans and the human need to be excited, to be amused, and to be moved.

We want home runs.

Go work the coal mine Joe

Today's Thursday Thrashing letter to a Republican US Senator goes to a Democratic US Senator.

Say hello to Joe Manchin.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10.11.18

Senator Joe Manchin

306 Hart Senate Office Building

Washington D.C., 20510

Dear Joe,

This letter is as surprising to me as it is to you.

Six months ago, I was fed up with the current Shitgibbon administration, but even more cheesed off with the lack of leadership from both Republican Houses of the Congress, and so I decided to embark on a little homegrown project. 

I would hand write a letter to every Republican US Senator. 

Some, like the vapors-disabled Lindsey Graham and the Satanically-possessed Mitch McConnell, have merited two or three letters. By March of 2019, I should be completing my task. At which point all the letters will be published in a book, tentatively titled, "Mr. Siegel Writes to Washington"(Erupting Volcano Publications, Inc.)

I never thought the book would also include a letter to a senior Democrat, but you changed all that when you put on your party dress and decided to dance with the devil by voting to appoint Brett "The Boofer" Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court.

I don't want to rehash the whole confirmation debacle. Replete with stories of ralphing, non-consensual groping, brewskis and rich white boy-entitled hijinks, it's a hangover best left in the past.

Besides, all of that doesn't make for intelligent political discourse between two grown men. And the 20,000 readers who will see this letter on my blog, roundseventeen.blogspot.com, expect more.

I prefer to aim cheap shots at you and the great state of West Virginia, often referred to as the Switzerland of America -- due to its landlocked nature -- and not because of anything nearing culture, or even civilization. 

Let's start by saying I'm sure West Virginia, home of Cletus The Slack Jawed Yokel, couldn't be prouder of their US Senator. 

Just last year, West Virginia was ranked #47 (out of 50) in standard of living. 

"Suck on that Arkansas, Oklahoma and Louisiana."

In terms of Infrastructure, West Virginia came in dead last. Though I'm pretty sure if you polled West Virginians, that word might be a little confusing.

"Infrastructure? Sure, I gots lots of stuff in my in-fro-structure, though we call it a shed, where I keeps my tools, my moonshine jugs and my girlie magazines Brandy Lou don'ts let me keep in da house on account of the childrens."

Wow, you must be thinking. 

Painting the entire state of West Virginia as a bunch of know-nothin hillbillies happy to have a leaky roof over their heads, some minimal foot coverins' and a US Senator with no more intelligence than a half-eaten blueberry buttermilk scone ...That's a low blow.

But is it any lower than the President of the United States, standing before thousands of people, not to mention the national media, and openly mocking Dr. Ford, a woman who was the victim of a traumatizing sexual assault?

Is it any lower than a Supreme Court Justice who, when he wasn't demonstrating his unabashed Alex Jones-inspired partisan leanings and frat boy temperament, was lying about his proclivity for hurling and his participation in three way sword crossing?

Most pointedly, is it any lower than a Democratic US Senator, so eager to hold his precious seat of power that he sold out his constituents, and the future of the country, just so he can continue playing basketball in the Thursday Night Senate pick up games?

I don't think so.

Frankly Joe, I hope a camel with pancreatitis shits in your cold cornpone.

Best,

Rich Siegel

Siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

I'm In the Illuminati

Today's post is going to be a long one. And it involves many screenshots and photos so bear with me.

It started last week when I received a comment to a recent blog posting...

If you know me at all you know I am fascinated by the Illuminati, Free Masons, the Trilateral Commission and the Bilderbergs. Mostly because at the root of all these nocturnal organizations is some classic thinly-veiled antisemitism.

So naturally, I responded...

Also naturally, because that's how these internet scams go, he responded...

I prefer to use the more convenient email interface...

He gleefully obliged...

Now, I'm getting excited....

Slow down grasshopper, there is still the important aplication to be filled out...

Holy shit this is getting good I thought. I'm receiving actual aplications from the Illuminati!

Roland is a smooth criminal and has an answer for everything...

And so I filled out the application...

I'm not sure I can string this out long enough to make another book, but I can amuse myself (and hopefully you) while waiting anxiously for the November Midterm elections.

In case you're wondering this story is still going on, I will provide updates in the following weeks....

All the little lies

I have a thick skin.

In fact everything on my body is thick. I have thick feet. I have thick fingers. Even my ear lobes are unusually beefy.

Having thick skin is a definite prerequisite for a life in advertising. Because ever since I started my career in the Creative Department, about 187 years ago,  I've been subjected to all manner of rejection.

"It's too negative. Does she have to be so angry?"

In this spot the woman's perfect wedding dress gets burnt to a crisp. She would be angry. I hate to get pedantic, but all drama is tension. That comes from the Bard, William Shakespeare. He knew a little about writing and capturing people's attention. But hey, if you want bland meaningless pablum, let's go for it. It's your dime.

"The copy is too long."

It's a double page spread and we're trying to sell a $100,000 luxury sports car to a very discerning audience. My guess is they want to be well informed about that type of purchase. Maybe we should run a few banner ads?

"It seems off brand."

Not only have I heard this from clients but also internally, from Planners and Strategerists, who are supposed to know better. What I find most amusing and quaint about a remark like this is the naive assumption that every product or service we sell has a Brand.

They don't.

We delude ourselves, and our clients, that there is some inviolable rules of engagement that dare not be crossed. Because to do so would be to desecrate some ethereal relationship between the consumer and the ________ brand. Holy horseshit that's some industrial grade naval gazing.

Apple has a brand.

Nike has a brand.

Porsche has a brand.

Mitsubishi, sorry, you don't have a brand.
Hell, I don't even think you have dealerships anymore.

The point is this, unless you're spending the money, keeping the promise and delivering at every touchpoint, you don't have a Brand. So let's not even use that word when discussing your next carousel ad on Instagram.

Vagina Power

I'm not in the doghouse with my wife. At least not now at this writing. Things could change in a heartbeat. A sweaty T-shirt might not make it to the hamper. A coffee mug could be left in the sink. Or a package of sliced cheddar cheese may not have been properly re-zipped.

I'm also not in hot water with my daughters. I haven't violated some unwritten code of PC'ness. Nor have I recently exhibited any of that dreaded toxic masculinity, though the tricep work has been paying dividends and the gun show is coming along nicely.

Equally noteworthy, I'm not trying to score points with any potential female clients or Chief Creative Officers.

All those qualifiers having been laid on the table, allow me to state unequivocally that this little dot of a planet, a speck of sand on a beach that stretches beyond man's imagination, would be in far better condition if it were to be placed in the far more capable hands of the Women.

Perhaps that's stating the obvious, but equally obvious --compliments of the Senate Judicial Committee -- are the debilitating effects of testosterone, particularly when combined with excessive aging, political power, religious dogma and unfiltered crankiness.

"Lady, get out of my elevator, I have to get home to watch Matlock."

It's been a man's world since the first homosapien grabbed an elephant bone, clubbed an unsuspecting baby antelope on the head, dragged the bloody carcass to the cave and grunted to the first female homosapien, "Call me when dinner is ready."

And let's be honest gents, we have made a mess of things: War, genocide, slavery, famine, poverty and Lou Dobbs.

Furthermore, it shows little signs of improving.

The Doomsday Clock has been inched forward. Our planetary demise is looking at us in the mirror. And the response of our childish leaders (the men) comes straight out of a junior high school locker room:

"Oh, you think you have big nuclear weapons, wait till you see my badass nuclear weapons."

"Dude, you have toilet paper on your shoe." 

When I look at who is holding the reins of power, at home and abroad, I can't think of worse candidates. Whether it's Vladmir Putin and Kim Jung Un, or closer to home, Precedent Shitgibbon and the guy who has been eating pureed food for the last decade and needs help getting dressed every morning, Senator Chuck Grassley.

Having worked with, and for, many women over the course of my career, I can say without hesitation that they are far better at negotiation, problem solving, communicating, and just generally making things work.

To that end, it's time we hand Mother Earth back to the Mothers.

Let's put our future in the warm, caring and knowledgable hands of the people who can govern us best -- The Women.

Except Susan Collins, that bitch can go eat a Bag of Dicks.