Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Mmmmmm, pork butt.

I don't want to write about Donald Trump today. I write a lot about Captain Ouchie Foot/Colonel Fuckknuckle/Precedent Shitgibbon/ Grandpa Ramblemouth. I know I've worn out my welcome with posts about him. He is exhausting. Unfortunately, "he's still yo prethident."

I don't want to write about advertising either. I always come off as some grumpy cranky pants yearning for the old days when we swung for the fences, made clients nervous and stayed at business hotels, with fully-stocked minibars, that cost $400/night.

I don't want to write about the travails and responsibilities of senior care giving. Though I will warn you, that shit is expensive. And not very pretty. And it's coming up on you like college tuition bills for your kids. Suffice to say, you better be prepared and you better start doing your homework and saving money because if you want your parents to be able to watch HBO, they charge for that. If you want them to have clean linens, they charge for that. If you want them to have a certain flavor of ice tea, they charge for that.

I don't want to write about my neighbor's damn feather-sensitive, jet-loud car alarm, that seems to go off just as I start drifting into REM sleep and have a co-starring role in a cinematic dream with Scarlet Johannsen. I hope a meteor falls on his damn "rig."

I don't want to write about the 6 figure jobs my two college graduates would be working now that they're out of school. I could swear I saw that mentioned somewhere in the college brochures.

I don't want to write about any that. Because right now my mouth is watering and ready to dig in to the second round of pulled pork that I smoked on the Traeger yesterday. Oh yeah. I was up early, at 6:15 AM, thanks to the DefCon 1 Alarm sounding next door. So I made a beeline towards my fridge and took the mammoth 7 lbs. hunk of swine goodness out of the fridge.

I carefully patted it dry. And layered on a thick sheen of kosher salt, brown sugar, and a special secret porky rub, known only to me and the few thousands visitors to the Traeger aftermarket website.

When the temperature reached 225 degrees, I placed the bowling ball of flesh in the center of the grill and inserted the MEATER™ (a wifi driven meat thermometer given to me by one of my barely above the poverty line daughters.)

At 5 hours and 46 minutes, the temperature hits its target of 160. I carefully removed the butt/shoulder (an oxymoronic butcher's term) and brought it inside the kitchen to be wrapped in foiled and bathed in apple juice/bourbon and more bourbon.)

It returned to the smoker for another 3 1/2 hours. Did I overcook it? Yes, yes I did. Because I had the time and I wanted the meat to fall apart with just a whisper.

And it did. I can't begin to tell you good it tasted. Or even how much there was.

But I suspect it will last us well into next week, so I might give it another try.

Tuesday, February 25, 2020

The Good Fight (an update)

It would be easy to assume that I spend all day doing nothing but lifting weights and dropping snarky memes all over the internet, when and if those opportunities arise.

But believe it or not, there is something more important afoot. Also, why would you spend anytime thinking about how I am spending my time? Get out of the house.

In any case, as some of you know my wife and I are now senior care givers. My uncle, who had been living in Palm Springs, is now in a senior center that is a mere 1.3871 miles from our house in Culver City. But who's counting.

As you might also recall, I am fervently working to secure him with some much-needed senior aid and assistance from the VA. Currently, the VA only doles out money to veterans who have served during times of combat. No right thinking person would deny them that money -- an $1800/month stipend.

Nor would any right thinking person deny some form of assistance to veterans who had the good fortune of serving when our country was NOT at war, which by the way isn't often enough.

Am I seriously taking on the VA?
Yes I am.

It is a task for which I am naturally built. Requiring stamina, a high tolerance for pain, and the ability to turn a phrase in the pursuit of persuasion.

Have I succeeded? Not in the least.

I have no delusions about this undertaking. This is an ultra-marathon and I have barely gone past the starting line. And cannot even see the first water break table. But oddly enough there has been progress.

Weeks ago, I FEDEXED a letter straight to the top, to Robert Wilkie, Secretary of the VA. I have little regard for chain of command and have always believed in going over people's head. That's right, I'm a "can I speak to the manager's manager?" type of person.

Years ago I did that with the CEO of Fannie Mae/Freddie Mac and convinced them to bend a rule in my favor so I could bail my sister in law out of a condo on which she was upside down.

Surprisingly, the VA called me back. They called me back twice!

I spoke with Jackie, an executive assistant to Mr. Wilkie, who agreed this was an issue worth consideration. But that it had to be done at the Congressional level.

It's the classic DC bureaucratic shuffle. And frankly, it was to be expected.

And so I began writing letters to my representative Karen Bass. And to Congressman Ted Lieu, who is the very visible representative in the adjoining district. He's also a veteran.

I also enlisted my friend Pete Turner, who has his own podcast, and is a seasoned combat veteran with multiple tours in Afghanistan. Pete is taking up the cause with me and has begun writing letters to his Orange County reps.

This week I got a phone call from Congressman Lieu's office. I was informed of the Mission Act, which extends benefits to injured vets, but still falls short of a tiered system for ALL who gave time to their country.

That means more phone calls will have to be made. And more letters will have to be written.

And when that's done, I can get back to the snarky Trump memes.

Monday, February 24, 2020

Interview with a Data Miner

Unless you've been living in a cave, or more likely, working in one, you know that the biggest thing in advertising is the advent of Ad Tech. That is, the application of Big Data, and Little Data, to solve today's marketing challenges and fuel the engine of capitalism.

Where does all that precious data come from? We met up with one proud miner, who humbly requested anonymity, "I'm just a small cog in the machine."

How long have you been a Data Miner?

Data Mining is my blood. I come from a long line of Data Miners. Mama was a Data Miner and worked the old Univac machines. And my pops, and his pops, they's all miners too. In fact my Daddy was part of the crew that hit paydirt back in 1965.

What was that?

They discovered that mothers had busy lives. And had their hands full tending to the house, raising babies, cleaning the home, running errands and pursuing their careers. That little nugget gave birth to a whole mess of great data-driven advertising. Some say that was the "Golden Age of Data Mining."

And now you have algorithms.

Them algorithms is like gold. They done led us to a motherlode of rich veins of previously undetected data. And we can hardly keep up. Me and the boys, and some lady folk too, are working 24 hours a day, round the clock, just to keep up with all that good juicy data.

Where does it all go?

It goes to all them fancy offices in New York, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles. That's where those smart alec college gradumecates, sit at those luxurious long tables, eat free bagels and popcorn, refine the raw data and turn it into powerful, award-winning advertising.

Can you give us an example?

You picked the right Data Miner to interview. See these other fellas, they just mine the data and send it off to those big shots making $22.50/hour. I happen to be a student of the game and follow this precious data as it makes its way down the pipeline.


Remember that great banner ad for Larry's Linament Oil targeted to a 54 year old divorced woman in Tulsa whose thighs were chafing?

How about that e-mail blast from Fred's Flanges, announcing their new VPC Global 3/4 inch Malleable Threaded Floor Flange?

I missed that one.

That was a classic. Surely you and your staff are aware of the Tik Tok video for Gary Vaynerchuk's Branded Mayonnaise. That came from data we unearthed rightchere. That video and all it's shining data driven banality was repurposed a thousand times into all kinds of micro-messaging on Instagram, Twitter, and Linkedin.

Can't say I've seen that.

Do you want to?


Thursday, February 20, 2020

Brother, do you even attempt to raise heavy objects against the force of gravity?

Next week begins the NFL Combine. It also kicks off the NFL Network's "What-The-Hell-Do-We-Air-For-6-Months?" Season.

Faithful readers of this blog might remember that I purchased a complete 275 lbs. free weight set from an unnamed Hollywood big shot about about 7 months ago -- (whispering) Steve Levitan, a former copywriter who has done significantly better than me, or anybody I even remotely know.

Because of his many multi-million dollar film and TV projects, Steve didn't have time to work the weights.

I'm not burdened by any such nonsense, so I bought the hardly used rubber-coated set from him. Suffice to say, the work has been done and my preparations are complete.

I gave myself a unique goal. I made it my mission, and in retrospect I should have had this sponsored by Advil, to bench press more than the lowest ranked athlete at this year's NFL Combine.

Those of you familiar with the NFL Combine, know that rookies from college attend and compete in a number of skill set competitions, including the 40 yard dash, the Vertical Jump and as a measure of strength and stamina, the 225 lbs. Bench Press.

I'm slow. Can't jump. And I'm 44 years of age. So I chose the Bench.

The task is simple.

The players rack up 4 plates. And the NFL prospect goes about bench pressing as many reps as possible. As you might expect, some of the behemoth lineman can throw that weight up 40-50 times. The more spindly players are in the single digits. My territory.

A couple of years ago, an unknown running back, who is now managing an airport Cinnabon in Des Moines, was only able to eek out 4 reps. I can do 4 reps on a two cups of coffee.

In 2018, two players embarrassed themselves with 5 reps.

If there's a Metallica song on Pandora or I've had a fight with my wife, that's a cinch.

By the way, those two weaklings never took a snap in the NFL.

But when Christian McCaffrey, a Stanford graduate, went to the combine in 2017, he managed 10 reps. And he is a starting running back on what once was a premier competitive team. Last time I checked McCaffrey made $3 million a year. Christian is 5'11 and weighs 205. I'm a little shorter and have him by 10-15 lbs, depending on my intake of bourbon.

Suffice to say muscle mass looks a little different on him than it does on me.

Next week, I will be watching intently. Particularly the benching competition. I will match or beat the lowest score. And then, after repeated viewings of a Captain Ouchie Foot press briefing, topped by a reading of his daily tweets, I will make a beeline to my garage and anger-lift 225 lbs. ten times.

Beating a 23 year old NFL superstar who is almost half my age.

Then I will come back inside and inform my wife.

She will yawn, like you, and ask me to take out the garbage.

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Book Review Part II

As the author of four very non-bestselling books it hardly makes sense for me to be out there pimping a book by two very well paid and respected authors. But as a very wise man, or wise woman, you never know with these well-worn maxims, once said, "A principle isn't a principle until it costs something." 

The principle here is that this book is a must read.

And so here I am, suggesting you part with $14.95 for this exhaustive compilation of Colonel Fuckknuckle stories that paint the picture of a very not stable genius, a "man/baby" who is one temper tantrum away from incinerating all of humanity and reducing our collective existence to a few trillion particles of space dust.

And that is no hyperbole.

Chances are you are familiar with many of the tales. Unless you're a Breitbart or Fox News aficionado, in which case you are more interested in the Christmas decorations created by our multilingual, Einstein-blessed first lady, Melanoma Trump.

But the authors, Rucker and Leonnig, paint an excruciatingly detailed look at these very troubling incidents. The three that stand out for me and demand your immediate attention are:

1. The Tank

2. The Pearl Harbor Visit

3. The Kirstjen Nielsen Imbrigolio

I was going to take the time to provide telling excerpts from the book to make my points. Then I remembered no one reads my political posts. And no one is paying for this. And those Harry's House of Catheter banner ads won't write themselves.

So, no. You'll have to do your own reading and your own research.

But there's a larger point to be had here.You see the authors are both Pulitzer Prize winners. Meaning they have that rarest commodity -- credibility.

And while Captain Ouchie Foot may use the bully pulpit to shout "FAKE NEWS, FOLKS" as he has done with all the other books that have documented the Pennsylvania Ave Shit Show. Not one of the associates named in this, or any other book, have cried foul.

Not one.

You would think that if any of them would have been misquoted or misattributed they would have booked a sofa spot on Fox & Friends and set the nation straight. But not one has, including:


I could list twenty more names but then I would be revealing my embarrassing familiarity with all things Trump and fuel the fire of my critics who claim I am suffering from TDS.

And perhaps I am.

But I am convinced the fate of our Republic now stands at DefCon1.

Furthermore, I believe after reading this book you will be convinced as well.

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Advertising is back

Odd as it may seem, particularly when you consider the somewhat skeptical source, me, I believe the advertising industry is on its way back.

Indeed, we are witnessing its rebirth, in real time, right before our weary, let's-get-this-next-election-over-with eyes.

Of course I am referring to the meteoric rise of Mike Bloomberg.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist or even a very stable genius to see that his skyrocketing brand recognition does not stem from his charismatic personality. Or his youthful vim and vigor. Or his stunning Aiden Brody good looks (why hasn't my big aquiline nose worked the same magic for me as it has for Mr. Brody?)

What has put Mr. Bloomberg on the map and what might put Mr. Bloomberg in the big chair at the Resolute Desk, after they steam clean it to wash away the immoral, craven residue of the previous user, is nothing less than advertising.

Driven in large part by TV advertising.
TV commercials, in all their glorious intervals, 60's, 30s and even 15s.

And if I may indulge in a little professional pandering, brilliant tv commercials, spearheaded by Hawkfish and a colleague and one time employer (freelance), Mr. William Gelner.

Have you seen the spots?

Of course you've seen the spots.

Thanks to another rebirth, the large TV media buy.

The campaign for Michael Bloomberg is inescapable. I see the commercials more often than I see the Pepto Bismettes singing "Heartburn, Nausea, Indigestion, Upset Stomach, Diarrhea."

The brilliance of the campaign is its laser focus on ousting our current slow-witted dictator. And, more strategically, how they have taken the words and actions of Captain Ouchie Foot and turned them on themselves.

This for example.

Moreover, Mr. Gelner and his team of skilled copywriters and art directors have barely scraped the fecal iceberg. The truth is, Grandpa Ramblemouth has been writing and working on the Bloomberg campaign for the past 3 &1/2 years.

Tweeting, speaking, and rambling on in incomplete sentences that prove beyond a shadow of doubt that he is monumentally unfit for office. Take my unpublished contribution for another example.

Additionally, the massive TV campaign has been augmented with an omnipresent footprint in social media. This, kids, is how you create synergy.

When Bloomberg ads show up in my FB or Twitter feed, they resonate. Not because some data mining kid named Quinn is spouting some bullshit about microtargeting and personalized messaging, but because these ads sit on the big broad shoulders of T-E-L-E-V-I-S-I-O-N.

Say it with me.

Should the campaign require any additional help, I am standing by at the keyboard. In fact I've already got the first line to 50 new TV commercials ready at the wait:


Thursday, February 13, 2020

A little Q & A

If you've ever stepped foot in Trump World, as I often do to tangle with the troglodytes and Red Hat Neanderthals, you know there's something called Qanon.

Or Q.

Or just brainless miscreants who think they've got the whole thing figured out.

They don't.

In case you didn't know these are the same Mensas who cooked up the PizzaGate "scandal". Including wild tales of Hillary-inspired pedophilia that took place in the basement of the pizza parlor that doesn't even have a basement.

These people are architecturally-challenged.

Moreover they seem to be obsessed with pedophilia, child pornography and human trafficking. As if those were the worst attributes one could ever pin on a person. You know other than being a Trumpster.

Not only did I find myself facing off with a Qanon follower recently and all her WWG1WGA nonsense, last week the failing NY Times did an in-depth profile of these paint chip eaters. Among the more interesting tidbits was their numerical fascination (Nazis shared the same mental affliction) with the letter Q, which happens to be the 17th in the alphabet.

Naturally, as the author of R17 and as someone who has tried unsuccessfully to gain entry into the Illuminati and the Bilderbergs and the Free Masons and the Trilateral Commission, bells went off. I knew I had to sign up.

The application has been filled out and FEDEXED in.

The 4Chan profile has been assigned.

And the XXL Q T-shirt(s) are on their way to my Culver City Berghof.

Spike Lee had his Black KKKlansman. This will be my Quixotic Qanon Quest.

You may be wondering, "why?"

Why affiliate with certifiably insane glue huffers? Why pal around with jingoistic jack holes? Why insert yourself into an organization that makes the Klan look like the smart people in the room?

The answer, as all answers, can be found in the Godfather. When Don Corleone wisely tells his son Michael,

"Keep your friends close. And your enemies closer." Adding, "and your loony lobotomized political opponents even closer, because those people are fucking funny." 

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

Fishing for rejection

To be a successful freelancer (16 years now) is to be a shark. One must always be moving forward. Feeding on anything that moves. And sending out overdue invoice notices.

To that end, I do a lot of hunting on linkedin and the various associated employment boards.

Consequently I get a panoply of job listings in my feed and my already stuffed mailbox. By the way, if someone wanted to make a shit ton of money they would figure out a simple way to unsubscribe to all these awful, poorly laid out, immediately trashed political emails. And also by the way, Tulsi Gabbard can go back to the dacha from which she came.

Last week for instance, I was alerted to the fact that a day spa in Orange County was looking for a Masseuse Therapist. It was only paying $21/hour. And, as I mentioned, it was in Fountain Valley behind the Orange Curtain. Years ago, while working at Y&R/Irvine, I did the daily 405 commute thank you very much. It almost killed me. And others as well.

And as I used to tell my wife, "I was one sig alert from going on a mass rampage."  

I don't know what would be worse for me, getting thrown in the klink for my uncontrollable road rage or working in Orange County.

Mind you these job boards (Glassdoor, Indeed, Neuvoo) also carry links to legitimate full time job opportunities in my chosen field, advertising.

And though most of these openings pay half of what I was making as a staff Group Creative Director 16 years ago and offer half or none of the benefits I once enjoyed (an office would be nice), I like to throw my name in the hopper.

Why do I engage in such a hopeless and oft-times frustrating experience?

Why do I toy with Illuminati and Nigerian scammers?

Why do I fight with Trumpsters online in the hope that one day I can, through the clear and indisputable presentation of the facts, get them to see the not-so-orange light?

I suppose it's because I have a sado-masochistic streak. A guilt-induced need for self-flagellation.

"Bad Rich. You've been a bad boy Rich. Now go sit in the corner and wait patiently for the Ad Industry to come to its senses."

Mostly, I do it to amuse myself. 

Let's face it, I don't want a staff gig. I don't want a seat at the Long Table of Mediocrity™. Nor do I want to spend my time conceiving, and fighting for, FFDKK's, Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™.

So when some startup in El Segundo actually sent me a rejection letter, in essence stating that my 30 plus years as a copywriter/creative director wasn't what they were looking for, I could only laugh.

I'm still laughing.

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

Who wants choooowdah?

I've been to New Hampshire. Have you ever been to New Hampshire?

We were there years ago, many years ago, in Portsmouth, to film a stupid car commercial. I won't divulge the name of the company suffice to say the premise of the spot was to introduce a new vehicle with more than 400 horsepower. And to do that we staged a ridiculous demonstration that involved the car on a dynamometer and an entire seaside village being run off the power of its big bad engine.

If I'm not mistaken this was only after we asked the residents not to use their microwave ovens, portable heaters or televisions.

It was a shameless charade. Much like tonight's New Hampshire primary.

Who do I like in tonight's contest?

Who cares who I like?
Who cares who you like?
Who cares what the voters in Portsmouth including the lady that served us that great homemade clam chowder, likes?

One Democratic candidate will eventually prevail. And the sooner the better, so we can stop with the bickering and the divisiveness and start with the unifying and the dismantling of our current fascist regime.

Bernie? Great.

Kobluchar? Perfect.

Warren? Why not?

Biden? Fine.

Buttigeg? Works for me.

Yang? Yes.

Bloomberg? Sure, whatever.

I'm not picky right now. This country will figure out a solution to healthcare, only after we've exhausted every other option.

Similarly, our scienticians will solve the climate change issue.

And one these candidates might even get around to addressing our crumbling infrastructure.

The point is there is a larger issue, one that is more pressing that all the others. We have to restore the Republic. We have to let the grownups back in the room. And, as Bill Maher has presciently suggested, we have to be prepared for the fight of our lives when Grandpa Ramblemouth refuses to accept the decision of the voters on November 3rd and threatens to call in the military, the police and the bikers.

You know, his tough guys.

If failed candidate and confirmed loony lady Marianne Williamson wanted to serve her country, she should start gathering up her crystals and burnt sage and put a nasty, pus-filled coronavirus hex on Captain Ouchie Foot.


Monday, February 10, 2020

Dear Stupid Democratic Candidates

These 4 words were made famous by Bill Clinton in 1992. He correctly identified the issue that drives American voters to the polls.

If I were to give advice to the 127 candidates currently vying for the Democratic nomination, I would suggest they relearn this time tested formula. I'll explain why after I debunk the current crop of issues on the table.

Americans don't give a damn about climate change. 73% of them see a Senator cart a snowball into the halls of Congress and think, "Global warming? What global warming?"

Americans don't give a rat's ass about the Rule of Law, civics, and the impact of shitty judges sitting on our federal courts. For most, the Constitution begins and ends with the 2nd Amendment.

And if I may continue this elitist rant, Americans could care less about foreign policy.

Hell, I'd bet all the equity in my house that more than half of our greatly informed citizens could not point to Syria, Afghanistan, Madagascar or North Korea on map. And I'd win that bet. The blue dots represent the educated guesses of the MAGA Hat brigade.

Let's be honest, if Americans wanted to see the world, they'd book a flight to Disney's Epcot Center. And dine on Italian food at the local Olive Garden.

Americans care about what's in their wallet, what's in their bank account and the extra $341 they found in their 401K plan this year.

And this is where the genius of Grandpa Ramblemouth comes in. He knows he can fool people who don't understand high minded terms like habeas corpus, emoluments and ethical standards, simply by telling them the economy is the biggest and bestest it has ever been.

I'm here to tell you it's not. And if the Democratic candidates were smart they would focus on debunking this happy hill of horseshit.

Let's start with GDP, widely regarded as one the best indicators of the economy's strength. He promised, by waving his magic wand, that we could be enjoying (winning) 6% GDP growth. And he was just a little bit off.

2017 -- GDP growth was 2.4%
2018 -- GDP growth was 2.9%
2019 -- GDP growth was 2.3%

Shitgibbon's best year was the exact same at President Obama's best year, 2015, when GDP was 2.9%!

If we were to average 5% GDP under Captain Ouchie Foot, again as promised, GDP growth in 2020 would need to be 12.4%. Even if US Steel opened 60 new plants I don't see that happening.

Let's look at deficits.

With the permanent tax cuts for corporations and the now dwindling tax cuts for consumers, our deficit is currently over $1 trillion. And the projection for the next ten years is even worse. I'm sorry, didn't I hear Secretary of the Treasury Steve Mnuchin say the tax cuts would pay for themselves? And during these bestest, strongest economic days since the invention of the American Wheel, shouldn't the numbers be going in the other direction?

Wait there's more.

Because a look at our collective national debt is even worse. It currently stands
at $23, 270,000,000,000.00. And with the purchase of new steam powered aircraft carriers, stealth jets that don't fly, and border walls that can't stand up to a strong breeze, our debt is not going down anytime soon.

Here, look at all the pretty red numbers:

But let's acknowledge one thing, the stock market has risen. Though as many found out in 2008, that euphoria can disappear like the last tablet of Vicodin in the medicine cabinet.

It should also be noted that under Obama, the Dow Jones Index nearly tripled. From a little below 7,000 to close to 20,000 when he left office. I don't remember hearing the Red Hats hooping and hollering about their 401K's when that happened.

Maybe black ink only matters when it's produced by a white president.

The point is, the economy is not Captain Fuckknuckle's strong point. Like his hair and his amateur clownish makeup, it's his weakest.

I wish the Dems would recognize this.

Thursday, February 6, 2020

Half a book review

First a word about the title: He's not.

There are countless and disturbing examples of the enormous amount of vacant space located inside this man's cranium.

On their way to an Asian conference, Air Force One made a refueling stop in Hawaii. Eager to grab some good press, the Chief of Staff suggested that the President, First Lady and Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, take an hour to go visit the memorial at Pearl Harbor, the place that made December 7, 1941, a Day That Will Live in Infamy.

Captain Ouchie Foot agreed. However, while standing atop the remains of the USS Arizona, our pro-military gung-ho president turned to General John Kelly and said something to the effect of,

"Tell me again what happened here." 

Frederick Douglass died there, asshole.

That's one anecdote in a book chock full of them.

Here come the disclaimers. I'm only at page 221, in other words halfway through the book. I would be further along but the turning of each page raises my blood pressure. And the neck throbbing lasts an hour. So, in essence this is only Half a Book Review.

A 50% book review if you will.

Furthermore, it should be noted the authors work for the Washington Post. Some would argue that's a left leaning newspaper, so I'm willing to discount 10% of their account and chalk it up to Libtard bias.

On the other hand, they're both winners of the Pulitzer's Prize whereas Precedent Shitgibbon has only won a bowling trophy from his youth at the New York Military Academy. As well as the phantom Man of the Year Award from some fictional group in Michigan.

So I'm going to add back 5%.

Let's recap the math:

50% of book read

minus 10% for acknowledge media bias

plus 5% for exemplary author accreditation

That leaves me qualified to comment on 45% of the book.

But we're not done, because I'm also going to discard many stories because they are based on the recounting of employees who are no longer in the White House and might have a grudge to bear with Grandpa Ramblemouth.

So let's keep subtracting...

John Kelly -  5%
Rex Tillerson - 5%
Rence Preibus - 5%
Scaramucci - 10%
Steve Bannon - 5%
HR McMaster - 5%
General Flynn - 5%
Michael Cohen - 4%

In other words, if we take just 1% of this book at face value and put in context all the events that have happened since it was first published a few weeks ago, it is safe to say, without any hint of hyperbole,

"We are right and truly fucked."

Wednesday, February 5, 2020

Good bye Sebrina Jean

As some of you may recall, I have been corresponding with Ms. Sabrina Jean, an esteemed banker with the AlRayan bank, somewhere in the Middle East. Sabrina had invited me to help her get $14 million in "loot" out of her bank and promised to share 40% of it with me.

I'm no stranger to the art of negotiation, so I insisted on a clear 50%. This didn't seem to faze her. And she sent me detailed instructions to follow in order to secure the "loot."

Naturally I sent my details to the AlRayan Bank. Sadly however I did not receive a response.

Well, I gave them a good what for.

If you know me at all, you know I can be quite persistent. And merciless when it comes to beating a joke like a dead horse.

If there's one thing I've learned about these Mugus (fraudsters), they don't like when others move in on their territory.

So I took one last shot.

It's now been week and  I have not heard from the bank or from Sabrina. Or even Sebrina.

Clearly, it was not meant to be. But that's the way things go in the world of online romance and online scambaiting.

It may be time to stir things up with the Illuminati.

Tuesday, February 4, 2020

Shabbiest. President. Ever.

Came across this photo the other day on social media. I'd give it proper attribution but the truth is I snatched it up so fast I forgot who unearthed this little gem.

That is the President of the United States of America, arguably the most powerful man on the planet, that is if you put Mitch McConnell in the proper turtle sub-species of platysternon megacephalum.

If you didn't know better you'd swear it was some slimy, amateur Bob Crane wannabe dimestore pornographer.

"Ok honey, look over at me. You have to smile at the camera. Do you want to be a star or not? The door is locked from the inside and only I have the key."

If you can't picture those words coming out of his mouth you haven't been paying attention. And if you have been paying attention you don't need this jaw dropping photo to confirm this man is the...

Shabbiest. President. Ever.

I have compiled quite the collection of invectives to capture the artless, motley minded nature of this lumpish, cream-faced fustilarian. In many ways it's been like an advertising tagline exploration. It takes hundreds and hundreds of iterations, tweaks and start overs to get to the perfect tagline.

For example, I was in the office when the Apple team landed on Think Different. And I can tell you that tortuous exercise took months. My partner and I would often walk by that war room and thank our lucky stars we were busy on ABC and TV is Good. That tagline took 20 minutes.

But I digress.

The point is Shabby is the PERFECT word to describe our newly crowned, flabby boy/king.

It is an attribute that he has exhibited in gaudy excess in civilian life.

And to no thinking man or thinking woman's surprise, it has followed him right into 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

 Check out ponderous Abe Lincoln in the portrait. Wonder what he's thinking?

"I deliver the Gettysburg Address and you deliver Big Macs, Whoppers and Filet O'Fish samiches?"

Then again, maybe shabby is just what we deserve. We have eschewed substance, intelligence and quality in almost every phase of American life.

Our airports are shabby.

Our mcmansions are shabby.

Our celebrities are shabby.

Our infrastructure is shabby.

Even the worth of our word and the promises we make is shabby.

And worst of all, our collective culture, knowledge and understanding of the world we live in is monumentally shabby.

Half of all Americans can't point to Ukraine on a map. The other half think Auschwitz is a new imported IPA. And the other other half believe 2.3% GDP and $23 trillion debt is the sign of a booming economy.

We should just change the name of our country to the United Shabby States of America.

Or, better yet, welcome to Shabbyville.

We can hang the sign on our new front door.

Monday, February 3, 2020

Taking orders, writing checks

This year has gotten off to a good start. I had three separate bookings in January. From three separate clients. In years past that would hardly be newsworthy.

But times have changed. Every copywriter in the world who has ever written, "see your retailer soon, these deals won't last" or "offer not valid in Tennessee" is now freelancing and actively trying to take the top ramen noodles and ketchup packet soup off my table.

When the going gets tough the tough get busy with the idea making.

And this year I've taken my feverish anti-GOP sentiment and married it to my equally zealous interest in paying my bills, maintaining my credit score and socking away enough money to keep me out of a dirty nursing home.

It's a Billing/Tithing Program.

I know I should have come up with a clever name for it, but as I mentioned I've been busy.

Here's how it works: every time I get booked on a job, I set aside a small portion of the earnings to donate to Democrats looking to unseat one of the 53 useless GOP Senatorial jizzbiscuits in the Upper Chamber.

Last week's booking resulted in a check to Amy McGrath, who is aiming to take out the Turtle, Moscow Mitch.

Two weeks ago, I wrote a check to Mark Kelly, who is infinitely more qualified than Arizona's fascist hack, Martha McSally.

And we started off the year with a check to Jamie Harrison, who, with any luck, will kick Ms. Lindsey Graham to the curb.

Admittedly, this is a little gimmicky. Not like slipping into a furry suit and filming a youtube video or, god forbid, doing a white man rap, to drum up some new work type gimmicky, but if I've proven anything in my 16 years as a freelancer, when it comes to self promotion, I'm kind of shameless.

So there you have it. Book me for your next copywriting/concepting job and I'll make a significant donation to the democratic candidate of your choice. But don't wait.

These deals won't last.

Offer not valid in Tennessee.